Undivided Attention

By ten the next morning, I had decided August Belcourt could reject my dinner invitation all he wanted. I had still gotten his undivided attention.

That was more than enough for now.

I was halfway through answering emails in my office when Marcus pushed through the double doors without knocking.

“Saturday is sold out.”

I looked up from my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Completely?”

“Completely. Not a single seat left in the house.”

A slow, victorious smile spread across my face. Saturday had been sitting at eighty-three percent before opening night. Apparently, word of mouth was doing exactly what every theater owner prayed it would do.

“And Friday?” I asked.

“Ninety-six percent.”

“Marcus.”

“I know.”

“Marcus.”

“I know!” He dropped into the velvet armchair across from my desk, grinning like we’d personally robbed a bank and gotten away with every single cent.

“Thursday jumped twelve percent overnight, too,” he added, tapping his clipboard. “At this rate, we’ll sell out the entire weekend before lunch.”

I leaned back in my leather chair, taking a deep breath. Six years ago, my mother had spent an entire evening reminding me how lucky I was that Paul Belcourt had chosen me. Today, hundreds of strangers were paying actual money just to hear what I had to say.

Life had a funny way of balancing the scales.

“We should add a Sunday matinee performance,” I said.

“We should absolutely add a Sunday matinee.”

“Talk to production.”

“Already did.”

“Have I told you lately that you’re my favorite employee?”

“I’m your only full-time administrative employee, Boss.”

“Don’t ruin the moment, Marcus.”

He laughed, but he didn’t get up. Instead, he reached into the folder tucked beneath his arm and pulled out a folded edition of the morning paper.

My smile faded slightly. “What is that?”

“You’re going to want to see this. Or maybe you aren't. Either way, you have to read it.”

“That sentence has never preceded anything pleasant in human history.”

Marcus slid the paper across my desk blotter. The entertainment and society section was already turned outward. A photograph of me onstage from opening night took up nearly half the upper page.

Above it, printed in bold black letters:

THE PLAY EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT: IS MELODY BROOKS TELLING THE BELCOURT FAMILY'S SECRETS?

“Oh,” I murmured, pulling it closer.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The article started innocently enough—praising the production's lighting, the writing, the standing ovation, and the sudden surge at the box office. But then the journalist pivoted.

The writer had done some digging. Melody Brooks had once been engaged to Paul Belcourt. Their high-society engagement had ended abruptly three weeks before their lavish wedding. Brooks had vanished from the city's social registry shortly afterward.

And now, she had returned with a smash-hit play featuring a wealthy, unfaithful fiancé, an image-conscious elite family, and a heroine who walked away from all of them with her head held high.

The article stopped just short of explicitly naming Paul as the inspiration. Barely.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

“That was also my professional assessment,” Marcus said dryly.

My office phone rang, the sharp chime echoing off the walls. Marcus and I both looked at the digital display. It was a local entertainment news desk.

I hit the decline button without hesitation.

“They’re not the first,” Marcus warned. “Three reporters have called the box office line since eight this morning.”

“Wonderful.”

“One of them wanted to know directly whether Paul Belcourt was the cheating fiancé in act two.”

“Did you tell them 'no comment'?”

“I told them I enjoy continued employment.”

“Excellent answer. Give yourself a raise.”

Marcus’s cell phone buzzed in his hand. He checked the notification, and his eyebrows shot straight up toward his hairline.

“What now?” I asked.

“Friday just sold out.”

I stared at him. He turned the screen toward me, showing the red digital banner across the ticketing portal: SOLD OUT.

“Well,” I breathed.

“Congratulations?” Marcus offered with a shrug.

Before I could answer, the heavy office doors swung open without a warning knock.

August Belcourt walked in.

Marcus looked at August. Then at me. Then back at August’s towering frame.

“I feel like I should leave,” Marcus said carefully.

“You should,” August said, his baritone voice instantly cutting through the room.

Marcus stood up, gathering his papers. “I was actually asking my boss, but okay.”

“Go,” I told Marcus, fighting the sudden urge to smile.

Marcus grabbed his newspaper and paused right beside August at the doorway. “Saturday’s sold out too, by the way.”

August’s jaw tightened into a hard, dangerous line.

Marcus made a swift, graceful exit, pulling the door shut behind him.

I leaned back in my chair, lacing my fingers together. August was wearing another charcoal suit, cut so impeccably it made him look like a billionaire warlord. Apparently, the man had decided color was a sign of weakness. His expression suggested he had spent his entire morning contemplating murder.

“Good morning, Mr. Belcourt.”

“I warned you,” he said coldly.

“Good morning to you, too. Lovely weather we’re having.”

He walked straight to my desk and dropped a folded copy of the exact same article onto my blotter.

“I’ve already seen it,” I said.

“I assumed as much.”

“Marcus brought me one with significantly less hostility attached to it.”

“This is exactly what I told you would happen if you ran this production,” August said, stepping closer.

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ve been waiting all morning for the satisfaction of saying that.”

His dark eyes narrowed.

I smiled sweetly. “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead with what?”

“Say 'I told you so.' You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t need to feel better, Melody.”

“That must be exhausting.”

August ignored the barb completely, his gaze locked onto mine. “Have you spoken to any reporters?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t.”

My smile vanished instantly. “Excuse me?”

“Do not issue a statement. Do not comment on the article.”

There it was. That particular, unbearable Belcourt tone. The tone that assumed a decision had already been finalized in a boardroom and everyone else simply needed to fall in line.

I folded my arms across my chest. “You seem confused about who owns this theater, August.”

“I am not confused about anything.”

“Excellent. Then you understand you don’t get to dictate what I say about my own work.”

“Anything you say to the press will only extend the life of this story.”

“The story that is currently selling out my venue?”

“This isn’t amusing!”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Friday night sold out five minutes ago,” I said, leaning forward. “I’m having a very good morning.”

August stared down at me, his chest rising and falling beneath his dark suit jacket. I let my smile grow wider.

“Don’t,” he warned softly.

“I didn’t say a word.”

“Your face did.”

I let out a soft laugh. He did not.

“You wanted publicity,” he accused.

“I wanted people to see my play.”

“Congratulations. Now they’re dissecting my family.”

“I didn’t put your name in the script, August.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“No,” I countered, stepping up the heat. “Apparently, your brother made such a lasting, unfaithful impression on high society six years ago that everyone figured it out for themselves.”

His jaw flexed hard.

Interesting.

Paul’s words from last night echoed in my mind: August doesn't break rules. August would never touch his younger brother's ex-fiancée.

I stood up from my chair and walked deliberately around the side of my desk, closing the distance between us. August watched me approach, his posture rigid.

“Are you always this angry when you visit women at work?” I asked softly.

His expression didn't yield an inch. “Only when they’re manufacturing a public-relations crisis for my firm.”

“Careful,” I whispered, stepping into his space. “Keep showing up here unannounced and people might start to think we’re having an affair.”

“Nobody is going to think that.”

The answer came instantly. Brutally confident.

I stopped right in front of him, tilting my head back to look into those intense dark eyes. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

That shouldn font have irritated me. It absolutely, thoroughly did.

I took one tiny step closer, testing him.

Nothing. No shift backward. No downward glance. Not even the subtle jaw movement Paul made whenever he was trying not to look at my mouth. August simply stood there, looking down at me—calm, unimpressed, and infuriatingly composed.

Fine. This was going to take work.

My desk phone rang again, its loud chime cutting through the heavy air between us. August’s eyes flicked briefly toward the desk.

“Do not answer that,” he commanded quietly.

I looked at him, then deliberately reached back toward the phone.

His eyes narrowed into sharp slits.

Before my fingers could touch the receiver, the office door flew open yet again. Marcus stood in the frame, slightly breathless.

“What now, Marcus?” I asked, pausing.

“There’s a reporter downstairs in the lobby.”

August went dead still beside me.

I slowly lowered my hand from the phone. “Already?”

“She’s from the Daily Press,” Marcus said, glancing between us. “She wants a formal statement about the article.”

“Tell her Miss Brooks is not commenting,” August instructed cold-bloodedly, without even looking at Marcus.

Marcus looked at August. Then at me.

I smiled. “Tell her I’ll be down in five minutes.”

August turned his head sharply toward me. “Melody.”

It was the very first time he had used my first name instead of 'Miss Brooks'. The sound of it on his tongue sent a sudden, strange pulse through my chest.

I picked up the newspaper from my desk and headed for the door. “Five minutes, Marcus.”

Marcus vanished like a ghost.

Before I could reach the doorway, August’s hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping firmly around my upper arm.

I stopped in my tracks. My gaze dropped instantly to his hand on my skin.

So did his.

For the first time since he had stormed into my office, August Belcourt looked like he had done something entirely without thinking.

Well. That was interesting, too.

I looked back up into his eyes, letting a slow, deliberate smile touch my lips.

“Still confident nobody’s going to get the wrong idea?”

His fingers released my arm instantly, dropping back to his side as if he’d touched hot iron.

“Don’t speak to that reporter, Melody,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, warning baritone.

I smoothed down my dress, holding his dark gaze from the threshold.

“Make me.”

Then I turned and walked out.