The atmosphere inside The Gilded Lily was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the low, rhythmic thrum of the house band's warm-up. Violet was making her way toward the stage, her long blonde hair caught in the soft glow of the wall sconces, when a woman in a shimmering emerald gown stepped into her path.
The woman was clutching a martini glass so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes were rimmed with a bitter, jagged anger. "You," the woman hissed, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a serrated blade. "I've seen how my husband looks at you when you're up there. I want you to stay away from him. Find another man to entice with that little act of yours."
Violet stopped. She didn't shrink or look offended; instead, she straightened her shoulders, her light blonde hair shimmering as it settled against the small of her back. She took in the woman's furious expression with a calm, blue-eyed gaze.
"Ma'am," Violet said, her voice smooth but carrying a distinct edge of sass. "I'm a singer, not a siren pulling ships onto the rocks. If your husband is looking at me, it's likely because I'm the only thing in this room currently on key. If you have a problem with where his eyes wander, that sounds like a conversation for your car ride home, not my workplace."
The woman's mouth fell open. "How dare you? Do you have any idea who we are?"
"I know you're the woman currently standing between me and my microphone," Violet countered, a playful but firm spark in her eyes. "And honestly? Jealousy is a very loud color on you. It doesn't match the dress. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do. I suggest you go find your husband and remind him why he married you, because I'm far too busy to do it for you."
With a final, sugary-sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes, Violet stepped around the stunned socialite and disappeared through the velvet curtains leading backstage.
Minutes later, Roman Thorne walked through the front doors.
He was a shadow in the gold-lit room. He moved with a heavy, aggressive grace that made the patrons around him instinctively give him space. He bypassed the hostess entirely, his icy blue eyes scanning the room until he found the center booth- the one he'd demanded. He sat down, his large frame making the velvet booth look small. He ordered a double scotch, neat, and waited. His expression was a fortress- unreadable, dark, and dangerously still.
The lights dimmed to a bruised purple.
Violet stepped out onto the stage. She was wearing a gown of liquid silver tonight, one that hugged her curves and flowed down to her feet like moonlight. As she reached the microphone, she did her usual sweep of the front row.
Her gaze hit Roman.
She paused. For a fraction of a second, the "sweet, humble girl" part of her felt a jolt of genuine surprise. He looked like a king sitting in judgment, his build imposing even while seated. She hadn't expected him to show up so soon, let alone sit close enough to see the pulse jumping in her neck.
Violet slowly quirked a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. It was a silent challenge- Oh, so we're doing this?- but she didn't say a word. She signaled the band, and the first low, jazzy notes of her set began to fill the room.
She sang directly to the room, but her energy was anchored to the man in the center booth. She was a professional; her voice remained angelic, a soothing balm that seemed to vibrate in the air. Yet, there was a new depth to it tonight, a subtle richness that Roman felt in the very center of his chest.
He watched her every move- the way her hands moved through the air, the way her waist swayed, the way she glowed. He didn't clap. He didn't smile. He just drank his scotch and let his gaze burn a path through the silver silk of her dress.
When the final note faded and the applause began, Violet gave a polite bow. As she moved to step off the stage, a younger man, flushed with too much champagne and misguided confidence, intercepted her at the stairs.
"Violet! That was… God, you're incredible," the man stammered, reaching out to touch her arm. "Listen, I've got a penthouse just three blocks from here. Why don't you let me take you away from all this noise? I can give you anything you want."
Violet opened her mouth, a sharp, sassy rebuttal already perched on the tip of her silver tongue, but she never got the chance to speak.
A massive, dark presence loomed behind the man.
"She already said no to the last fool who tried that line," Roman's voice growled. It wasn't loud, but it had the weight of an approaching thunderstorm.
The younger man spun around, his face paling as he looked up, and up, at Roman. Roman's expression was terrifying; his blue eyes were narrowed, his jaw set, his entire posture screaming predator.
"Mr. Thorne! I-I didn't realize she was-"
"She isn't 'yours' to realize anything about," Roman interrupted, stepping into the man's personal space. The aggression radiating off him was physical. "Get out of her way. Now. Before I decide that your presence is an insult I need to rectify."
The man didn't need to be told a third time. He practically tripped over his own feet as he scrambled toward the exit.
Violet stood on the bottom step of the stage, her hand on the railing, watching the exchange. Her heart was hammering against her ribs- partly from the adrenaline of the confrontation, and partly from the way Roman looked standing there. He was protective, dark, and incredibly handsome, his black hair slightly tousled from the wind outside. But she wasn't about to let him take over her floor.
"You have a very dramatic way of saying hello, Roman," she said, her voice low and laced with that signature sass.
Roman turned to her, the lethal edge in his eyes softening just a fraction, though the intensity remained. "He was bothering you."
"I have a tongue specifically designed for handling bothersome men," she countered, though her blue eyes were bright with a secret amusement. She looked around; the regulars were staring, whispering into their cocktails about the titan of industry standing at the foot of the stage.
She didn't like being the center of a different kind of spectacle.
Violet reached out, her fingers grazing the expensive wool of Roman's suit sleeve. The contact sent a jolt through both of them. Roman looked down at her hand, his breath hitching.
"Backstage. Now," she commanded, her voice a hushed but firm melody.
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and led the way, her silver dress shimmering as she moved through the shadows. Roman followed her without a word, his gaze fixed on the way her hair brushed against her hips.
She pulled him through the heavy velvet curtains and into the dim, private hallway of the backstage area. She turned to face him, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving them in a world that smelled of roses, old wood, and the sudden, electric charge of two people who were no longer strangers.