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Wren tilts her head slightly, nodding. “The lighting transitions are clean. Layered. That’s harder to achieve than most think.”

Cassandra murmurs something in agreement to Ashe, low enough I can’t make anything out. Ashe doesn’t respond. His golden eyes track a dancer curling around a silks line with calculated interest, his body still and unreadable.

Lan flicks me a glance over his wine glass, bored and curious and always dangerous. “She helped pull this together in under a week, didn’t she?”

I nod once. “She took control of a mess and turned it into this.”

The others take that in. No elaboration. No praise beyond what’s earned.

During the brief intermission, servers enter with silent precision, refreshing glasses and delivering the next course on elegant gold-rimmed trays—saffron risotto bites, seared lamb skewers, champagne flutes catching the low light. Deidre perks up immediately, eyeing the lamb with undisguised interest.

“Oh, finally,” she murmurs, reaching without ceremony. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten we still eat.”

Eloise laughs softly, already swirling a fresh pour of pale gold champagne. “I’ve been looking forward to this ever since I designed the menus.”

The others indulge more subtly, but the warmth between the mates is easy and familiar. Human appetites paired with ancient restraint. For a moment, the box feels more like a family gathering than a court.

I catch myself glancing toward the curtain at the edge of the box—toward the hallway that leads backstage. The instinct to check on her claws through me, sharp and restless. But I don’t move. I can feel Perry’s presence back there, steady and capable, his voice a low thread over the comms keeping the whole operation running clean.

Everything is under control.

She doesn’t need me getting in the way.

My place tonight is here.

The second act begins on time. The tempo shifts. The dancers wear masks of crimson and sin, the rhythm more primal than polished now. The patrons below lean forward like they can smell it—the promise of desire knotted tightly with control. My kind of poetry.

The performance ends with breathtaking intensity—an ensemble number that turns the stage into something mythic. Gold and garnet lighting floods the velvet curtains as dancers spin in synchrony, each movement sharp, sultry, final. The crescendo of music cuts on a dime, and for one perfect breath, the entire room holds still. Then: thunderous applause.

The Place erupts around us—human patrons rising to their feet, clapping, cheering, reaching for one last glimpse of the cast before the lights go out. The show was a risk. A gamble. A debut of something new and raw and elite. But it landed with perfection.

Ambrose leans back in his chair, one hand on Eloise’s knee, a faint, satisfied gleam in his eyes. The highest praise, from him, is his silence—and the fact that he hasn’t left.

Kasar offers a rare nod. Wren lifts her glass in approval. Deidre mutters something to herself, then smiles—sharp, pleased. Cassandra lifts her glass, her gaze following the stage lights as they fade. “They’ll be talking about this for weeks,” she murmurs, voice threaded with approval. “You set a new bar.”

They’re right. And I should be savoring this moment. Instead, I’m still seated with my fists clenched and my pulse jackhammering in my throat. Because she isn’t here.

She should be beside me. She should be basking in the ovation, the acclaim. But she stayed behind the curtain, backstage, beneath my feet—and every instinct in me is screaming to go to her.

I force myself to stand with care, to meet Ambrose’s gaze when he gives me a short nod of approval.

“You did well,” he says, voice low but clear enough for the others to hear.

I incline my head. “Thank you.”

His eyes linger, sharp and unreadable. “You’ve made something lasting here. Something we can build on.”

“I intend to.”

A pause stretches between us—long enough to mean something. Long enough for his gaze to pierce a little deeper, and I know I’m not reacting the way he expected. Hell, I’m not reacting the way I expected. I should be elated, eager to celebrate this critical success. My true first success for the Nightshade vampires outside of a combat situation.

Before he can ask what’s pulling my attention, Eloise leans in, her hand brushing his knee.

“We should head back soon. Wren’s already on the phone with Joséphine about the wine selection.”

Ambrose hums low, turning slightly toward her. “No one opens the ’54 without me.”

Eloise glances back at me, eyes sharp with amusement. “Bring Blake, would you? And that manager of yours, Perry! Anyone who helped pull this off deserves a glass of something that’s older than the district.”