PROLOGUE
EMERSON
Five Years Ago – Aged 19
Manhattan
“Next up, we have…”
Hans Liebermann, the director, trails off as he searches the sheet on the clipboard before him, turning his gaze toward backstage when he curtly calls out, “Emerson Hart.”
I step out onto the stage and slowly make my way to the center. My legs are shaky, and my confidence is at an all-time low, yet once I reach my destination, I stand tall and unblinking in the spotlight.
“Interesting choice.” Liebermann’s deep voice fills the space as a sudden feeling of indecision swarms in my belly. “You’ve arranged to sing ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ from?—”
“I’ve prepared another piece…” My interruption rings out, echoing off the walls of the theater. His brows almost hit his salt-and-pepper hairline, and I cringe internally, knowing I’ve surely fucked the whole thing up.
Even so, I power on, determined to at least get through my fourth-ever theater audition so that I can file away what I’velearned from it. So I can follow the dream my mother had for me before we lost her far too soon.
“I wish to sing ‘On My Own.’”
My stepsister, Hayley, sucks in a surprised breath from stage right, where she’s watching, waiting for her turn, alongside our agent, Beckham Reynolds, who I’m sure is fuming mad. Seeing as I’m auditioning for the role of Éponine, the character who sings this song inLes Misérables, I know it’s most likely not a good move.
I’m a character actor. I can ad-lib with ease, and when required to sing, I know I’m better suited to a livelier piece because it helps to hide my vocal inconsistencies.
Not to mention, three of the previous seven auditionees have already performed it today, so I’m likely to get lost in the shuffle.
But Ineedto disappear into the depths of despair alongside her. Ineedto feel someone else’s pain aside from my own.
My heart throbs, remembering how I’d returned home earlier this week to an empty brownstone and a terse note that simply read:
I can’t do it.
My excitement for this audition immediately plummeted, and now that I’m here, there’s no way I can muster the pizazz required to pull off the Streisand number.
But heartache? Desperation?
A bone-deep sadness that claws at your gut, refusing to let go? That hurts more with every inhalation? With every reluctant beat of your splintered heart?
ThatI can do. Even without preparation, I can feel it within my soul.
IamÉponine.
And so, I stand taller, squaring my shoulders with a quirked eyebrow that dares him to deny my request.
Liebermann’s eyes bore into mine as a frown forms on his face, and I unwaveringly hold his stare until the edge of his mouth tips upward when he nods once.
“Begin.”
The accompanist plays the opening notes, and as I inhale in readiness for my first bars, I feel the entire stage and my surroundings melt into nothingness. It’s only me and Éponine and our combined pain in existence.
I feel every single word as the melody enfolds me in her somber embrace, and I cling desperately to the solace she provides.
As the song spills from my lips, my chest aches. My breathing stutters not once but twice as the emotions I’ve carried all week flood my senses, yet when I reach the crescendo, my tone is pitch-perfect, holding that note until I’m breathless.
Feeling my knees weaken, I lower myself to the stage floor and inhale shakily. I allow my eyelids to close as I manage to finish the piece with Éponine’s heartbreaking declaration resonating around me. Within me.
I love him. I love him.
