I tug at the collar of my costume—still damp, still binding me into a boy’s frame—but it hardly matters. No one here sees me as a boy.
They see me as the soprano who just stole the stage.
Mr. Rudin is already circling, shaking hands, bowing, collecting compliments like tiny jewels.
“Remember,” he whispers to me in passing. “Smile, stay visible. Tonight is for donors. Eyes open—this is where futures are made.”
I agree that it's true for my career goals.But as far as my heart, the future feels more fragile than ever.
The future I dared to imagine with Cameron and Posey. One wrong step, and Jason can claim her.
The crowd shifts, and then I see them. Cameron—tall, too handsome, every line of his tux pressed sharp. Beside him, Posey, hair ribbons bobbing as she bounces with excitement.
They’re flanked by Mrs. Bixby’s rigid frame and Mrs. Bellows’s softer one. For a second, my knees nearly give.
I hadn’t let myself believe they’d be here—not really.
“Tara!” Posey’s voice cuts through the din. She wriggles free of Mrs. Bixby and barrels toward me.
“You were incredible! Seeing you sing about a whale was even better than seeing you get spit out by a whale.”
I drop to my knees, catching her in my arms.
“You’re going to be famous!” she squeals, her curls brushing my cheek. I laugh, breathless, dizzy from the sudden weight of her affection.
When I rise, Cameron is there. He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t embrace—paparazzi are everywhere. But his firm hand finds mine.
The look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d be singing in Fabiana’s place?” he demands.
“I wanted to. But with the paternity suit, I thought it could pose a risk. But you’re here tonight! How did that come to be?”
“Miss Swain invited me and insisted I bring my entire household. She wouldn’t say why—only that we had to be here.”
“I’m glad she did,” I say, glancing toward the edge of the crowd where two society photographers swirl among the well-dressed crowd “Even if this isn’t exactly safe.”
Cameron’s jaw flexes. “Nothing about this has been safe.”
For a moment, we just stand there. Heat spikes through me—sharp and dangerous. I want to kiss him right here, consequences be damned. But before I can move, a shadow falls across us. “Tara, a moment?”
I turn to see Mr. Rudin beaming, one hand gripping the elbow of a distinguished-looking man in a seersucker suit. Cameron steps away. “This is Kenneth Kane,” he announces. “The theater critic for TheNew York Times.”
My stomach flips. The critic. The one I’d heard whispers about—always more rumor than reality. Once we greet one another, Mr. Rudin smiles. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”
Mr. Kane studies me with the kind of detached curiosity that makes my stomach knot. His corny seersucker suit looks like it came straight out of an old black-and-white movie.
Yet his eyes are sharp, alert—taking in everything.
“You handled that stage with rare conviction,” he says. “Your voice—crystal, but not brittle. Emotion carried every note. I’d like to believe I’ll be hearing it again, on a much larger stage.”
I swallow hard. “Thank you, sir. That means more than I can say.”
He tips his head. “May our photographer take a few shots? The Times would like a record of tonight.”
My heart lurches. “Of course.”
The photographer arrives, camera swinging at his chest. He’s already waving me toward a space near the staircase.
