Free The Millionaire's Secret by Susan Stevens, Jasmine Bowen Page B

struggling with the grief of his father’s death. He was lost and he didn’t know how to be found.
    He fully believed it was that it was the show that had saved him from falling into the same hole as Rick. As the young ballerina danced across the stage, he had forgotten all that bothered him, lost in the music and letting it carry him through the story. Behati was beautiful, pure and like a princess as she danced.
    Tonight was a different kind of show. There were hip hop moves, circus moves, and ballet faux pas. It was Le Traviata, a classic story redone in a strip club. His wife, spinning on the brass pole, captured the whole audience, and brought a cry of amazement as she back flipped to land en Pointe, in a pirouette. Her tone body was on display, and 10 years ago, he would have been scandalized by this kind of theatre. But now, he saw the originality in it, the risk and the talent, and he was blown away.
    But in Le Traviata, he also saw the mirroring of his own story. The young and beautiful courtesan, who was shunned by high society, falling in love with the upper-class nobleman, all the while hiding the fact that she was dying inside. In Le Traviata, it had been changed to AIDS, but Adam could see just as easily how it could have been drugs that took Behati away from him.
    On stage tonight, she was still thin, still had the faint scars on her arms, but she looked healthier than she had when she arrived, and certainly happier.
    Half her costume was her own, it was that kind of theatre, and he smiled in memory of the night she had modeled half a dozen outfits, in lingerie and not much more, asking what he preferred. And he had told her plainly, that he liked them all and much better than her usual leotard. It was time for a change in the Katz household, and it started with her.
    At intermission, unable to be away from her any longer, he snuck backstage, navigating the underground corridors to find her dressing room.
    Pushing it open, he found her facing the mirror. She jumped at his presence, and for one heart stopping moment, he thought the object in her hand was a needle, that she was falling back into her own ways. But it turned out that she held a chopstick, and was trying to hastily eat in between shows.
    “My dear, you were radiant,” he said, as he had said the first night, and handed over a bouquet of red roses. She took them gratefully, pushing her food aside to lay them in front of the mirror.
    “Thanks, I wasn’t sure if you would like it.”
    “I like anything with you in it,” he replied, reaching into his pocket. “Although I do have a suggestion for the second act.”
    “Oh?” she cocked her head, amused. “What’s that? Wear more clothes?”
    “Wear something, yes,” he said and presented her a small jewelry box. Her jaw fell open and he smiled.
    “Forgive me, it should be done like this,” he said, getting down on one knee, and opening the box. Inside, was two plain gold bands, square cut. He could have gone for something extravagant, something flashy, but Behati wasn’t like that. Their love was quiet, secretive but had always been there. He took out the smaller one, presenting it to her. “I thought perhaps, that it’s time to start wearing wedding bands. I should have done this 10 years ago,” he slipped it on her finger and then took the larger one and put it on his own. Matching, they glinted in the light.
    “It’s beautiful,” she said, admiring it and then kissing him. “I love it.”
    “I love you,” he whispered into her hair. “Now, I should go, and let you finish.”
    “I’ll see you after the show,” she said, and he nodded, going to take his seat again. Yes, she would see him after, and every night after. For this was his wife, and he was her husband, and it was a secret no longer.
     
    --THE END--

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