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Nina. The hopeless, risk-taking, dream-chasing provincial girl.
The door to the theater flings open. From the corner of my eye, I can see a demon-like creature. Tall and dark, filling the frame like a black gaping hole.
The energy in the room shifts. The little hairs on my arm stand on end.
I force my attention back to Rahim.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Trigorin and Nina are fighting. I spew out my lines. But I no longer shine under the theater lights. Cold sweat gathers at the back of my neck. Who is this person who just came inside? This is a dry rehearsal, closed to the public.
Lucas and his assistant still haven’t spotted the intruder. But I seem to be attuned to him as he descends the stairway toward the stage. He’s not alone. There’s someone trailing behind him. His movements are sleek and smooth, tigerlike.
Trigorin is on the verge of a breakdown. Nina soldiers ahead.
I tell Rahim that I loved him. That I gave him a child. My eyes scald with unshed tears. This part feels like digging into my own gut with a rusty spoon. It’s the part where Nina comes to terms with her shallow, artificial existence.
I’m in the middle of my monologue—that monologue—the one every aspiring actress finds herself reciting in front of her dorm mirror, using her hairbrush as a mic—when I see Lucas jumping to his feet from the corner of my eye. He rips his beret off his head and squeezes it like a beggar, waiting for the tall figure to approach.
“Cut . . . cut!” he coughs out manically. “Take ten, guys.”
Rahim and I stop. My gaze trails to the two men who entered the theater.
When I see his face, the sharp planes of his jaw, the black irises, no part of me is surprised.
He is the only person who has ever managed to make my skin crawl and my mouth dry with a simple stare. His mere existence turns me inside out.
Arsène Corbin.
He stands out like a coyote in a henhouse, wearing a pair of black slim-cut slacks, leather strap shoes, and a cashmere sweater. Maybe it’s too far away to tell, but he doesn’t look too heartbroken from where I’m standing. No obvious telltale signs of bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, or a five-o’clock shadow.
This man is dressed to the nines, has seen his barber recently, is closely shaven, and would fit right into a fancy gala.
I want to lash out at him. To scream in his face. To tell him that he’s a horrible human being for his behavior during the night we found out our loved ones were gone.
“Winnie?” Lucas curves an eyebrow impatiently. “Did you hear what I said?”
He wants me gone. Whatever’s happening here is private. But I can’t move. My feet are frozen on the worn-out stage.
“She heard. Her legs must be cramping from all the standing.” I hear Rahim chuckle good-naturedly. He laces his arm in mine and drags me backstage. My feet slog across the hardwood.
Through a toothy smile, Rahim hisses, “Please tell me you’re okay. I skipped the first aid tutorial they made us take when I temped as a lifeguard in the Hamptons. Not my proudest confession, but I haven’t the greenest clue what to do if you’re having a stroke.”
“I—I’m not having a stroke,” I manage to stutter.
“Thank God. We could all use more of your memaw’s cookies.”
Backstage, Renee, who plays Irina, hands me a plastic cup with water. Sloan, who plays Konstantin, ushers me to sit down in a folding chair by a rack full of costumes.
Sloan puts his hands on my shoulders. “Deep breaths now. Is she asthmatic? Allergic? Do we need an Epipen?” He turns to Rahim.
Rahim shrugs helplessly.
“I’m neither,” I answer, still shaky, even though I don’t think Arsène has even noticed me. “Just a little shell shocked. Sorry.”
“What was that all about?” Renee lifts an eyebrow.
“I just had this awful cramp in my foot. I couldn’t even move,” I lie brazenly, raising the plastic cup in thanks, taking a sip of water. “I feel better now.”
“I get that in the middle of the night sometimes.” Sloan nods sympathetically. “You should supplement with magnesium. Life changing, girl.”
“Who was that guy?” Rahim—young, striking, with one failed Broadway show under his belt—points at the stage. “He just walked right in there like he owns the place.”
“That’s because he does,” Sloan, who looks like every blond heartthrob you’ve seen in movies, deadpans. “Arsène Corbin. Wall Street hotshot by day, owner of half this city by night. Not sure what brought him here, though. He doesn’t give much damn about this little theater. He’s not the artsy type. Probably just came here to flex and remind Lucas who’s pulling the purse strings.”
“What purse strings?” Renee bites out bitterly. “The place is a dump, and he’s not spending a penny on it.”
