I rolled out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen, and stopped when I saw what was waiting on the counter.
One cup of coffee—still hot—a rectangular box, and a note scribbled in Jae’s neat handwriting:
Sugar for our sugar. Coffee’s strong enough to wake the dead. You earned a dozen doughnuts and a nap. Rest today, please. —J
On the back, in Nat’s messy scrawl:
Don’t get murdered today. Also, save me the fucking cruller. —Nat
I huffed out a quiet laugh and pulled the box closer. Popping it open, I spied my personal trifecta of confectionary loot within the assortment—glazed, chocolate-frosted, apple fritter. I grabbed a plate and a napkin, placed the doughnuts in a nice little stack, picked up the coffee, and headed over to the futon. The first bite hit with warm sweetness. The second came with a flood of memories from last night. A man had been murdered at the club, shot in front of over a hundred people. That should be all over the news by now.
I unlocked my phone and started digging, searching local news sites, social media feeds, community alerts—anything. But therewas nothing. No mention of a shooting. No buzz about the club. No police reports. No freaked-out audience member spilling the tea on TikTok.
My stomach flipped.
People were always posting about violence in this city. Fights on the subway. Fistfights in pizza shops. But a man gets shot in front of an entire crowd at a packed club, and there’snothing?
That wasn’t a red flag. It was unbelievable.
My skin prickled. What kind of power did people like Carlos and Ciro Delgado wield that they could make a body vanish without a trace? How could they keep it quiet, make a crowd forget what they’d just seen? I’d met Delgado before—and I could tell he was rich and influential—but I hadn’t sensed any crime lord undertones. I’d been too busy running on fumes to ask questions or dig deeper into who he really was. Maybe he was more than he appeared.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I froze.
Please, not Carlos.
Another buzz.
I swallowed hard and answered, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice, warm but professional, said, “Hi, is this Lyla Oakley?”
My heart jumped. “Yes—this is she.”
“Hi, Lyla. This is Margaret Gentry, casting director forCity Songat Haven Stageworks. I’m calling with some good news.”
“Really?” My voice cracked. I sat up straighter.
“We’d love to officially offer you the understudy role for Ruby Vance.”
I blinked, licked my lips, and cleared my throat, trying to sound human when I responded: “Oh—wow. Yes. Thank you… That’s—I mean, I really appreciate it.”
“You gave a lovely audition, and even though I understand this may be your first professional booking, the team responded to your energy right away. We think you’re going to do really well in the role.”
I let out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“We’ve been in rehearsals for a few weeks already. Unfortunately, our previous understudy had to withdraw after a serious injury. So we’re sliding you in quickly. Your first rehearsal will be this Tuesday, November fourth, seven p.m. at our rehearsal studios on Forty-Third.”
“Got it. I’ll be there.”
“Great. You’ll get a welcome email shortly with the rehearsal schedule, contract packet, and measurement form. Please confirm by tomorrow morning that you’ve received it, and feel free to reach out if anything’s unclear.”
“I will—thank you again so much.”
“Congratulations, Lyla. We’re looking forward to having you with us. If you have any questions, just contact us here at the studio.”
