Inearly dropped the steamer when I saw him at the Marigny Opera House.

    He was in work boots and a ck T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, a tool belt slung low on his hips like a contractor porn fantasye to life. He was talking to one of the lighting guys, gesturing toward the risers.

    I stood frozen for a second, a length of silk trailing from my hands like a g of surrender.

    My first instinct was anger.

    What the fuck was he doing here?

    And who the fuck was the grade five clinger now?

    The second was panic.

    Was this just a coincidence? Was he not here for me? Was he here to work? Did he have anything to do with the reno of this ce?

    But the third—the one I tried hardest to ignore—was something far worse.

    Relief.

    The fourth, which I forced upon myself, was focus. There were too many things to do, and I didn’t have time for my ex. I got back to work, making sure there would be nost-minute issues with the runway show.

    We’d chosen the Marigny Opera House for the event because it was stunning. Once a Catholic church built in 1853, long since deconsecrated, it was reborn into something wilder.

    It had vaulted ceilings and peeling paint, flickering candbras, and mismatched wooden pews turned audience seating.

    The altar was now a stage.

    The stained ss cast fractured rainbows across the floor.

    It was raw and romantic and full of ghosts—holy, theatrical, and humming with every note ever sung within its crumbling walls.

    It wasn’t glossy or modern or precious. It was Gothic and aching. Holy and worn. A ce where art had taken root in the ruins—where dancers, musicians, and now burlesque costumes, breathed life into what once was sacred.

    It was theatrical decay turned beauty—very apropos and irreverently New Orleans.

    We’d transformed it for the night for the runway show—and the weekend when we’d sell our wares.

    The runway was a gold runner lined with mismatched vintage rugs. The mannequins were perched on gilded pedestals wrapped in velvet. Strings of Edison bulbs glowed above like stars on a sultry sky.

    People were already starting to fill the opera house. Women glided in corsets, which they wore like armor. Men wore eyeliner andce. Drag queens stomped in stilettos and sequined robes that screamed drama.

    Someone was ying a slow jazz version of Toxic on a saxophone. It was chaotic and dreamy and precisely what the organizers, one of whom was me, wanted.

    Bourbon flowed.

    Glitter floated.

    Everyone sparkled.

    Aurelie was backstage, rallying models, snapping her fingers, and shouting in French when someone miid a feather fan.

    I caught glimpses of Gage throughout the night.

    He helped move chairs, adjusted lighting without being asked, smiled at people, and said nothing to me. He didn’t try to get close or corner me in some back hallway with an apology rehearsed to death.

    “What’s he doing here?” I demanded when Aurelie came by with a bottle of water for me.

    “Who?”

    “Aurelie,” I warned.

    She arched a brow, amusement flickering in her gaze. “He’s helping out.”

    “Why?”

    “Because I asked him to.”

    “Why would you do that?” My hands were fists on my hips, my chin jutted out in challenge.

    “’Cause he begged me to help win you back, and I thought we could use the help.”

    I closed my eyes for a moment and then gave her a withering look. “Are you out of your freaking mind?” I demanded tightly.

    She bobbed her head in agreement. “I think so.”

    “You’re a pain in my ass, Aurelie.”

    “Let’s get the show moving, baby cakes. I’m ready for my close up.” Aurelie chuckled as she smoothed the silk chemise she was wearing—a bold crimson ensemble cut on the bias that clung to her and shimmered like sin.

    ckce framed the deep V neckline, trailing down over her curves like ivy, and a matching silk robe hung loose from her shoulders, the sleeves fluttering as she moved. Her braids were piled high, her lips painted wine-dark, and her heels sparkled like they had their own agenda.

    “If you weren’t one of my models, I’d kill you.” I gave her a look that could’ve curdled milk.

    She made kissy sounds. “Let’s go shake some ass, baby.”

    Before I could tell her what she could do with her ass, I saw Jonah make his way toward me. He was in casual linen pants and a white shirt. He looked like he was strolling the streets of Havana.

    “I’m sorry, I’mte.” He brushed his lips against my cheek.

    “You’re here,” I replied. “That’s what counts.”

    His gaze fell on someone behind me. I guessed it was Gage because Jonah looked amused as hell.

    A server walked by with drinks, and he picked up two sses of sparkling wine with a slice of blood orange floating in it like a sunset and smiled.

    He handed me mine and held his ss up. “To a night that smells like sweat, sin, and sess.”

    I clinked my ss against his. “Amen.”

    “Nervous?” he asked when he saw how wound up I was.

    I was anxious about the runway show, but I was even more freaked out about the man who was somewhere in this ce, trying to win me over.

    What the hell did that mean?

    I needed Aurelie to exin herself and also spill the tea on whatever it was that Gage had told her that convinced her to try and force my hand into giving him a chance, which wasn’t happening.

    Thankfully, I didn’t have to answer Jonah because the house lights dimmed, the crowd buzzed with champagne and anticipation, and the first note of a violin cover of Madonna’s Like a Prayer filled the air.

    The announcer, Tabitha, who was also a voice actor, dered the show open. They had a deep husky voice, perfectly suited to talk about who was wearing what.

    Models stepped out one by one, their bodies draped ince, feathers, and fantasy.

    One wore a chartreuse corset with fringe like falling rain and strutted like she owned the saints and sinners alike. She probably did.

    Another wore only a high-waisted garter, heart-shaped sequin pasties, and a veil of sheer ck tulle that made everyone in the audience suck in a breath.

    The drag queens stole the show. One came out in a floor-length gold robe that red like a preacher’s, then ripped it off to reveal hot-pinkmé panties and a rhinestone bra as the music switched to a slowed-down, sax-heavy remix of Amy Winehouse’s You Know I’m No Good.

    The audience lost it. Shouting. Cheering. Fanning themselves with the printed programs we’d left on the pews.

    Jonah leaned close and whispered, “That one in the leather harness is going to give me heart palpitations.”

    “Down, boy,” I muttered, amused.

    When Aurelie walked the stage…or rather swaggered on the runway, I held my breath.

    “She looks amazing,” Jonah stated.

    She did, I thought happily, aware…too aware that somewhere in the shadows, just beyond the spill of the stage light, Gage was…watching me?

    Did he see me with Jonah? Did it hurt him the way it hurt me to see him with other women?

    Probably not!

    But if he’d asked Aurelie to help him get back with me…then, maybe he was hurting?

    God, this was confusing—not just because I didn’t know what he wanted, but because I wasn’t even sure I didn’t want to give it to him, if what he wanted was me.

    Aurelie did a spin that nearly toppled her off her heels to wild apuse and then blew a kiss in my direction.

    “Your turn next time, Naomi,” she shouted, loud enough for the whole church to hear.

    A smattering ofughter ran through.

    Jonah pressed a hand to his chest. “If you ever decide to take the stage, give me a heads-up. I’ll need CPR.”

    I rolled my eyes, but my pulse was already spiking.

    I’d worn lingerie for Gage. Modeled it. Teased him with it.

    The memory came fast and hot—his voice low, his hands rough, impatient. My cheeks flushed, and then, like a cue from the universe, the final model swept down the aisle in a cloud of violet tulle and rhinestones, glitter catching in the cathedral lights like sparks.

    I turned my head slightly…and caught Gage’s eyes.

    He wasn’t pping.

    He wasn’t smiling.

    He was looking at me like I was the show.

    And for one long, breathless moment…I let him.

    I let myself feel him. Let him feel me.

    Then I blinked, broke the trance, and turned back to my carefully constructed reality.

    Gage was a fantasy, and like all good fantasies, the reality would never measure up.

    At least, that’s what I was telling myself.