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I sit and wait for him to continue. Patience is another virtue I learned at the opera.

“When an influential patron, such as Mr Accardo, steps in, there is usually an expectation of some kind of return on investment. Often, this comes in the form of publicity. But sometimes, well, you can probably guess where I am going with this.” He averts his gaze apologetically.

“I won’t dream of standing in your way, Tatiana. You are very talented and deserve all the support you can get. But I want you to be careful of whose support you accept.”

I nod slightly, showing Martin that I have heard his advice. "Thank you, Martin. I'll keep that in mind."

And with a last wistful smile, he leaves me behind in the dressing room. My gaze wanders over the bouquets. Each flower is different from the other, each stunning in its own way. Is this an insight into the man who is Philippe Accardo? Does he have many different facets, each beautiful in its own way?

Or is he a strategist planning to ride along on the fame of a rising star?

With the last curtain call over, relief and gratefulness flood my limbs. As always, Martin escorts me into my dressing room. Stillbuzzing with excitement, we continue to chat animatedly about the near spotlight failure and our plans to celebrate this evening.

Now that the final performance is over, the singers can relax their strict routines a little. My thoughts race, a mix of exhilaration and anticipation. Then, the door suddenly swings open, and all conversation ceases.

Of all the people in the world, Philippe Accardo stands in the doorway, his imposing figure filling the space. He’s taller than he seemed on the balcony above. His raven-black hair falls artfully over his forehead, and his piercing blue eyes lock onto mine.

For a moment, I feel as though the air has been sucked out of the room. He walks towards us, each step radiating authority and confidence.

"Mr. Accardo," Martin says, extending his hand. "What an honor to have you here."

"Please, call me Philippe," he replies, shaking Martin's hand with a firm grip. His voice is deep and smooth and commands attention. "And the honor is all mine. That was quite a performance tonight."

"Thank you," I manage to say, my heart pounding in my chest. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed it? Tatiana, you were extraordinary. This entire week. Your passion, your emotion... it was like watching a living, breathing work of art."

A blush creeps up my cheeks at his praise, and I duck my head slightly, trying to hide my embarrassment. "You're too kind."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it," Philippe counters, waving my words away with his hand. "Talent like yours deserves recognition, and I intend to help you get it."

"Really?" I ask. Hope and curiosity swell within me despite Martin’s warning. "How?"

"Leave that to me," Philippe replies, his gaze holding mine. "Just continue being the brilliant artist you are."

A strange man, whom I've just met, is telling me to leave my career in his hands. Under normal circumstances, I would laugh. But in this very moment, I’m enticed, drawn in by his words.

What worries me some, is that I’m convinced he means it.

Philippe's attention momentarily shifts away from me, and he reaches for something behind him. My breath catches as he reveals a stunning bouquet of peach-colored blooms, each more exquisite than the next.

I gasp and let out a laugh, clapping my hands gently with excitement and then slowly reaching out, fingers curling over the delicate bouquet.

"Every flower I have sent you is rare and unique, just like you are," Philippe says as he releases the bouquet with a tendersmile. Our hands graze ever so gently, and I blush as my eyes dart to his wrist, ink gliding up from the base of his wrist, slithering under his shirt.

I wonder what it looks like unconstrained. At that thought, I felt a tug of excitement in my belly.

"Thank you," I breathe out, taking in the intoxicating scents mingling together. As I examine the arrangement more closely, I realize I don't recognize the flowers. They seem like roses, but none that I have seen before. I furrow my brows; these are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen.

"Let's see," he begins, as my fingers trace over delicate petals. I glance at Philippe, whose eyes sparkle with amusement. With a deep voice and a serious expression, he starts to recite:

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word, would smell as sweet.”

I look up at him in surprise, and suddenly, I can’t stop the giggles from bursting forth. Philippe’s smile widens.

“Here we have a Juliet rose, the embodiment of pure, eternal love," he points at the flowers.

I feel a flush rise to my cheeks as I study the breathtaking blooms. His gaze is trained on me as he explains. "I wanted to give you something that represented all the facets of who you are: your talent, your beauty, and your spirit."

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