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He was busy. His business was booming, and he spent his nights at galas and meetings.
In the center of his estate was an old, dusty theater stage built for traditional plays.
Cyrus hated them—he called them "creepy wooden dolls with human faces"—but he kept it to impress government officials.
One night, he sat alone in the dark theater, a glass of bourbon in his hand.
I stepped onto the stage, a white magnolia tucked behind my ear.
I began to sing an old folk song, my voice clear and haunting in the rafters.
I walked toward him, step by step, the lyrics telling a story of a wanderer returning home to find only ghosts.
There was no moon that night. Only the shadows of the trees in his eyes.
He watched me as if he were seeing me for the first time—or perhaps the version of me he had always suspected.
His hand reached out and settled on my waist, pulling me close.
"Next month," he whispered, his breath against my ear. "I’m marrying the daughter of the Minister of Defense."
He kissed my neck. "Do you hate me?"
I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into his suit.
"Shouldn't I?"
