Page 51 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
When I glance back at Sutton, his expression is grave. “What other beautiful things have you seen destroyed?” he asks softly.
I don’t answer him, but I think he already knows. My mother’s dignity. My own innocence. The better question is, what beautiful things does money not destroy? It touches everything with its dirty hands, marking us, leaving us weaker than before.
“There they are,” he murmurs, nodding toward a box to the right of the stage.
It’s the one with the best view, of course. The best view of both the stage and the rest of the theater. Seats fit for royalty. Penny transformed from a bartender in a crisp white button-down to a gorgeous asymmetrical lilac gown of different textures. The man beside her must be Damon Scott, the angles of his face severe as he surveys the crowd.
And beside them is Christopher, murmuring softly to Damon. Probably making a backroom deal. That’s why men come to these things, isn’t it? It’s an excuse to do business.
Of course I can’t blame the gender, since that’s why I’m here.
“Wait,” I say, when Sutton moves to escort me toward the stairs. Half the seats are full with people settled in, chatting and flipping through the program. The other half of the seats are still empty, waiting for the people who are milling around or still out with their glasses of champagne.
It takes a few minutes, but finally I spot Mrs. Rosemont when she turns to glance up at the balcony. She’s sitting with an older man who I’m guessing is her husband. They have seats right up front. Not quite as glamorous as the box seats, but definitely expensive.
Sutton gives me a curious look but lets me lead us down the row toward them. Maybe he thinks I’m going to sit down and have a chat with her about the library in the ten minutes before the curtain rises, but I’m about two percent more subtle than that. Instead I stand in the aisle, half turned away, flipping through the program they gave us at the door.
Finally the couple beside the Rosemonts stands and makes their way to the exit, probably taking a potty break so they don’t have to stand in a monumentally long line during intermission.
“Excuse me,” I say when they reach us, sounding nervous and flushed, which isn’t that difficult since I’m trembling. “I know this is forward of me, but my brother’s in the show tonight.”
I spin a story of my brother, the understudy, who’s been part of the cast since they started touring. But this will be his first show. They gave us seats, of course, but they’re all the way up in the boxes. I want him to be able to see me when he looks out at the audience. There are little touches I pulled from the program—a name of an understudy and the part he’ll play.
The woman looks only a few years older than me, and not particularly pleased at the idea of switching seats. She seems the suspicious sort, which is reasonable considering I’m conning them. It’s when the husband sees exactly which box they’d be in that things change.
“Is that Damon Scott?” he says, trying to hide his excitement.
“Oh, he’s very kind. He’s the one who gave us the seats. But my brother will be disappointed if he can’t see me in the audience. I promised to wave at him.”
So that’s how we end up sitting next to the Rosemonts.
I can feel Sutton shaking with laughter beside me, but he manages to hold any words inside. “You hired me to do a job,” I tell him under my breath. “I’m doing a job.”
“I have no complaints,” he murmurs, his hand finding mine.
I let him hold my hand because that’s the part we’re playing for Tanglewood society right now. Not because it feels warm and comforting for him to rest my palm against his. Not because it’s strangely sensual for him to rub his thumb along the outer edge of my hand.
The lights dim without me exchanging a single word with Mrs. Rosemont. We watch the show, which I fully intend to enjoy since I haven’t seen it yet. The rave reviews are fully deserved, and I’m laughing and gasping along with the rest of the audience.
She notices me first during intermission, but I’m careful not to look her way. I feel her think about saying something to me two different times. Didn’t we meet at the gala? she would ask.
But she’s silent and so I don’t say anything either. Patience.
It’s in the final act that things really progress, and by that I mean—I cried. Twice. The show is a gorgeous tragedy, and there are tears streaming down my face. The program is clenched in my hands, almost torn apart by the strength of my emotion. Sutton looks stoic beside me, but I know he’s moved by the way he holds my hand.
