Let Them Watch

Six years later.

"Five minutes, Ms. Brooks!"

I stayed anchored in front of the vanity, staring into the gilt-framed mirror of the star dressing room.

Six years ago, I had walked out of the Belcourt estate wearing a heavy navy dress my mother insisted made me look ten pounds thinner, a shapeless shroud designed to hide my body. I had spent my twenties trying to shrink myself down, believing that if I was just a little quieter, Paul might actually love me back.

Tonight, I wore red.

A backless, liquid-silk gown that hugged every curve. No sleeves. No hiding. In the six years since I’d walked away, I had lost fifty pounds, rebuilt my life, and stripped away every insecurity my family and the Belcourts had fed me. There was no mother hovering behind my shoulder tonight with passive-aggressive comments.

There was just me. Whole, radiant, and unbothered.

"Melody?" Dana’s voice called through the heavy oak door. "Five minutes!"

"I heard you," I called back, my voice steady. I painted one last sharp line of crimson lipstick onto my lips and stood up.

Opening night. An electric flutter of nervous energy danced through my stomach, but I welcomed the heat of it. Nerves meant I cared, and I cared about the Ainsley Theatre more than almost anything else.

When I purchased the historic venue four years ago with my grand-uncle's estate settlement, the roof leaked, the velvet seats were rotting, and a contractor suggested razing it for a parking garage.

Tonight, every seat was sold out. My play. My venue. My name glowing on the marquee outside. Not bad for the girl everyone assumed would come crawling home on her knees.

A sudden knock rattled the door frame. "Melody?"

"Come in, Marcus."

Marcus, the house manager, slipped inside. His tuxedo jacket was completely unbuttoned, his tie hung loose, and his comms headset dangled off one ear.

I turned from the mirror. "Please tell me the box office isn't on fire."

"Nothing is on fire."

"Then why do you look like someone just died on the carpet?"

He shifted his weight nervously. "Box Three is occupied."

Everything inside me ground to a stop. I didn't need to ask, but I made myself say it. "Belcourt?"

Marcus nodded. "Belcourt."

I had known returning to this city meant running into them was inevitable. They knew I owned the Ainsley. They knew I’d written tonight's headlining play. Now, apparently, the family had decided to see what Melody Brooks had been doing with her life for six long years.

"How many?" I asked, smoothing my dress.

"Four."

Mr. and Mrs. Belcourt made two. The remaining pair could be anyone. Family friends, corporate sponsors... or Paul and his older brother.

"Names on the VIP manifest?"

"Just Belcourt," Marcus gritted out. "Entitled as always. I can have security reassign the box. Or move them."

"Move them where?"

"The alley next to the dumpster?"

A real, breathless laugh escaped my lips. God, I loved that man.

"No," I said, standing tall. "They paid a fortune for those seats. Let them keep them."

"Are you sure, Mel?"

Six years ago, I would have hidden in a closet, terrified of their judgment. Tonight?

"Let them watch," I whispered.

The warning bell chimed through the backstage speakers. Marcus gave my shoulder an encouraging squeeze before slipping out.

Left alone, I picked up the polished bound script sitting on my vanity.

THE WOMAN HE CHOSE

Written by Melody Brooks

My thumb traced the embossed lettering. The play wasn't about Paul. That was the lie I told myself over six revisions. It was about me. The gullible girl I had been, the fire I had walked through, and the woman who dragged herself out of the ashes.

I had changed the names and the setting, but the emotional skeleton was raw. There were lethal truths buried inside those three acts. Truths so razor-sharp that if Paul Belcourt was sitting in Box Three tonight, he would recognize his own blood on the pages.

A slow smile pulled at my lips. I hope he does.

"Places, everyone! Two minutes to house lights!"

I tucked the script under my arm and stepped into the dim corridor. The thunderous hum of a packed audience seeped through the plaster walls as I made my way toward stage left.

The house lights gradually dimmed, plunging the auditorium into shadow. A wave of applause rolled over the audience as I stepped into my starting position behind the velvet curtain.

You can do this, I reminded myself. You wrote every word. You own every inch of this stage.

The heavy curtain surged upward. Brilliant golden light flooded the stage, locking onto me. A fresh roar of applause erupted from the darkness.

I stepped smoothly into the beam, delivering my opening line with flawless precision. Then, as my costar delivered her response, I allowed my eyes to drift upward.

Box Three.

Old Mr. Belcourt sat nearest the velvet railing, looking as stern as ever. Beside him sat his wife, dripping in diamonds, scanning the set with cold scrutiny. My heart slammed against my chest once. Hard.

Then, my gaze shifted to the figure sitting directly behind them.

Paul.

He looked stunningly, agonizingly similar. A few fine lines had settled around his dark eyes, his thick hair was trimmed shorter, and his broad shoulders filled out a tailored black tuxedo. He was still devastatingly handsome. He was still the boy who had broken me.

And he was staring at me as if he’d just seen a ghost.

His eyes swept slowly down the length of the red dress, taking in the sharp waistline, bare shoulders, and the posture of a woman who no longer shrank for anyone. His jaw slackened. His lips parted in absolute shock.

I nearly missed my second cue. Nearly.

Instead of faltering, I let a soft, mocking smile touch my lips. Six years ago, I would have traded my soul for Paul to look at me with that kind of desperate hunger. Tonight, his awe felt entirely meaningless, a cheap reaction from a man who only recognized my value once I no longer belonged to him.

My gaze flicked casually to the final seat in the shadows of the box.

The man sitting there was broader than Paul, his massive frame cutting an imposing silhouette in a dark charcoal suit. Dark, wavy hair. A harsh, sculpted jawline that looked carved from granite.

August Belcourt. Paul's older brother.

I had met him only a brief handful of times before he’d abruptly left the country to run the family's European empire. He had barely spoken two words to me back then, treating me like a temporary fixture in Paul’s life.

August wasn't ogling my dress. He wasn't staring at my body with Paul's pathetic, wide-eyed hunger. He was staring straight into my eyes, his piercing gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest.

And unlike Paul, August Belcourt wasn't looking at me with regret. He was looking at me with sharp, dangerous curiosity. He wasn't smiling.

And neither was I.

My next line arrived. I tore my eyes away from the shadows of Box Three and turned back toward my costar.

"Funny," I said, my voice echoing crisp and powerful through the auditorium, "how a woman becomes dangerous the moment she realizes being chosen was never the prize."

A sudden, sharp round of applause broke out from the front rows.

I glanced back up at the balcony one last time. Paul had gone completely motionless, his face pale beneath the theater lights. August, however, slowly leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on a gloved fist, his heavy dark eyes tracking my every movement with deliberate interest.

Good, I thought, a cold spark igniting in my chest as the scene pushed forward. Keep listening.