“Right.” He releases another low, breathless laugh. “Then why does the very sound of your voice make me hard?”
“You’re mentally unhinged,” I suggest.
“Probably true. Go on. What else am I?”
“You’re a talented poet. Your libretto is perfection. A little melodramatic for some people perhaps, but I happen to enjoy dramaticlanguage. I could find nothing upon which to improve. Your skills as a composer, however, are lacking. And you do not possess the genius necessary to create truly remarkable orchestration. The bones of the musical are good, but not great. You have only come this far because of money and prestige, I would guess. Your family is wealthy, and they have influence in the right circles.”
“All true.” His voice sounds odd, slightly jerky, as if he’s making some rapid, rhythmic movement. “Keep talking. Please.”
I hesitate, listening to his huffing breaths. “Are you jerking off to my criticism?”
“Please keep talking to me.”
I hesitate, trying to analyze the heat flooding my chest, the ripple of excitement in my stomach. My voice, my compliments, and my thoughtful critique have a profound effect on this man. I enjoy power, specifically power overhim. It cannot hurt to indulge in this strange kind of dominance a little more.
“Despite Christine’s talent, your musical will ultimately fail,” I continue. “Unless you yield it to someone with greater genius than yourself. But I suspect your pride wouldn’t allow you to hand over control to anyone else. You are proud, aren’t you, Raoul? Proud yet insecure, because someone has been telling you lies about yourself for years, and you no longer know what to believe. Believeme. You sing well, you play well, you compose well, but your poetry—it’s fucking godlike.”
Raoul chokes out a cry, and I tighten my grip on the phone as my mind paints an image of him coming to the sound of my voice.
“Do you want to know my favorite line in the musical?” I ask quietly. “It’s the phrase about ‘humans plucking endlessly at the fragile threads of immortal patience.’”
He sobs out a gasp.
“I’m ending this call,” I tell him. “And then you will send me a picture of the mess you made. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he whispers.
I end the call and count to twenty before the photo appears. Raoul’s bare thigh and a fold of his sheets, spattered with cum. A dark delight surges through me as I murmur, “Good boy.”
Then I send him one final text.
Tomorrow Christine will sing for me, not you. She will give her soul into my hands, and she will be mine.
14Christine
After Raoul took me to the Alouette yesterday, I knew there would be gossip. But I didn’t expect the palpable chill in the green room when I enter it Saturday evening, the night of the preview performance.
“What is she even doing back here?” someone murmurs half audibly, like they want me to hear.
“They probably wouldn’t let her use Carlotta’s dressing room,” someone else murmurs, followed by a few tittering laughs.
I ignore them and head straight for Meg, who is stretching by the wall. She gives me a smile edged with caution or pity—I can’t tell which.
“Big night for you,” she says.
“Yeah. I’m kind of terrified.”
“You’ll do great.” But she doesn’t sound remotely convinced. And why should she? My only experience singing for a crowd was literally last night, and that ended weirdly to say the least.
“Haven’t seen much of you lately,” I say as I start stretching. My dance part is nowhere near as rigorous now that I’m playing Eugenie,but I might as well limber up. “Things going well with Gabriella?”
Meg smiles more genuinely at that. “She’s so great. Thanks for giving me a little shove in the right direction.”
“Hey, no problem.”
“And you…” She hesitates, then whispers, “You and Raoul? I heard you sang together at the Alouette last night. Are you two a thing?”
“No!” I exclaim, probably too loudly, but I know people are listening, and I want them to pass my words along the gossip chain. “Raoul and I knew each other as kids, in school. We went to the Alouette to sing together once, as friends, for old times’ sake. I’m not into him like that.”
