CHAPTER EIGHT

The city glimmered like spilled jewels beneath the ink-black night. Lights shimmered on the slick, rain-polished streets, neon signs bleeding color into puddles. The hum of traffic was a distant murmur, a background to the steady pulse of my own heart.

I sat in the back of my car, my fingers idly tracing the seam of my midnight-blue silk gown, the fabric pooling like liquid against my skin. The drive had been silent, save for the low hum of classical strings playing through the speakers — something mournful and achingly beautiful. And if I were honest, it fit too well. This night felt like something on the edge of a story you already knew would hurt.

The car eased to a stop.

I glanced out the tinted window, expecting the soft glow of chandeliers, the steady chatter of an exclusive dining terrace, perhaps the clink of wine glasses — something typical, expected. Instead, what met my gaze made my breath catch.

A grand theater.

Its facade was opulence frozen in time. Towering Corinthian columns stretched toward the sky, their stone faces softened by age and centuries of rain. Intricate scrollwork curled along the edges of the entrance, gold leaf catching the light like whispers of forgotten splendor. Above it all, the marquee glowed in vintage, looping script:

"Private Premiere: Tonight Only."

It felt like stepping into a different world. A different decade. And for a moment, my pulse stuttered.

The car door opened, and the cool night air slipped in, carrying the faint scent of rain-dampened stone and something floral — wisteria, maybe, clinging stubbornly to the trellises nearby. I turned to find Leo standing there, one hand extended, the other in the pocket of his sharply tailored tuxedo.

His hair gleamed darkly beneath the city lights, a lock falling in an artful sweep across his brow. His green eyes found mine, and in them was something dangerous and familiar — the kind of look that made you forget your own name.

"Evening, Sienna," he murmured, taking my hand.

The touch of his skin against mine was maddeningly warm, steady, and then he did something entirely unnecessary and wholly devastating

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the inside of my wrist.

A rush of heat traveled up my arm like wildfire. I wanted to pull away, tell him to stop toying with me — but my body betrayed me, rooted to the moment. And maybe… maybe a small part of me didn't want it to end.

I arched a brow. "A theater?"

Leo grinned, a slow, crooked thing that had ruined hearts and broken promises since the day he was born. "You always were dramatic," he teased, gesturing toward the entrance. "I thought it was fitting."

"I expected overpriced truffle risotto and a view of the skyline."

His smile softened. "Tonight's not about the skyline."

Without waiting for an answer, he led me forward.

The doors opened into a world preserved in elegance. Inside, the theater was a cathedral to forgotten glamour. The vaulted ceilings soared high above, frescoes of celestial gods and goddesses locked in an eternal, painted twilight. The walls were trimmed in intricate gold filigree, patterns curling like ivy around soft sconces that bathed the room in a warm, amber glow.

Rows of lush, velvet-covered chaise lounges stretched before the towering screen. These weren't ordinary seats — they were luxurious, sprawling beds masquerading as theater chairs. Deep midnight-blue velvet with silk and cashmere cushions piled high, inviting you to sink in and forget the world outside.

Each chaise was designed for two — intimate, indulgent, the kind of thing that made my pulse flicker with unease.

I loved it.

God, I loved this.

And I hated that I loved it.

Leo watched my expression, that infuriatingly perceptive glint in his eye.

"I had them restore this place last year," he said softly, voice low and rough like velvet against skin. "It felt like a crime, letting it fall to ruin."

I gave a soft laugh, unable to stop myself. "So you saved it."

II save the things that matter to me."

That earned a sharp pang in my chest — a hit I didn't see coming. I looked away, but he reached for my hand again.

I You don't have to keep your armor on tonight, Sienna. Not with me. Not here."

I couldn't respond. I wasn't sure if I even knew how.

A private waiter appeared, dressed in impeccable white with a discreet bow. "Mr. Voss, your table is prepared."

He gestured to the center of the room, where a chaise longer than the others waited — a private, decadent nest piled with furs and cushions, a side table set with crystal flutes of vintage champagne and a single white gardenia in a slender vase.

My stomach tightened. Every inch of this place was designed to seduce — not just the body, but the heart. And that made it infinitely more dangerous.

We sank into the chaise, the velvet cool against my skin. The house lights dimmed further until only the sconces remained, a soft golden haze. Leo leaned in.

"No interruptions," he murmured. "No cameras. No one but us."

The screen flickered to life.

And there it was — our movie.

The opening scene swept through a rain-slicked city, the heroine wide-eyed and defiant, sold into the hands of a ruthless mafia boss. I remembered every frame of it. The months on set. The stolen glances. The tension that always lingered just beneath the surface of every scene we shot.

And then came his entrance.

Leo's character stepped from a car into a storm, rain streaking down his face, his gaze haunted and fierce. I felt a visceral jolt in my chest, like watching a ghost of him, the man I knew then and the one beside me now.

I glanced at him.

He wasn't watching the screen.

He was watching me.

"Ever miss it?" he asked, voice low, a rasp in the dark.

I swallowed. "The film?"

His gaze didn't waver. "The way we were."

The words lodged in my throat.

"I don't look back," I lied.

Leo chuckled, no humor in it. "You always did lie beautifully."

Onscreen, our characters drew closer. The mafia's brother stealing glances, offering quiet rebellion in a world of brutality. The chemistry was undeniable, too raw and too real. It had bled through the screen then, and it bled through now.

A waiter returned silently, placing dishes on the table — roasted figs dripping in honey, saffron risotto, grilled scallops with blood orange glaze. The scent was divine, but I barely noticed. My attention was torn between the film and the man beside me.

Leo poured another glass of champagne, the bubbles catching the light like tiny, liquid stars.

"You always liked the tragic ones," he murmured.

"Maybe I just liked the ones worth bleeding for," I answered before I could stop myself.

His eyes darkened. "Then bleed for me."

It wasn't a plea. It wasn't even a request. It was a statement.

I looked away, focusing on the screen.

The escape scene arrived. The heroine, desperate, racing toward freedom — only to be caught by the mafia's brother. I remembered filming that night. The cold air, the tension, the way Leo's hand on my wrist had sent a jolt straight to my heart.

But onscreen, as in life, he didn't expose her.

He saved her.

Betraying his brother, risking everything, just to see her safe.

The war between brothers ignited. Gunfire. Betrayal. Ashes.

And then the final line.

The one whispered against burned ruins and bloodied hands.

Onscreen, Leo's character cradled the heroine, his voice hoarse.

"I would defeat a legion of angels for you. I would war an army of demons for you."

And as those words left the mouth of the man on the screen — Leo whispered them to me, just as he had before.

"I would, Sienna."

He turned my face toward his, his hand cradling my jaw. His thumb brushed my cheek, and for a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the flicker of light and his mouth, a breath away from mine.

And I wanted it.

God, I wanted it.

But I pulled away.

Slowly. Deliberately.

"Leo," I whispered, my voice unsteady. "I can't."

His hand fell away, but the weight of it lingered.

He gave a small, rueful smile. "I had to try."

I looked back at the screen, the credits rolling, the music swelling.

And maybe it was the ache in my chest or the champagne clouding my reason, but I whispered into the thickening hush:

"I know."

And the darkness swallowed the words whole.