Chapter 15 - The Master of the Reveal
Six months later.
The grand marquee of the newly restored Blackstone Theatre blazed with five thousand vintage amber bulbs, casting a golden halo across the bustling sidewalks of South Michigan Avenue.
The massive illuminated letters read:
AVA BROOKS: THE ILLUSION OF TRUTH
SOLD OUT
A line of patrons in black-tie attire stretched around the block, their faces glowing with excitement beneath the crisp spring evening sky.
Limousines and town cars pulled up to the red carpet, where photographers and theater critics jockeyed for position beside the velvet ropes.
Backstage, the scent of fresh mahogany wax, theatrical greasepaint, and blooming white lilies filled the cavernous wings.
Marcus stood by the master electrical switchboard, checking the hydraulic cues on a digital tablet with a calm, practiced smile.
In the center of the green room, Ava Brooks stood before an antique three-way mirror, putting the finishing touches on her signature performance attire.
She wore a bespoke emerald-green tailcoat with hand-stitched gold embroidery along the collar, crisp black trousers, and riding boots polished to a mirror shine.
Her emerald eyes were bright, fierce, and brimming with the effortless confidence of an artist at the absolute pinnacle of her craft.
The dressing room door swung open without a knock.
Dante Bellini stepped inside, looking devastatingly handsome in a tailored tuxedo, carrying a single long-stemmed black baccara rose.
He closed the door behind him, his dark eyes raking over her with open, smoldering desire.
"Opening night at your own theater, Miss Brooks," Dante said, his deep baritone vibrating through the quiet room.
"I trust the production management has met your exacting standards?"
Ava turned around from the mirror, stepping toward him with that familiar, predatory glide.
She took the black rose from his hand, inhaling the velvet scent before tucking the stem into the lapel of his tuxedo.
"The theater is perfection, Dante," Ava murmured, resting her hands against the broad lapels of his jacket.
"Although your security detail outside looks like they’re preparing to invade a small sovereign nation."
Dante smirked, his hands coming around her waist to pull her flush against his body.
"Dean insisted on screening the first three rows personally. He has developed an irrational suspicion of elderly women carrying oversized handbags."
Ava laughed softly, leaning up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to the corner of his scarred jaw.
"Tell Dean that if he tackles another theater critic, I will replace his tactical sidearm with a rubber chicken."
"I’ll deliver the warning personally," Dante murmured, his lips tracing down to the sensitive curve of her throat, making her pulse leap into a wild, familiar rhythm.
A sharp, three-beat knock rattled the dressing room door.
"Five minutes to curtain, Miss Brooks!" Marcus’s voice called out from the hallway.
Ava pulled back slightly, smoothing her gold-embroidered lapels, her eyes locking onto Dante’s with an electrifying, intimate challenge.
"Will you be seated at Table Twelve again tonight, Mr. Bellini?"
Dante’s lips curled into that dark, breathtaking smile she had fallen for beneath the Palmer House lights.
"Dead center in the VIP box, Ava. Watching every move your fingers make."
Ava picked up her polished ebony wand from the vanity table, flicking it between her slender fingers with effortless mastery.
"Keep your eyes open, Dante," she whispered, turning toward the doorway.
"Because tonight... the magic is entirely real."
Two minutes later, the house lights of the Blackstone Theatre dimmed to a deep, velvety amber.
Twelve hundred patrons went completely, breathlessly silent as the massive velvet curtain rose on a stage draped in shadow and gold light.
Ava Brooks stepped out from the wings, the thundering roar of the audience washing over her like a tidal wave.
She reached center stage, looking out across the sea of faces until her gaze locked onto Dante Bellini sitting in the private balcony above.
May you like
Dante raised his champagne glass in a silent, private toast.
Ava smiled, raised her ebony wand toward the rafters, and with a brilliant flash of paper fire, began the greatest performance of her life.
