Throughout the entire performance, I could feel the audience hanging onto every note. I watched as people leaned forward in their seats, captivated with our performance. With every note that soared to the sky, I felt a passion within me grow. My body was fueled with adrenaline as my love for the prince in the opera built until my body could no longer handle it any longer. I was pulled from my world and thrown into another one. A world where I was a slave girl and the prince I was destined to cater myself to was throwing his life away for a cold, heartless princess. My heart fluttered for him as he took the stage, the princess wailing her high notes to the crowd.

It was time for my scene.

It was time to proclaim my love for the prince before taking my own life.

I felt myself embodying my entire character. In that moment, I was the slave girl. I was the woman who held the only secret that kept the prince at my side. I was desperate to get him to love me. Desperate to know what his hands on my face felt like. Tears streamed down my face as I threw my face over to the box seats, pushing my notes out to them in an effort to pull them into my world.

They were all entranced. Staring like their lives depended on it.

I drew the dagger from the prince’s side and thrust it into my stomach. Everyone on stage gasped and people from the audience started to cry. The high notes stopped as I hit my knees, tears streaming down my makeup as I fell to the stage. I let out all of the breath in my lungs as the stage bustled around me, the orchestra striking up its dissonant notes to proclaim my character’s death to the audience.

Then I stood backstage and watched the last of the performance.

Music had always been my escape. Through the years spent with my adoptive parents and through the stressful moments of my college career. Growing up on a farm left little to no time for hobbies, so I always worked with earbuds in my ears. Whenever my parents fought, I’d put them in and allow myself to drift away. Whenever they turned their anger onto me, I’d close my eyes and sing to myself in my head.

Anything to get away.

Anything to block out the anger-laced memories of my childhood.

Music had been there to cushion my fall. When I was sobbing into my pillow wishing I’d stayed at the orphanage, music was there to pick me up again. Every time my adoptive father called me useless or my adoptive mother called me a mistake, music was there to remind me that I wasn’t.

And throwing myself into the whole of my performances was my way of giving back all of what it had given me.

The opera ended and the audience rose to their feet. Their roars and thunderous applause rattled my rib cage as Libby motioned for me to come out on stage. The woman playing the princess looked over at me, her eyes motioning for me to come stand beside her.

But when I emerged from backstage, nothing could have prepared me for the sound that filled the auditorium.

People were whooping and hollering in their gowns and their tailored suits. People in the balconies were beating on the backs of the seats in front of them. A chant started in the far right hand corner and permeated throughout the audience. A chant that shocked me to my core and brought a fresh round of tears to my eyes.

My name.

The audience was chanting my name.

I saw someone rushing the stage as he barrelled up the steps. He came into view with a massive smile on his face and handed me the biggest bouquet of roses I’d ever seen. He kissed me on both of my cheeks, then squeezed my shoulders to congratulate me on a job well done.

And everyone’s eyes were as big as the moon.

I waved to the audience and the curtain fell. My heart was beating so rapidly I thought it would give out. I stood there until the curtain fully dropped to the floor, then I felt someone hug me so hard they almost tackled me to the ground.

“What the-?”

“Do you know who that was!?” Lacey asked.

“Who?” I asked.

“The man who gave you those flowers. Do you have any idea who he was?” she asked.

“I-I-I couldn’t really see him. There were tears and lights and the audience and… he kissed my cheeks and these flowers are massive and-”

“That was Blackstone,” she said with a smile. “The man who gave you those flowers was Critic Blackstone.”

My jaw hit the floor as Lacey pulled me off-stage. We made our way back to my dressing room as shock rolled over my system. Oh my gosh. The most important critic in all of New York had given me flowers on the stage of The Met. Traditionally, flowers were given to the leading lady. And even though my character had a pivotal role in the opera, I was not the leading lady. The princess was.

But he had given me the flowers.

“Oh, you’re going to be getting a fabulous review in the paper,” Lacey said. “Here, let me take those from you. You need to get changed.”

“Changed?” I asked.

“Yes, changed. For your backstage visits.”

“My what?” I asked.

“The backstage visits. Come on, Barry was supposed to tell you about those.”

“The only thing Barry told me about was the critic in the audience. Who has apparently given me a dozen-”

“Two dozen,” she said.

“Two dozen roses,” I said breathlessly. “You think that means he’s going to give me a good review?”

“I think that means he’s going to give you a great fucking review. Now come on. No one wants to meet the person behind the name they were chanting wearing what you are.”

“It’s my costume,” I said. “I was a slave girl.”

“Get into that corseted dress you have.”

“I’m not putting that thing on. It’s uncomfortable and I hate it. I don’t even know why I still have it.”

“You have it in case you need it. And now, you need it. None of the dresses you have back here will work with the bra you’re wearing, and you don’t want to look trashy meeting your new fans. So stop arguing and put the damn thing on, Joanna.”

I watched Lacey put the roses into some water as I quickly changed. I had to have Lacey help me fasten it in the back before I settled the dress around my legs. I felt like I was going to pass out from the adrenaline rush as the first knock came at my door.

“You ready?” Lacey asked.

“Sure,” I said. “I think. What should I do? I’ve never done this-”

She opened the door and I glared at her as she hid behind it. People filed in one by one, shaking my hand and doting on how well I had done. Children and adults alike came back and wanted pictures. They shook my hand and a few wanted autographs, and I was stunned at the amount of people wanted to get backstage to meet with me. I plucked one of the roses from my vase and handed it to a shy little girl, who then threw her arms around me and told me I was the prettiest princess she’d ever seen.

I held onto her tightly, my eyes welling with tears.

Each person had a story to tell and I listened as intently as I could. I listened to stories of why Turandot was their favorite opera and I listened to stories of people celebrating their anniversaries with us. There was a woman who was in the audience, mourning the loss of her husband. I wrapped her in my arms and thanked her for coming and the two of us shared a very emotional moment. She admitted to me that Turandot was the first opera she had ever seen with him, and she thanked me profusely for a job well done.

My cheeks had never hurt so badly from smiling and crying at the same time.

After almost an hour of meeting people, they all trickled off. Lacey popped out from behind the door, her eyes red from her own tears.

“You were born to do this, Joanna,” she said. “Make no mistake of that.”

“You’re coming to Europe with me,” I said, giggling. “I’m not going without you.”

“You want me to help you out of that dress?”

“I actually want some time alone, if you don’t mind. I feeling a little… overwhelmed.”

“I can only imagine why,” she said with a wink. “Take your time. I’ll wait for you by the back door. Figured this type of performance called for some late night comfort food.”

“You know the way to my heart,” I said.

Lacey walked out of the room and shut the door. I sank to the couch and caught my breath, panting as my body repaired itself from the bombardment of emotions I’d experienced. Performing always took it out of me. The emotional roller coaster ride as well as the physical endurance needed always left me ready to sleep an entire day away. My head fell back onto the cushions and I closed my eyes, relishing the silence of the room.

But it was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Lacey?” I asked. “That you?”

But all I was met with was another knock.

Figuring it was simply another guest wanting to talk, I got up and opened the door. But when I looked up into the eyes of the man standing in front of me, I felt my breath hitch in my throat.

There was a very striking man standing at my doorway.

And he was alone.

His eyes were a steel gray. Piercing, like the sharp edge of a blade. His raven black hair was slicked back, shining in the fluorescent lighting of my dressing room. He stood there grinning, his hands in the pockets of a suit that was cut wonderfully against his body. His broad shoulders filled out the coat before it tapered into his slim waist. I couldn’t help myself. There was something about him that made me want to stare. His legs were long and strong behind his tailored paints.

But it was his voice that tugged at the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Hello, Miss Leone. I’m Robert Cargill.”

The richness of his voice and the deep undertones that girded it made my legs weaken. I looked up into his eyes, allowing him to draw me in as I stood there. Silent. Unable to respond for fear that I might ruin the moment. His grin slowly slid into a coy little smile. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Knew the reaction his voice had on me.

I’d never been in the presence of a man that disarmed me the way he did. And I had no idea if it was a good or bad thing.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Joanna. Though you, um… already seem to know that.”

“That I do,” he said.

His eyes sparkled with a flame I was familiar with. It was reminiscent of the fire I felt flooding my veins throughout my entire two and half hour performance. His voice felt like velvet against my ears and the undertones draped along my skin. It was like dark chocolate being poured from a double boiler to be cooled so it could be eaten.

I wanted him to speak again. To say anything so I could commit his voice to memory. But more than that, I wanted him to come in. For whatever reason-- and more than any other person that had visited me-- I wanted him to come into my dressing room.

And instead of pushing away that desire, I decided to run with it.