Wildly Unfortunate

The applause hadn't even faded before the backstage corridor erupted into absolute chaos.

Cast members wrapped each other in tearful hugs. Stage crew rushed past with equipment and towering bouquets of roses. Someone shoved a cold glass of champagne into my hand, and someone else planted a joyous kiss on my cheek.

Opening night at the Ainsley was officially in the books.

I should have been basking in the adrenaline, but my eyes kept darting toward the double doors leading to the front of house. I couldn't stop thinking about Box Three.

"Melody!" Dana, my leading lady, threw her arms around my neck, nearly spilling my champagne. "You were incredible!"

"We were incredible," I corrected, a breathless laugh slipping out.

"I saw the lead critic wiping away a tear during your Act Two monologue."

"Maybe he hated the stage lighting."

"Then he hated it with profound emotional depth," she shot back.

I laughed, the coiled tension between my shoulder blades beginning to loosen.

Then the heavy backstage doors swung open, and my whole world went quiet.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Belcourt swept through the threshold first. Six years of high-society living had changed them far less than I’d expected. Charles’s hair had gone completely silver, but he still carried the heavy authority of a man who assumed he owned every room he set foot in. Beside him, Evelyn looked as pristine as a museum piece, her pale evening gown catching the fluorescent lights, diamonds sparkling at her throat.

Paul stepped in behind them. My stomach took a violent drop.

And towering right behind Paul was August.

Up close, without the distance of a balcony, Paul's older brother was considerably more distracting than he had any right to be.

That, I thought bitterly, is wildly unfortunate.

Paul had always possessed an effortless, silver-spoon charm: blond, sleek, and comfortable. August was built from entirely different stock. Taller. Broader. He wore a dark charcoal suit that stretched across a massive pair of shoulders. Time had carved sharp, hard angles into his jawline, giving him a quiet, lethal sort of gravity.

"Melody." Evelyn glided across the floor, smiling her practiced country-club smile as she kissed the empty air beside my cheek. "What a surprise."

"Hopefully a pleasant one," I replied smoothly.

Her sharp eyes took a sweeping inventory of my face, my bare shoulders, and the way the backless red dress clung to my waist. She was comparing the woman standing before her to the soft, malleable girl she had helped push out the door.

"Of course," she lied. "The performance was... wonderful."

"Thank you, Evelyn."

Charles offered a heavy, manicured hand. "You've done impressive work with this old place, Melody. Truly."

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. "Thank you, Mr. Belcourt."

Then Paul stepped forward. His dark eyes roamed slowly over my face. "You look incredible, Mel."

Six years ago, those three words would have sustained my self-esteem for a month. I would have folded into him instantly.

Now?

"I always did," I said, my voice deadpan and smooth as glass. "You just weren't looking."

Silence fell over our little circle. Evelyn's sculpted eyebrows shot up. Behind Paul, the shadow on August's face shifted, the tiny twitch of a man suppressing a smile.

Paul recovered quickly. "Still sharp when you want to be."

"You'd be amazed what six years of peace can do for a person."

His gaze lingered on my lips, his voice dropping into that familiar, intimate register. "I'd like to find out."

A cold, sharp spark of amusement flared in my chest. Interesting.

Before the silence could stretch, Charles cleared his throat. "August, you remember Melody, don't you?"

August stepped out of the shadow of the doorway.

During my three years with Paul, August had been a ghost, a formidable figure who occasionally materialized at mandatory dinners before leaving early to handle international acquisitions.

"Melody," he said.

"August."

I held out my hand, expecting a polite brush of knuckles. Instead, his large hand closed entirely around mine. Warm. Firm. Calloused enough to tell me he didn't just sit behind a mahogany desk all day. For one ridiculous second, I became acutely aware of how close he was standing and how his subtle cologne smelled like cedar and cold rain.

"You remember me," he noted, his dark eyes locking onto mine, his low baritone vibrating through my ribs.

"I haven't suffered a head injury, August," I said, chin tilted up. "My memory works fine."

The faint corner of his hard mouth twitched. "Good to know."

He didn't release my hand immediately. And I didn't pull away either.

Paul's gaze dropped to our joined hands, his jaw tightening with a tiny pulse beneath his skin. Very, very interesting.

August finally released my fingers. I looked at him properly now. Six years ago, I’d been so pathetically in love with his younger brother that August had been background scenery.

I was noticing him now.

An entirely inappropriate, deeply unhinged thought drifted into my head: I wonder how much Paul would lose his mind if his brother wanted me?

No. I slammed the door on that thought instantly. I was not the kind of woman who made major life decisions based on how badly they might irritate an ex-fiancé.

...At least, not important ones.

"Quite a play," August said, breaking my spiral.

"Thank you."

"That wasn't necessarily a compliment."

The faint smile vanished from my face.

"August, please," Evelyn said nervously.

"You changed the ending," August murmured, his eyes sharpening into two chips of dark glass.

My fingers tightened around my champagne flute until the glass groaned. Paul looked back and forth between us, confused. "What ending?"

August ignored his brother completely. "You changed it, didn't you, Melody?"

He wasn't guessing. He knew. The original script had ended with the heroine forgiving her fiancé. Three months ago, in a fit of rage at two in the morning, I had rewritten the finale so the heroine burned his pristine reputation to the ground.

"I wrote the play, August," I said, holding his stare. "I'm allowed to alter the script."

"Of course you are."

"Jesus, August, relax," Paul scoffed. "It's just theater. It's drama."

August turned his head, casting a cold, disdainful glance at his younger brother. "Yes, Paul. Theater." The sheer weight of contempt made Paul's smug smile evaporate on the spot.

Evelyn touched her husband's sleeve. "Charles, we should let Melody celebrate."

Charles offered one last polite nod before steering his wife away. Paul didn't move an inch. Neither did August.

"I tried calling you, you know," Paul said softly. "A few months after you left."

"I blocked your number."

"I'd really like to see you again."

Not because I wanted him, but because Paul Belcourt didn't just regret losing me. He wanted me back. Six years ago, I had begged for a crumb of his devotion. Now, he was asking for mine.

"I'll think about it," I said smoothly.

Paul smiled, the triumphant, easy smile of a man who thought "I'll think about it" meant "yes." "I'll call you."

He turned and strolled down the corridor. I watched his back disappear, my jaw set.

"That seems exceptionally unwise," a deep voice rumbled beside me.

I turned. August hadn't moved an inch. "I don't remember asking for your relationship advice, August."

"You and I need to talk," August said, stepping into my space. "Privately."

Something in the lethal certainty of his voice made my eyes snap up to his. No, he certainly wasn't. Paul was a boy playing with matches. August looked like the fire.

"Tomorrow morning," August commanded smoothly. "Nine o'clock."

"I have plans tomorrow."

"Cancel them. I'd prefer to handle this privately before it becomes a much larger problem for my family."

My smile dropped entirely. "What problem?"

August's eyes flicked toward the dark stage. "The play."

There it was. For thirty seconds, I had forgotten the most important rule of my past: August was a Belcourt. He didn't care about my theater or my closure. He cared about his family's name.

"You don't get to walk into my theater and start issuing orders to me, Mr. Belcourt," I said, stepping close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

"Then consider it a request, Miss Brooks," he murmured, his tone dropping an octave.

"No."

"I'll see you tomorrow at nine."

"You won't."

His eyes held mine for one long second. Then he smiled, slow, devastating, and entirely genuine.

"It's your theater, Melody," August said quietly, slipping his hands into his suit pockets as he backed away. "Somehow, I doubt you'll be anywhere else."

He turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, his long legs eating up the floorboards. Arrogant, insufferable bastard.

I stared after him, my mind already racing through at least six different ways to have security throw him out onto the street at 8:59 AM tomorrow morning.

Unfortunately, as he rounded the corner, I couldn't help but notice he had a spectacular ass.