The quiet hum of the evening seeped into every crevice of Christine’s cramped apartment, the faint flicker of a streetlamp outside her window casting delicate shadows across the worn furniture. Draped in a pale silk nightgown that clung like a whisper, Christine perched at the edge of her armchair, absorbed in the familiar contours of the musical sheet spread before her. The notes danced in her vision, taunting her with the essence of perfection they promised but refused to deliver. Her brows furrowed as she murmured to herself, the melodic sounds of the song replaying in her head.
“That tone,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the steady ticking of her clock on the wall. “They aren’t singing it right.”
Her slender fingers tapped at her temple, an almost restless rhythm accompanying the thoughts stirring in her mind. It was always like this. She couldn’t sit idly by when something musical called to her—it tugged at her soul, demanded her attention like an unrelenting master. Pulling in a deep breath, she straightened her spine as resolve hardened her delicate features.
“Maybe I can help,” she whispered, the words igniting an ember of determination in her chest.
She rose swiftly yet deliberately, her movements exuding a quiet grace. Shrugging on her faded robe and slipping her stockinged feet into the soft embrace of her slippers, Christine’s gaze flickered to the door of her small apartment. Beyond it lay not just a hallway, but the promise of something greater, something that lingered in the haunted labyrinth of her own insecurities. She opened the door and stepped out, the faint echo of her every footstep reverberating against the heavy silence of the corridor.
The opera house was a cavernous expanse of bittersweet memories, a place of grandeur now dormant in the hush of night. Christine slipped through the side entrance like a shadow without a sound, clutching the musical sheet as though it were a lifeline. The faint glow of security lights barely touched the darkness, leaving her enveloped in an intimacy that felt simultaneously comforting and unsettling. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and lingering traces of cologne—a ghost of the pageantry this space had known.
Christine stepped onto the stage, her hesitation dissipating as the sheer emptiness surrounded her. Here, she was alone, yet not lonely. Here, the world outside would not intrude. She held the sheet tightly against her chest for a moment, allowing the stillness to meld with her heartbeat. Then, she let the notes pour out of her lips, a hauntingly beautiful song that tore through the quiet like a streak of lightning. Her voice danced on the acoustics of the opera house, filling its hollows with an electric pulse—but then it faltered.
A harsh note. A stumble. The imperfection rattled her core. Christine’s frustration erupted instantly as her slippered foot stomped against the stage floor, the sound sharp in the hollowed-out silence. Her lungs drew heavy breaths as she cursed herself under her breath, determination battling with despair.
"Erik," she muttered, her voice trembling as much as her hands, the name slipping from her lips like a confession. "He’d scold me for that screw-up."
Memories clawed their way back to her—the sharp critiques, the relentless perfection he had demanded. The phantom of his presence haunted her still, digging into her every mistake like teeth that refused to let go. Her fists curled tightly at her sides, her knuckles whitening against her skin.
The vast opera house was shrouded in shadows, its gilt edges and velvet seats lost in layers of darkness that swallowed the space whole, save for the solitary beam of moonlight streaming through the high arched windows. It fell upon Christine like an ethereal spotlight, illuminating her trembling figure as she knelt on the polished stage floor, gripping the worn sheet music as though it were a lifeline. Her raven hair spilled like liquid ink over her shoulders, glinting faintly in the light, the glossiness contrasting the anguish pooling in her hazel eyes.
"No," she whispered, her voice breaking against the stillness of the cavernous hall. She slid to her knees, her breath hitching, her hands desperate as they ran over the frayed edges of the sheet music. The paper felt oddly alive beneath her fingertips, imbued with a mystery so profound it pressed against her chest like a phantom’s embrace. Her lips moved silently as she gazed at the notes scribbled in intricate curves, imbued with an inexplicable intensity. The melody itself seemed to bloom in her mind—a haunting, ghostly tune that clawed at the edges of her sanity. "Why are you doing this?" she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Why are you haunting me like this? I feel so… so connected to this music, as if… as if he rose from the dead to write it.”
Her words hung suspended in the air for a moment before dissolving into unforgiving silence. Slowly, she lay back on the stage, her limbs heavy as if the music itself was holding her down. The solid hardwood pressed cold and unforgiving against her spine, but she barely noticed. For a heartbeat, she closed her eyes, allowing the melody inside her mind to take root. The piercing loneliness of the empty opera house mirrored the ache inside her chest, where longing warred ceaselessly against guilt, against yearning.
Then, trembling, Christine began to sing. A soft, tentative sound at first—fragile as dew clinging to glass—but it grew as desperation swelled within her. Her voice echoed off unseen high balconies, wrapping around her like unseen fingers reaching through the emptiness. The notes poured out of her mouth like smoke, curling and tumbling until she stained the silence with the song’s heartbreaking harmony.
With every attempt, doubt cut deeper into her. Her brows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together between lines. "No, it's still wrong," she muttered harshly to herself, her words bouncing back to her in sharp echoes that rang like accusations. Bitterness curled in her stomach. Her voice had caught cracks where there should have been purity or struggled to stretch when the melody demanded perfection—the perfection she couldn’t summon. She chastised herself after each aching attempt, weighing the inadequacies of her performance with unrelenting cruelty.
But Christine kept going. Kept singing. Kept punishing herself. The burn of effort painted her cheeks crimson, her hands clutching the sheet music tight enough to wrinkle it, her breaths coming in shortened bursts. It wasn’t dedication; it was obsession, an insatiable hunger that gnawed at her resolve and stole the humanity from her soul in pieces.
The dream-like notes of the music itself seemed closer to failure and despair than triumph. Yet despite the growing fatigue pulling at her, Christine remained. The marble ghosts sculpted along the opera house walls loomed above her, silent witnesses to her unraveling. Singing that song became an act of devotion—or perhaps denial—feeding the gnawing ache inside her, despite her exhaustion, despite the tears that gathered at the corners of her eyes but refused to fall. It was never good enough. And Christine feared it never would be.
***
The air in the opera house basement hung heavy with somber stillness, illuminated only by the flickering amber glow of dozens of candles. Their restless flames cast shadows on the worn gray stone walls, dancing like phantoms in the dim light. On the solitary bed draped in dark, threadbare fabric, Erik lay shirtless, his chest marred by a lattice of burn scars. Despite his vulnerability, he clung to the mask that concealed the left side of his face, the white porcelain glinting faintly in the candlelight as he gazed at the ceiling, lost in the labyrinth of his mind.
The moon crept in however it could, squeezing its silver light through a narrow slit in the blinds near the far corner. Slanting down in a pale streak, it bisected the room and fell across his nightstand, where a sleek and modern incongruity resided—a cellphone, its surface catching the lunar beam. Erik’s hand twitched, his thoughts briefly grounding themselves in an idea of contact. His fingers hovered toward the device, his slender yet calloused hand trembling slightly as though it feared whatever connection the phone might demand of him.
Then it happened—gentle at first, then swelling with clarity. A voice, crystalline and laced with emotion, poured into his ears like a melancholy elixir seeping through the cold underground walls. His blood froze. That voice. His song. Her.
“Christine,” he breathed, the word escaping his lips as a prayer, a curse, a plea. The movement that followed was involuntary—urgent and electric, as if propelled by some unseen cord tied between his chest and hers. He shot off the bed, his bare feet barely touching the glacial floor, only pausing long enough to grab a crumpled black shirt which he clumsily pulled over his head. The corridor to the stage stretched like a vein beneath the great opera house, winding and dimly lit, the whispers of his movement echoed by the walls as he ran. Each sharp note of her voice struck him like the tolling of a bell, unrelenting, vibrating deep within the torn fibers of his heart.
By the time he arrived at the side of the stage, he halted suddenly, his frame half-hidden behind the curtain, utterly paralyzed by what he saw.
Christine lay on the polished stage floor like an angel fallen into an empty cathedral, her long hair tumbling about her in a cascade of shadows and highlights. Her dress, an ethereal grayish-white, seemed to blend with the stage lights above, giving her an otherworldly glow. Clutching sheets of music—his music—to her chest, she sang, but the melody shifted with intriguing insights of her own—a song layered onto his, her voice kneading it with warmth and wonder. It was unlike anything he had imagined, perfect in how it was as much hers as it was his.
Then she stopped. The silence was almost cruel after such a sound. She exhaled a sigh as her fingers lightly traced the edges of the sheet music, hesitating over his notes. “It still wouldn’t be good enough for Erik,” she murmured aloud, her voice breaking with naked vulnerability.
Erik felt the earth lurch beneath his feet. Christine’s delicate words shattered across his ribs, sharper than any knife-edge. His legs wavered as his hand instinctively reached upward, clutching desperately at his concealed and scarred chest. Breathing came to him ragged, uneven, as though he was learning the act for the first time. The mask, ever a fortress, suddenly felt insufficient—like thin paper shielding molten glass.
“What is this?” he whispered, so faintly that the words seemed to dissolve the moment they escaped. He felt it clawing at him, a beast not born of logic but of pure feeling. His breaths came shallow, uneven, leaving him trembling like a moth inches from the fatal allure of flame.
From his hiding place in the shadows, he remained frozen, unable to move, unable to tear his gaze from her. Christine captivated him in ways he’d never fathomed, and now—now he realized that she was not simply singing for the stage or for an audience unseen. She was singing for him. The notes of her melody resonated with unvoiced yearning, a quiet reaching-out toward the darkness where she had long suspected he resided.
He pressed further into the shadows, a creature torn between temptation and terror, watching her with eyes that burned with desires he dared not name aloud. And yet, he knew that her words had done something irreparable.
Christine lay upon it, her body relaxed, her chest slightly rising and falling as if in silent communion with the wooden boards beneath her. Her fingers curled around a crumpled sheet of music, pressing it to her heart as though it were a fragile talisman.
“It’s as if he is calling me from the grave with this music,” she whispered, her voice fragile yet replete with longing. The words hung in the cavernous space, reverberating softly like a ghost’s lament.
Erik stood concealed in the shadows from the side, his breath shallow and uneven, his gloved hands gripping the polished railing so tightly he feared it might shatter beneath his touch. There was so much to say, yet an invisible vise gripped his throat, rendering him mute. His hollow eyes watched her, every movement like a dagger to his chest. She thought she was alone. That absence gave her courage.
Christine’s lips parted, and the first trembling notes of her voice emerged—soft, delicate, wounded yet rich with yearning. Her song rose and fell, weaving through the empty opera house like a lover’s plea. First melancholic, then searching, then something else entirely—something raw. Her hand traveled slowly down her corseted bodice, her fingers tracing lines of fabric as the music bloomed into a melody of longing more intimate than he’d ever dared imagine.
Erik’s chest tightened, heat rising to his face, not from desire but from the sharp sting of inadequacy. He cast his gaze downward, unable to bear the vision unfolding before him. Beneath the vaulted ceiling bathed in shadow and moonlight, he felt grotesque, a monster intruding upon an angel’s reverie.
“I am nothing more than a ghost to her,” he whispered bitterly, his words lost in the emptiness surrounding him. His throat burned as he forced them out, each syllable falling like stones. “She loves a memory—a dream of who I might have been.”
Drawn despite himself, Erik risked a glance at his reflection in a nearby gilded panel. The burn-scarred skin covering his chest seemed garish even in the dim light, angry and raw despite long-healed wounds. His mask, pale and pristine against his ruined face, mocked him—a reminder that even now, he could not face the world nor himself without pretense.
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She sang still, her song faltering into quiet moans that filled the air as her hands explored her own form. Erik’s gut churned with conflicted torment. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her into his arms, to beg her to see him as a man, not a specter. But his feet remained rooted to the floor, paralyzed by fear, by self-loathing, by the troubled realization that she wasn’t singing for him—not for the Erik who stood in the shadows. No, her music was dedicated to the trace of him that lingered in her memory.
Through the fractured melody emerged the brutal truth: she was in love with a phantom, a man who never truly existed. It was not him she mourned or longed for, but the romance of what he represented—the dream she’d sewn from the silken threads of his lies, confessions, and music from her youth.
“She’ll never look at me the way she once did,” he whispered to his reflection, his voice a rasp that barely escaped his lips. His fingers flexed against the cool railing, but still, he didn’t move. Fear held him prisoner—the fear of shattering the fragile moment, of revealing himself and being met not with love but revulsion. And so, he stood in the shadows, unseen, his tortured heart watching her create a memory of him that could never coexist with the truth of who he was.
***
Morning light filtered through the glass windows of the grand opera house, casting hues of deep amber and ruby across the polished marble floors. The air carried a faint scent of sawdust and varnish, lingering from the construction of last week’s sets. Rahul stepped inside, his hand entwined tightly with Meg’s—her delicate fingers clutching his almost possessively.
Christine stood at the concession stand near the far wall, her brown curls catching the sunlight as she delicately stacked bags of sweet confections. Her eyes crinkled with a genuine smile, but she never glanced their way. Still, Rahul felt the faintest tug of guilt as his gaze lingered on her. He shook it off quickly. Before he could think further, Meg pulled sharply at his arm, her nails brushing against his coat sleeve.
Her voice was sweet but edged with something heavier—something hungry. “Maybe,” she murmured, tilting her head like a doll, “we should have Christine move back in with us.”
Rahul’s brow furrowed as he shook his head, his expression softening just enough to keep the moment light. “She seems happy right now. Let’s not.”
Meg didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she drew closer, standing in his shadow as her lips found his cheek. The kiss was gentle, but strategic—a quick, well-placed reminder of her presence. “So,” she asked, her voice dripping with curiosity, though her words barely hid their impatience, “what role did you cast me in?”
Rahul sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Ask the director,” he replied, teasing, “and your mother. I’ve been too busy keeping track of when the chandelier will arrive and making sure the diva and shadows do not tear the place apart.”
Meg’s expression shifted, her mouth twisting just slightly—a flash of irritation that vanished as quickly as it came. Without another word, she shoved Rahul playfully, her laugh a hint too sharp, before turning away. “Fine,” she threw over her shoulder, her heels clicking in rapid succession as she made her way toward Christine.
Rahul barely had time to exhale before his phone vibrated urgently in his pocket. Pulling it out, he muttered under his breath, “Great… now what?” The screen illuminated with a message, and his eyes scanned the text, his heart sinking as the words unfolded like a bad omen.
Carlotta’s name was at the top—a name synonymous with trouble—and her message stung like a slap: “I am leaving your production. The music still doesn’t match my voice. I will not share the stage with another main singer.”
“Shit,” Rahul whispered harshly, his grip tightening around the sleek device until his knuckles turned white.
The sound of sensible, measured footsteps reached his ears, and he turned to see Mrs. Giry approaching, her ever-practical demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos crackling in his mind. She was dressed immaculately, her posture regal, her sharp eyes scanning him like a barometer measuring his stormy mood.
“Is the chandelier delayed again?” she asked simply, her tone betraying mild exasperation but no surprise.
Rahul ran a hand through his hair, the tension crackling in his veins as he barely managed to keep his voice steady. “It’s worse,” he admitted, biting the words off like they were venomous. “Carlotta quit. Now what the hell are we going to do?”
Mrs. Giry’s stoic expression didn’t waver. Her eyes, unwavering and oddly penetrating, fixed on him as though she’d expected this all along. And suddenly, in the vast emptiness of the opera house, with sunlight still streaming softly down, Rahul felt the weight of every problem threaten to collapse on him.
A dull morning spilled over the Opera House like faded ink over parchment. The space hummed quietly with the murmur of polite conversations and distant tasks. The scent of brewing coffee mingled with the faint aroma of aged wood and velvet curtains. Rahul barely had time to steady himself before Mrs. Giry’s firm hand shoved him lightly, her disapproving gaze cutting through him like a razor. Her finger gestured toward the concession stand, where Meg laughed with Christine, their youthful exuberance a stark contrast to her sharp tone.
"You are the manager," she said, her words clipped and she was heavy with expectation. "Find us the talent—or use what we have."
With a weary nod, Rahul relented, muttering a curt "Fine" before retreating into the sanctuary of his office, the accumulated stress of unspoken demands clinging to him like a shawl. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him away from the chaos outside.
As per routine, his hand reached for the coffee next to his desk—still steaming, a necessary ritual to coax him into the day. The glow of his computer flickered to life as he busied himself in the banality of scrolling through his phone. But then, a sound caught his ear—soft yet insistent, a voice like liquid light washing over a darkened room. He glanced up at the footage playing on his monitor, the grainy video capturing Christine the night before.
She stood on the empty stage bathed in shadows, her presence luminous in the solitude of the dark. Her voice poured forth, haunting, commanding, aching—and achingly beautiful. The melody wrapped around him, striking something deep within. "Such a lovely voice," Rahul murmured to the empty air, his words weighted with admiration and longing. His coffee sat forgotten on the desk now, cooling without its usual purpose.
But his breath caught as he continued watching—Christine no longer stood proud and serenading. Her movements changed, languid and vulnerable, her body stretched across the stage. Her fingers glided over herself as the song poured forth, rich and trembling, carrying an intimacy that felt forbidden and raw. A flush crept upward from Rahul’s collar, burning his skin like a secret exposed to daylight. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, no matter how much his better judgment willed him to look away.
And then—amid Christine’s ethereal surrender—a specter emerged. The shadows concealed much, but not everything. Erik lingered offstage, a ghostly figure barely visible at the periphery of the frame. He stood there, watching her, silent and unyielding. The intensity of his aura was unmistakable, though Rahul could only guess at the storm of emotions brewing behind Erik's mask.
Rahul’s heart quickened, a chaotic symphony of confusion and heat swelling inside him as he watched the interplay of Christine and an unseen Erik on the screen. His mind raced, barely tethered, as he reached for calm—only to be startled by the sharp creak of his office door swinging open.
Mrs. Giry stood framed in the doorway, her piercing eyes catching the beginnings of his guilt with uncanny precision. Without thought, without reason, Rahul reacted. The computer flew from his palms, crashing against the floor with metallic finality, the broken pieces scattering like shards of some fragile truth. His breath hitched audibly, panic searing him like open flame.
Mrs. Giry raised an unimpressed brow, her voice cutting through Rahul’s disarray like cold steel, "Next time, call the IT guy."
Rahul felt his cheeks flush, the heat spreading across his skin until he felt like it must be radiating outward for her to see. His efforts to compose himself faltered, and his voice stumbled, barely coherent as he pleaded. "Just… Can you give me a minute? I—I’ll be out soon."
Mrs. Giry lingered for only a beat longer before closing the door behind her, sealing Rahul back into his private chaos.
***
Morning twisted its golden light into the opulent halls of the opera house, painting shadows on the marble floors and illuminating the vast crimson curtains that hung like regal sentinels to history. Meg stood at the concession stand, leaning lightly on its polished surface, her posture relaxed but her eyes eager. Beside her, Christine worked with quiet precision, wiping away the remnants of yesterday’s bustle. Her movements were calm, deliberate, but today—something shone brighter in her demeanor. It was subtle at first, that warm curve of her lips, but even in its modesty, it caught Meg’s attention and drew her to speak.
“I haven’t seen you smile in years,” Meg said softly, watching her friend with an almost cautious curiosity. “I have missed it.”
Christine paused mid-wipe, her gaze flickering toward Meg, gleaming with vulnerability, filled with the promise of something lighter, freer. “I just woke up happy today,” she replied, her voice carrying a melody that felt newly restored. “Did you get casted?”
Meg shifted her stance, brushing away stray golden strands from her face. “I hope so,” she replied with a mixture of hope and apprehension. A tension hung in the air between them – a tension magnified by the rhythmical thud of quickened footsteps down the hall.
The rounded oak door creaked open abruptly, and Rahul emerged in a wave of hurried energy, his crisp suit slightly rumpled as though worn by the weight of the morning’s chaos. His entrance was hurried—declarative—as if the opera house pulsed to the beat of his commands. From behind, the echoes of performers filtered into the cavernous foyer, their voices lively against the still-vulnerable quiet of the dawn.
Rahul glanced sharply at Meg and Christine as though plucking them out from the sea of faces. His voice cut through the shuffling sounds of incoming rehearsals. "We’re going to need a new lead singer," he announced, his tone brisk but laced with the subtle tension of a man shouldering crises. His eyes flitted between them, lingering on Christine's serene posture and Meg’s determined presence. Then, his declaration landed like a dropped flag before them. "Carlotta quit. I hope to use someone already within our company."
Meg instinctively reached for Christine’s hand, her slim fingers curling gently around her friend’s. The touch was soft but grounding, a silent marker of their bond. “I think it will be me,” Meg said, her eyes flickering with a quiet fire. It wasn’t arrogance—it was hunger, unspoken and taut.
Christine tilted her head, studying her friend with a mixture of affection and faint concern. “You do have a lovely voice,” she said carefully, her gaze scanning Meg as though searching for signs of readiness. “Have you been protecting your pitch?”
Meg’s laughter burst out in a soft, bell-like cadence that echoed faintly off the vaulted ceilings and chandeliers above. “No,” she admitted without hesitation, her tone playful yet unintentionally defiant. “Why would I? It sounds boring.”
Christine set down the cloth she held, turning her full attention to Meg, her brow furrowing slightly as her voice dropped to something resembling wisdom. “Even the best singers practice to get it right,” she said carefully, her tone steady as though trying to tether Meg to the reality of the art they both loved.
Meg shrugged, unfazed, the flicker of energy beneath her skin driving her forward. “It sounds boring,” she repeated with the same playful lilt, tossing her impatience into words. The decision within her was already made; she could feel the swell of determination outweigh any pretense of hesitation. “I’m going to speak with Rahul.”
Without another word, she turned on her heels and began walking toward him, her resolve carried in the firm rhythm of her steps. Behind her, Christine watched, the lingering smile transforming into something softer, more thoughtful as Meg's figure blended into the crowd of performers warming up nearby.
Meg stepped lightly across the polished floors, her footsteps deliberate, her dress fluttering gently with her movement. Her gaze locked on Rahul, who stood amidst a cluster of performers, his expression sharp, his gestures commanding, as though orchestrating them as extensions of his will.
When she drew near, Meg hesitated for a moment, her heart tightening in her chest, then cleared her throat. "Rahul, can I speak with you alone?"
Without turning, Rahul’s voice cut through the air with practiced detachment, "I’m busy."
"Please, Rahul," Meg pressed, her tone surprisingly tender against the metallic clash of personalities in the air.
Finally, Rahul turned, the control he wielded over the room spilling into the precision of his movements, his no-nonsense gaze meeting hers. "Fine," he said curtly.
Meg reached out and took his hand without a word, guiding him away from the others. Her grip was firm yet delicate, a paradox that matched her demeanor—a tempest contained within porcelain and lace. She led him to his office, tucked into the recesses of the opera house like a secret. Once inside, she released his hand to close the door behind them, sealing them away from the outside noise.
Her eyes fell on the broken computer, the shattered screen and wires exposed like the mangled body of something alive—something ruined. "It wouldn’t turn on," Rahul muttered, his voice devoid of the frustration that might accompany a broken machine. He was a man of cold facts and simple truths, where emotions rarely had room to breathe.
Meg turned, her chest rising with unspoken thoughts. In an instant she crossed the room, pushing him back onto the worn leather couch that sank slightly under his weight. Her movements were swift, decisive, and unrelenting. She perched herself on top of him without hesitation, her hands resting on his chest. The soft sway of her hair framed her face as she leaned forward.
"What will it take for you to make me the lead?" she asked, the words dripping from her lips like honey, but tinged with a sharp edge.
Rahul studied her with an intensity that burned, his dark eyes narrowing, sharp and unforgiving. He leaned against the desk, the glint of disappointment shimmering over his taut jawline. “Talent,” he murmured, the word an accusation, his voice low and controlled, the edges of anger evident beneath its calm surface.
Meg tilted her chin upward, defiance flickering like a spark dancing in the ocean of her emerald eyes. Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t apologetic either. “I do have talent,” she replied, her words crisp, confident—a shield she held against the weight of his scrutiny.
The silence stretched between them, thick enough to drown in. His expression darkened, resentment pooling in the creases of his brow. There was no warmth in the set of his features now, only the sharp chill of suspicion. “Is the only reason you started dating me, so you’d secure the lead role in this show?” His voice was bitter, cold enough to cut glass.
Her breath faltered, just for a moment, an infinitesimal crack in her fa?ade. But Meg was not the kind to crumble. She would dance on the curve of danger if that meant survival. “Maybe… at first,” she confessed, the words unyielding yet fragile, like the blade of a knife trembling in her grip. “But I started to enjoy spending time with you.” She stepped closer, daring the embers of tension to ignite, the lingering trace of wounded affection hovering like ashes in the air.
Rahul’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists against the polished wood of the desk. Each jagged syllable that escaped his lips was laced with venom. “Get off me.”
The words sliced through her as his searing anger whipped at her resolve. Slowly, Meg stood so suddenly that he flinched, her chair screeching backward with a metallic scream. He reached for her—not her hand, maybe, but just something to stop her from leaving—but she was already out of reach. She was a storm, her movements white-hot and merciless as she crossed the room.
