The backstage area of The Gilded Lily was a labyrinth of peeling wallpaper, the smell of stale gin, and the frantic energy of performers prepping for the night. Violet pushed through the heavy service door, the cold air from the alleyway still clinging to her coat. She was still reeling from the afternoon at the diner- from the way Adam had looked at her with such pure hope, and the way Roman had looked at her like she was the only fixed point in his chaotic, litigious world.
She made a beeline for her dressing room, but she stopped dead in the narrow hallway.
Occupying nearly half the corridor was an arrangement of flowers so massive it looked like a funeral pyre for a forest. It was an aggressive display of wealth- hundreds of deep, blood-red roses interspersed with white orchids, their scent so cloying it made her head swim. It was beautiful, in a sterile, overpriced way, but it lacked the delicate, intentional soul of the single blue cornflower currently resting in a glass of water on her nightstand at her apartment.
Violet reached for the small, cream-colored card tucked into the center of the blooms. She flipped it open with a flick of her wrist, expecting Roman's heavy, precise handwriting.
Instead, the elegant, loopy script made her stomach turn.
"A bird like you shouldn't have to witness a cage fight. Come with me, and the lawsuit goes away. I can be much more than a benefactor, Violet. Don't let Thorne's pride be your undoing. —R. Vane"
The sheer audacity of it sent a spark of white-hot rage through her veins. He was using a legal assault on Roman- a man who had protected her, as a bargaining chip to buy her like a piece of livestock. It wasn't an "overture"; it was blackmail wrapped in expensive petals.
"Unbelievable," she hissed.
Without a second thought, she ripped the card from its plastic holder, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the overflowing trash can near the stage door. She didn't even look at the flowers as she hauled the heavy crystal vase toward the corner of the room, shoving it unceremoniously next to the other tribute bouquets from nameless admirers. She made a mental note to call the local children's hospital in the morning to donate the whole lot. She wanted Ryder Vane's "mercy" as far away from her as possible.
Thirty minutes later, the lights in the club dimmed to a smoky, atmospheric haze. The chatter of the crowd died down as the spotlight cut through the darkness, centering on the microphone stand.
Violet stepped into the beam of light.
She had chosen the dress. The midnight-blue silk clung to her frame, shifting with a metallic sheen that mimicked the sky just after dusk. It was sleeveless, exposing the pale, delicate curve of her shoulders, and the fabric was so fine it felt like a second skin. She looked like a celestial event, a piece of the firmament brought down to the grit of the South Side.
The pianist began a slow, melancholic intro, a series of rising chords that sounded like an ascent. Violet closed her eyes, her hand tightening on the chrome stand. She didn't sing her usual repertoire of heartbreak and gin-soaked laments. She sang the song she had written in the quiet hours of the night, a song about a dragon who guarded a mountain and a girl who finally learned how to look up.
"You spoke of the sky where the clouds never break," she sang, her voice a silken thread that wound around the hearts of the audience. "A blue without borders, for heaven's own sake. You're the fire in the valley, the weight in the stone, but you offered me heights that I'd never have known."
The lyrics were a direct answer to Roman. They were a confession whispered into a microphone, a signal fire sent up to a man who thought he had to buy the whole garden to keep her.
As she sang, her eyes drifted toward the center booth- the "Dragon's Den."
It was empty.
For a heartbeat, her voice faltered. The leather was vacant, the shadows undisturbed. The absence hit her like a physical blow. Is he at the lawyers? Is he dealing with the Vanes? The guilt she had felt at the coffee shop redoubled, a cold weight in her chest. She had dressed for him, sang for him, and he wasn't there to see it.
But as she moved into the bridge of the song, the sensation changed.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. It wasn't the cold, predatory gaze of Ryder Vane-she knew that feeling too well now. This was different. It was a heavy, vibrating presence that seemed to pulse from the very back of the room, near the darkened mezzanine.
She couldn't see him in the gloom, but she felt him. Roman was there. He wasn't sitting in the booth where everyone could see him, perhaps avoiding the public eye amidst the lawsuit, but he was watching. She could feel his icy blue eyes tracking every movement of the blue silk, every rise and fall of her chest as she sang about the sky he had offered her.
The air between them felt electric, a tether of pure, unadulterated longing. He was a shadow in the back of the room, a silent sentinel, and the sheer weight of his attention made her feel more seen than the spotlight ever could.
She turned her face toward the mezzanine, her voice rising in a final, powerful crescendo that spoke of defiance and surrender all at once. She didn't care about the Vanes or the lawyers or the technicality that waited for her. In this moment, under the false stars of the club, there was only the song and the man in the shadows.
When the final note faded into the velvet curtains, Violet didn't bow. She stood perfectly still, her eyes locked on the darkness where she knew he stood.
She saw a slight movement- the silhouette of a massive man straightening his jacket, a brief glint of silver from a watch. He didn't clap. He didn't move toward her. But the intensity of his gaze was a physical touch, a possessive promise that echoed her own lyrics.
I am here, his silence seemed to say. And I am never letting go.
Violet stepped off the stage, her heart racing against the midnight silk. She bypassed the flowers, ignored the stagehands, and headed straight for the back exit. She didn't want the applause. She wanted the dragon.