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“You’re here because of your talent and hard work. You deserve it.”

Freddie turned to Anthony as a tear trailed down his cheek. Freddie wiped it away.

“Never doubt it, my love,” Freddie whispered.

Anthony smiled, his eyes bright. Freddie kissed the track on Anthony’s cheek, tasting the sweet saltiness. “Let’s go inside so you can be a star.”

Anthony giggled and nodded.

It was good they took the moment outside, because once they arrived at the rehearsal studio, there was no stopping. Anthony had weeks of rehearsal to catch up on. The assistant director for the production, Tara, was a no-nonsense woman sporting a long mohawk she’d put up into a braid. She ran Anthony through his blocking with brutal efficiency. Freddie sat in a corner of the large, rectangular room, sending Anthony little bursts of silent support any time he seemed confused or overwhelmed.

In the afternoon, the conductor came in and hit the big musical ideas. He was a bearded, chubby man with a rosy complexion, and he was an extraordinary pianist. The polar opposite of Maestro Alamilla, he covered all the important moments while still encouraging Anthony to explore.

To Freddie, Anthony seemed more in his element, although it was obvious there would never be enough time. Anthony needed to trust his own instincts. Freddie was certain that if he did, he would give an incredible performance.

At the end of the rehearsal, a short bespectacled man in his sixties with a bland featureless face entered the room, crossing to Anthony and shaking his hand.

“Good to have you, young man.” His voice was a tad too nasal to be pleasant.

Freddie watched as Anthony’s shoulders tensed. “Happy to be here, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“Call me Henry. I may be the general manager of the most important opera house in the world, but I’m not that conceited.”

From the smug look on his face and the gold Patek Philippe watch around his wrist, Freddie surmised he was, in fact, that conceited.

“Okay…Henry.”

“Who is that?” The little man shook his head dismissively at Freddie.

“That’s my bodyguard.”

“Aren’t you a bit early in your career to be needing security? You’re no Anna Netrebko.”

“Uh, yes, well, I’ve had some issues…”

“He cannot be backstage during the performance.”

“Oh, I—”

“We’ve had the most famous singers in the world tread the boards here, Antonio, and any entourage has always watched from the audience. You’ll have a few seats reserved in the front row, house right.”

“Um, I guess—”

“There won’t be any problem with this, will there, Mr. Bianchi?”

Anthony swallowed. “No. Of course not.”

Freddie clenched his jaw, biting his lip to prevent him from saying anything. His instincts screamed that he needed to stay as close as possible, that they couldn’t risk being separated, but he didn’t want to jeopardize Anthony’s big break.

“Your dresser is waiting in the costume department with the designer. You’ll get a quick fitting, and she can go over your changes.”

Anthony nodded slowly, looking down at the floor. Freddie could tell he was feeling overwhelmed.

“Wonderful. Glad to have you on board.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick strode out of the rehearsal room like a towering monarch, despite his short stature. Freddie found himself irritated. No one got to manipulate and control Anthony, not even the general manager of the Manhattan Lyric.

“I don’t like this.” The words were out before Freddie could stop them.