Page 17 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire
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 1987production ofA 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.
