He kisses me again, warm and fierce, then settles his mask in place. “Promise you won’t hate me for what I’m going to do.”
I frown, pulling back a little. “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to ruin your night. And save your musical.”
23Christine
I’m drinking more than usual. Pretty sure I’ve got a right to after everything I’ve gone through in the past month…the past year…no, the past decade. My entire fucking life.
On the stage at the end of the room, the band is shifting aside, making room for Carlotta, who will, of course, be singing at her own party. The gifts piled on tables in the lobby aren’t enough for her—she needs the spotlight as well. Endless accolades. Her appetite for praise is voracious, but if I’m honest with myself, mine is, too. Much as I’d like to think I’m better than her, I wouldn’t mind having millions of followers online and hundreds of adoring fans in person.
I think I’ve changed since I met the Angel. I’m hungrier now.
I throw back the rest of my drink, feeling the warm buzz along my veins.
When I told Raoul I couldn’t be with either him or the Angel, he looked crestfallen. Like I sucked all the joy out of his existence.
None of us have said it aloud, but it’s understood that he and the Angel are interwoven—a package deal. I can’t have one without theother, couldn’t be satisfied with one without dreaming of the other. I need them both, but it would be terrifying and toxic, so I have to tell myselfno. Raoul and the Angel weren’t part of the goddamn plan… Not that I had a particularly good plan for my life, but still…
Firmin Richards appears before me suddenly, sweat filming his forehead above his mask. “Christine! It is Christine, yes?”
When I lift my mask slightly and nod, he shoves a handful of sheet music in front of my face, asking desperately, “Do you know anything about this?” Behind him stands the conductor, looking equally perturbed.
“What is it?” I ask blankly, staring at the papers.
“New sheet music. The entire score ofSidewinderhas been rewritten. I just received this from a messenger—amessenger! Who uses messengers these days? And there was a note with it—” He breaks off abruptly and clears his throat. “What I need to know is did Raoul send this?”
I shrug. “How should I know?”
“You’re close with him. Both of you disappeared after the preview performance. There were rumors that you went off together. Did he mention rewriting the score?”
The conductor interjects. “The thing is, a composition on this scale would have taken weeks to complete, but Raoul didn’t mention a rewrite. Not once!”
“Maybe someone else changed the score.” I frown, confused by their panic. “You don’t have to use the new music.”
Richards’s face reddens, and he splutters incoherently, while the conductor says faintly, “But we have to. If we don’t, then—”
The two men glance at each other, as if startled by a shared secret. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I might be drunker than I thought.
“I can’t help you, gentlemen,” I tell them. “You’ll have to discussit with Raoul. He never said anything to me about rewriting the score. Good luck with all that. I’m off to hear our prima donna sing.”
I saunter away from the two men. I can smell the fear on them. It’s practically oozing out of their pores, and it gives me an odd sense of satisfaction to see them so unsettled. The predator in me rejoices when pompous, overbearing men are reduced to quivering mice.
As I wander toward the stage, Carlotta cups the microphone, nearly kissing it with her scarlet lips. She’s boasting about having the lead role inSidewinder. The cheers of the partygoers fill my ears, a vapid roar.
As a kid, I used to like watching the originalHigh School Musical, and in this moment, Carlotta reminds me of Sharpay. Talented, sure, and devoted to her profession, yet annoyingly desperate to be the center of attention all the time. No one can say Carlotta doesn’t work hard—she does—and yet the effort is minimal compared to the work others have to put in to get even a fraction of the opportunities that seem to fall into her lap.
The band swells, a boisterous intro to her first song, and Carlotta smiles through it all, picture-perfect teeth and glorious hair and flawless makeup. I don’t hate her beauty, though. I hate the saucy curl of her lip when she notices me down below, among her worshipful peons. I hate the derisive droop of her fake lashes, the cocky flounce of her shoulders, like she’s saying,Hey, bitch, you had your one night of glory. The rest is mine.
That’s the part I hate. I want to bite her, and not in a sexy way. Let’s see how well she performs without vocal cords…
Carlotta opens her mouth and sings the first line.
Or she tries to. But instead of lovely, soaring notes, shecroaks.
A collective gasp breezes through the room, and the band falters. I glance around surreptitiously, half-certain, in my buzzedbrain, that I somehow made it happen, like the universe heard my violent thoughts and decided to take Carlotta down a peg.
Carlotta’s face freezes in a panicked smile. She holds up her hand, stops the music, and beckons for water. After gulping it down, she gives the guests an apologetic grin and tries singing a few notes.
