Page 123 of A Temporary Forever

Not that I could do it from the back row of the theater. I came to watch her rehearsal a few times. Staying in the shadows like a creep, but I couldn’t help myself.

She moves around effortlessly, and so seductively. Frankly, the entire performance, not just her numbers, is racy enough to send my blood boiling.

It was kind of hot at first, but as time passes, it’s purely annoying. I have half a mind to call Reinhard and have the show canceled.

Watching her today has a differentflavor.

We haven’t had a chance to speak since last night. Something shifted between us at the gala. Even before it.

Starting with her not-yet-fully-explained overreaction about her dress. Then my need to find her all night. To stand up for her to Carly. To protect her from Corm. To claim her at our table.

Fuck, that was so hot, and so fucking risky. The interaction—or lack of it—with my father, and Celeste’s reaction to it.

When she stepped in, allowing me to find my composure after Corm’s question. When she deemed my father an asshole. When she came on my hand.

It all collided into a potent cocktail of feelings, and I arrived at the conclusion that we can no longer pretend this is simply an arrangement. It’s more.

But I saw it in her eyes, the moment she realized the same.

And when she panicked.

That’s why I came here. She dashed away this morning because her friend needed her, but we need to talk. We need to own this fragile, but very real, thread between us.

But as her practice progresses, I’m getting more and more agitated. Because yes, watching her today has a different flavor, and one of the truly bothersome reasons for that is walking across the stage right now.

Why is today’s rehearsal just her? No other dancers? Just Celeste and that idiot choreographer whose gaze on her doesn’t scream colleagues. Fucking asshole.

Celeste stands up when he approaches her. He sits on the chair in the same position she just had and demonstrates something to her. Something that doesn’t look nearly as graceful as her version.

She nods and they switch. As she tilts her head backward, he touches her shoulders from behind. She adjusts her posture, I think.

My mind stops processing the visuals at their face value, tainting the image with a bubbling outrage. Why is he touching her?

He moves his hand up her throat, tilting her chin further. She flinches and stands up, the chair toppling.

My legs move before my brain gets a chance to argue. “Get away from her.” My voice booms through the auditorium.

The two of them whip their heads to me.

“Who the fuck are you?” the choreographer dares to ask. “You have no right to be here.”

My legs eat up the distance, reaching the stage in long strides. With my hands, I find purchase at the edge of the wooden platform and jump up in one swift move, propelled by my anger.

“I have all the right to be here. I own the fuckingplace.” I put my hands into my pockets, savoring his flinch. My eyes find Celeste. “Are you okay?”

She nods, but then winces before she shakes her head.

“I don’t care if you own the building. Get the fuck out of my rehearsal.” The idiot steps forward, puffing out his chest.

Reluctantly, my gaze leaves Celeste. “I advise you to shut up right now. Don’t you dare touch my wife again, because you’ll not only lose this job but any other opportunity in this country.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, where the rage isn’t ruling, I register Celeste’s gasp. That doesn’t stop me from taking a few steps closer to the idiot. “I strongly suggest you get out of here right now. No one touches my wife like you just did without consequences.”

The echo of Celeste’s heels fills my foggy mind, disappearing quickly behind the heavy black curtain at the back of the stage.

“You can’t—”

I’m done with him. I need to be with Celeste. “You’re fired.”

---