Silence.
The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle. No projector hum, no distant chatter, no background music pumped through invisible speakers. Just my heels clicking against worn carpet.
I pass the concession stand. Empty.
The ticket booth. Dark.
The lobby with its art deco fixtures and vintage movie posters. Not a soul.
Did he buy out the entire theater?
Room 1 sits at the end of a narrow hallway lined with framed photos of Hollywood's golden age. Garbo. Bogart. Dietrich staring down at me with those heavy-lidded eyes like she knows exactly what kind of mess I'm walking into.
Yeah, Marlene. I know. Bad decisions are kind of my thing lately.
I push open the door.
The theater stretches before me—rows and rows of red velvet seats cascading down toward a massive screen that dominates the far wall. And there, standing at the bottom like he owns the place (which, knowing him, he probably does now), is Dmitri.
Behind him, a small platform rises from the floor. A single chair sits on top of it, positioned like a throne.
Or a witness stand.
What the hell is this?
Dmitri's smile cuts through the dim lighting as I start down the aisle.
"You came," he says when I'm close enough to catch the cedar and smoke scent of him.
"You sent me handcuffs." I stop three feet away, crossing my arms. "Hard to ignore that kind of invitation."
His eyes drop to my wrists. "You're not wearing them."
"I'm not a complete idiot."
"Debatable." But he's still smiling, and something warm unfurls in my chest despite my best efforts to keep it contained.
I gesture at the empty theater around us. "Did you seriously rent out this entire place?"
"Rent implies temporary." Dmitri slides his hands into his pockets, the casual gesture at odds with the sharp lines of his black suit. "I bought it."
He bought it.
"You bought a historic Chicago theater for a date?"
"I bought a historic Chicago theater because you said you wanted to go." He shrugs like this is normal. Like people just purchase landmark buildings on a whim.
"Dmitri..." I don't know what to say. This is insane.He'sinsane. "This is too much."
"Nothing is too much for you." The words land between us, simple and devastating.
My pulse thrums against my throat. The velvet seats seem to lean in around us, witnesses to whatever this is becoming.
"Your father," I manage. "How is he?"
The softness in Dmitri's expression hardens, just slightly. "The same. Worse." A pause. "He asked about you this morning."
"About me?"
