This was art. Control.
Maybe this leather-clad a cappella thing could be the perfect in-between.
Not a scene, not a collar, but something public, raw, safe enough to breathe in.
“Fuck it,” Elliott muttered.
He stripped off his tee and put on the harness. He tugged the straps, the black leather softened to his skin.
His heart pounded.
Elliott pulled out his phone, turned the camera on, and snapped a selfie under the house lights. The harness cut clean lines across his chest: just enough skin, just enough steel.
“Distract, not submit,” he murmured, adjusting the angle until he liked the smirk in his eyes.
A minute later, the audition form blinked on his screen. He filled it out fast, his thumbs more decisive than his quaking heart. Name. Tenor. London. Experience: enough.
When he hit send, his stomach knotted, sharp and sweet. He was in.
The studio wasn’t some makeshift rehearsal room; it was sleek, polished, with soundproofing that swallowed stray noise and mirrors that reflected every angle. Elliott felt the hum of it in his bones. Serious people used this space.
Serious men are going to be judging me.
Theo Sinclair definitely belonged in that category. His gaze was steady, analytical, the kind of look that could slice straight through the gloss. Max Rivers leaned back in his chair, booted legs stretched out, leather jacket creaking softly as he shifted, his smirk almost a challenge.
Elliott adjusted his harness under his jacket and let his smile bloom slow. “Where do you want me?”
“Front and centre,” Theo replied crisply.
He stepped into the circle of light and inhaled. When he opened his mouth, it wasn’t the edgy rock or club anthem he’d instinctively felt they’d expect from someone dressed like him. It was a stripped-down ballad—old Broadway, lyrics that bent like a prayer when sung right. His tenor cut through the quiet, clear and sharp, but he didn’t just sing. He played with phrasing, slipping in jazz edges, holding back just enough to make every swell ache, until the song became bigger than one man.
The words dripped subtext, heat simmering below the surface, but his body stayed still. No seduction, no begging, only him in total command of his voice.
When the last note faded, the silence held.
Max was the first to speak, his voice low, nearly purring. “You sing like you’ve got secrets.”
Elliott flashed him an intentionally knowing grin. “That’s the point.”
Theo’s jaw tightened as he scribbled a note. Then he tapped his pen against the margin of his notes, his eyes still on Elliott. “Your tone’s pure,” he said at last. “Controlled. You know exactlywhat you’re doing. But…” His brow furrowed slightly. “I want to hear you fall apart on a high note. Just once. Let the edge crack.”
Elliott’s grin didn’t waver. “Cracks aren’t flattering.”
“They’re human,” Theo replied in a soft voice.
Across the table, Max hadn’t written a single word. He was watching Elliott with a slow, deliberate focus that felt as though it stripped him bare.
Finally, Max leaned forward. His voice was blunt, cutting through the quiet. “Are you good at taking direction?”
Elliott tilted his head, sharpening his smile like a blade. “When it’s worth following.”
Theo’s mouth twitched, caught between amusement and caution. Max, however, sat back again, his expression unreadable.
“Thanks for coming.” Theo rose. “We’ll be in touch.”
It seemed they were done.
Elliott didn’t shake hands but nodded before leaving the room.
