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“Oh no,” I mumble.

Theo slowly lowers his program from the seat beside Kaori. “I assume airport security intervened.”

“You say that like confetti cannons are suspicious.”

“They are when packed into your carry-on,” he says dryly.

“Shh,” Lina says, giving us a motherly look.

Leon’s shoulders shake with laughter.

My phone buzzes in my clutch. I don’t have to look to know it’s my parents. They’ve already sent three messages asking for updates despite knowing perfectly well the show hasn’t even started yet. They’ll be here this weekend when Max’s family comes in for opening night. It should be interesting, to say the least, introducing our parents to one another.

I shake my head and smooth my hands over the deep-plum silk pooled across my lap. Turning to Kaori, who’s pressed her lips together trying not to laugh, I change the subject. “Thanks again for hooking me up with Minerva Hana. I’ve never felt more beautiful than I do tonight. And that’s saying something considering I thought the last plum dress I bought was unbeatable.”

Apparently Min had designed that dress too. I only found out recently.

“Min was thrilled to make something for you,” Kaori says warmly.

“She’s ridiculously talented,” Zoe adds. “Do you think she’d make a dress for me too? I’d like to look special for Randy’s graduation. He’s getting his MBA in December.”

“I can’t say yes for her, but I’d be happy to give you her email.”

“You rock,” Zoe says.

Before Zoe can roast me again about dressing appropriately for once, the theatre lights dim slowly overhead and a hush settles across the audience. My heartbeat kicks up instantly.

The overture begins and the curtain rises. Towering marble columns frame the stage, while warm gold light spills across a backdrop of the evening sky.

Then Max walks onstage.

And I gasp.

The costume department clearly knew exactly what they were doing. Dark-gold detailing wraps across a fitted cream tunic, while leather bracers hug his forearms. Months of rehearsals and training have left him stronger than ever.

And then he starts singing. The sound of his voice floods the theatre so completely, it almost steals the air from my lungs.

I’ve heard him sing before. In the car. In my kitchen. On my sofa when he’s half asleep. But hearing it fill an entire theatre is something else entirely.

At the end of the opening number, the audience erupts into applause.

Beside me, Zoe grabs my arm hard enough to nearly cut off circulation. “Katie,” she hisses. “Your boyfriend is offensively talented.”

“I’m aware.”

Unfortunately for my sanity, things only get worse from there. Because halfway through the second act, The Winged God transitions into a dance-heavy sequence involving fitted black trousers, knee-high Grecian socks, and entirely too much athletic choreography.

“You’re gaping again,” Zoe whispers beside me.

“I can’t help it. The legs in those socks.”

Zoe discreetly face-palms. “You and legs,” she mutters.

I barely hear her, though, because in that moment, Max glances out toward the audience mid-scene, finds me almost instantly beneath the stage lights, and winks.

Somehow, in a packed London theatre filled with hundreds of people, it still feels like the moment is just ours.

His energy shifts afterward. As if seeing me has literally helped him sprout wings.