Page 7 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire (Heart & Soul #2)
Five
The comforting scent of aged velvet and stage paint clung to the air like a delicate, whispered memory.
Rose moved through the wings in silence, her hands brushing the thick ropes that controlled the backstage rigging. The familiar tension in the lines, the quiet creak of pulleys high above the catwalk, the gentle thrum of the building settling around her—it was her kind of symphony.
Soft. Steady. Safe. Unlike life, the stage never surprised her.
She hummed under her breath, the notes of ‘Tale as Old as Time’ curling around her like a ribbon as she tested the backdrops one last time. The flats slid smoothly into place, each transition as practiced as a breath.
Her hands worked on autopilot, but her mind was stuck in a different time and place. She had done everything she could to push Theo Kallistratos from her mind—to no avail.
She scrubbed and polished floors. Tightened bolts.
Adjusted lighting rigs. Painted sets. Balanced the books.
Even alphabetized the prop closet—untouched since the 1987 production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream .
Anything to forget the heat of his mouth on hers, the way her body had come alive beneath the weight of his gaze and the feel of his hands.
And still—she felt him. She groaned as the memory rose again with frustrating clarity.
She’d told Kerry everything—every glitter-drenched, wine-stained detail. From the velvet-draped entrance to the moment she opened that damn door and saw Theo Kallistratos wrapped around someone else.
Kerry had been livid. “Clarissa’s out,” she’d said flatly. “You don’t treat people like that. Especially not my best friend.”
Rose had tried to laugh it off, but her voice had cracked. Kerry had hugged her tight and promised her a girls’ night filled with chocolate, horror movies, and zero billionaires.
But even Kerry’s best efforts couldn’t erase Theo. She still felt him—phantom touches against her skin.
Rose climbed the ladder to the catwalk, the smell of metal and aging rope mixing with the faint soothing scent of lavender from the rack of costumes steaming in the prep room below.
That had been her grandmother’s touch. A small, familiar ache settled in her chest at the reminder of her grandparents.
She paused, one hand curled around a frayed rigging line, and let her gaze drift to the stage.
The set was in place—lush, romantic, golden with artificial candlelight. It was Belle’s ballroom. A place of transformation. Of love.
A faint smile tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes and imagined the sweeping dance. Her hand lifted unconsciously, pressing against the small silver locket that always rested in the hollow between her breasts. The metal was warm from her skin.
Her parents had met at a theatre and fallen in love under the spotlight.
According to her grandmother, her father had been playing Romeo to her mother’s Juliet—and life had imitated art with heartbreaking precision.
Her mother’s family had once threatened to disown her for choosing the stage.
Her grandmother had shared that sorrow with a wistful sigh and a disapproving glare every time the subject came up.
Her mother had wanted passion, not permission—and found it in a man who loved her until the end. But love hadn’t saved them.
Her mother had died instantly in a car crash on a rain-soaked night a month after her birth. Her father had survived in body but not in mind. Five years after he slipped into a coma, he passed away.
Rose had always felt loved. Her father’s parents had loved her with every fiber of their being. The theatre became her nursery. Costumes were her dress-up. Stage makeup her crayons. The songs from the musicals her lullaby.
Her grandparents had built a life here, in this very building.
Her grandfather had tended to the creaky plumbing, rattling vents, and crafted magical sets.
Her grandmother, an accomplished costume designer, had stitched magic into the threads of hundreds of costumes.
Many of the costumes were still worn today.
And now… it was her turn to keep the lights on.
She looked across the quiet, empty stage.
In her mind, she stepped under the spotlight, wearing Belle’s golden gown. Spinning. Laughing. Reaching.
And across from her…
Theo.
Not the billionaire.
Not the club owner or the devil in a tailored suit.
Just the man. With shadowed eyes and a kiss that had undone her.
Her smile turned wry.
He was still the Beast, she thought, her fingers tightening around the locket. All brooding edges and guarded charm. But in her heart, she had wanted him to be more. She had wanted him to choose her.
Foolish girl. She knew better.
Magic was just an illusion.
Still… what would it have been like if he had meant what he said?
She descended the catwalk with ease, stepped to center stage, her sneakers silent on the wooden floor, and twirled once beneath the ghost of a spotlight. Her laugh was soft and sad.
“Some dreams,” she whispered, “are only meant for the stage.”
And with that, she turned back toward the wings, humming Belle’s melody as the velvet curtain of memory fell and she picked up her broom, returning to the quiet rhythm of work.
The theatre spread out before him like a temple of shadows and glittering light.
Theo stepped into the private balcony box, the hush of velvet curtains and polished brass swallowing the sound of the bustling world outside.
The usher nodded respectfully and gestured to his and Nikos’ reserved seats—plush, high-backed chairs nestled in a secluded corner of the upper balcony.
It offered an unobstructed view of the stage, the orchestra pit, and the layered crescents of seating fanning out like a half-moon below.
Theo had been in hundreds of theatres across the globe. Paris. London. Athens. Dubai. Lavish venues dripping with opulence. But this one—small, weathered, intimate—felt alive.
He sank into his seat, his fingers tightening around the curved polished oak armrest. It wasn’t the stage that held his interest, though the set design was a masterpiece of theatrical illusion.
Golden candelabras twinkled like stars. The ballroom shimmered with the promise of magic.
No, it was what surrounded it—the unseen clockwork of movement—that captured his attention.
Above him, quiet figures moved with the grace of shadow puppets across a network of catwalks, adjusting lights, fine-tuning sound.
From the wings, silhouettes disappeared behind thick velvet curtains, guiding actors into place and wrangling props with practiced precision.
Every movement was a cog in an invisible machine, orchestrated to bring a story to life.
He was used to watching the performance. This was the first time he truly paid attention to the wonder of what existed behind the illusion.
A soft voice broke his focus. “May I offer you a beverage, gentlemen?”
A young server stood slightly behind them, clipboard in hand. Nikos smiled lazily and ordered a whiskey. Theo murmured, “Bourbon. Neat.”
The woman nodded and disappeared. Theo’s eyes drifted once more across the tiers of seats. People were filtering in now—laughing, finding their places, flipping through playbills. Anticipation buzzed faintly in the air.
He caught movement below as ushers in crisp black-and-whites guided guests to their seats. His mind, however, remained occupied by one thought. One face.
Rose.
The name was a drumbeat in his chest. A prayer. A promise. Would she be here? Would he see her? Could he get to her before she disappeared again?
When the server returned, she placed the drinks on a small side table with a quiet flourish, along with a crisp ivory envelope. Theo’s fingers closed around it. He opened it swiftly, scanned the note, and released a low breath of satisfaction.
He passed the card to Nikos, whose eyes danced as he read.
“VIP invitation to the post-show cast party,” Nikos said with a grin. “Nice move.”
Theo allowed a rare smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll see if it pays off.”
Nikos clinked his glass against Theo’s. “To chasing fairy tales.”
But Theo wasn’t drinking. His eyes were scanning the upper levels, sweeping over balconies, stairwells, and elevated walkways.
The house lights dimmed. The music swelled.
The play began.
Theo’s attention roamed restlessly from the lower level to the upper tier. Searching, waiting, hoping to see a familiar form.
He sat forward, his gaze riveted on the movement high above the audience—on the catwalks where technicians adjusted spotlights and stage cables as if they were playing harp strings.
And then?—
A delicate figure stepped into the dim light.
Slim. Small. Hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Dark jeans. A worn sweatshirt.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Rose.
Awareness struck him as surely as one of Cupid’s arrows. His heart rate increased, and adrenaline fired his blood.
She moved with the same graceful awareness, her hand resting lightly on the railing of the catwalk, her head tilted as she scanned the theatre below.
He couldn’t breathe.
Then she turned.
And their eyes locked.
The heat rushing through him exploded with the force of a major eruption. The world stilled. Music, lights, crowd—all gone. There was only her.
He saw it—the recognition in her eyes. The way they widened in disbelief, then darkened with dismay.
Her lips parted—and then she was gone.
She spun back into the shadows like an apparition, vanishing behind a column and out of sight.
Theo was already rising to his feet.
Nikos startled, his mouth open. “Theo?—?”
He didn’t answer. His mind had already mapped the corridor above, the narrow stairs he’d seen near the vestibule. He bolted from the box, his heart racing, his adrenaline roaring through his veins like a jet engine.
She was here.
He tore down the corridor, rounding a corner. A crimson velvet rope marked a narrow stairwell, an aged brass sign hanging beside it: