Chapter Text
Florida greeted them with sunshine.
After the dank, bone-chilling Chicago December, where the wind cut across your face like sandpaper and snow had glued the pavement into gray, motionless slabs, this light felt almost indecent — too generous, too insistent, almost obscene in its lavishness. It stabbed at their eyes, blinded them, made them squint and glance around mistrustfully, as if the city might suddenly come to its senses and pull its gray blanket of clouds back over them. But the sky stayed blue — that thick, deep blue you only ever see on postcards they sell in souvenir shops for three cents.
The palm trees along the waterfront, like bundles of giant ostrich feathers, swayed lazily in a gentle breeze, their long leaves rustling softly as if sharing secrets — the kind only palms and the ancient ocean know. The wind was warm and damp, smelling of salt, iodine, and something sweet — maybe the flowering bushes along the road, maybe the sun itself melting on the horizon.
The ocean breathed evenly and calmly, rolling waves onto the sand that seemed to slow their rush on purpose, so as not to disturb this sweet, languid bliss. The waves lapped at the shore with a lazy, satisfied sigh, hissed, left lacework of white foam on the sand, and retreated, only to repeat their eternal, lulling dance a moment later.
The air, heavy with salt and blooming oleander, felt thick as syrup — you could drink it, you could breathe it, it coated your lungs and made your heart beat slower, as if time itself had decided to take a vacation here.
There was such serenity in this breath — such absolute, almost offensive serenity — that for a moment, Vincent believed: everything would be all right.
The Mob was a thousand miles away, back where the wind blew differently — mean, biting, seeping into your bones. Where they shot guns at night and found bodies in alleyways by morning. Here, in this paradise built of white marble and palm shadows, they wouldn't reach him. Here, even a bullet would probably fly slower — out of respect for the tourist season.
Vincent inhaled the salty air deeply, feeling a tight knot somewhere deep in his chest — the one he'd been carrying for days — finally begin to loosen.
"Sugar Kane! Give that here, I'll carry it!" he said, smiling contentedly, and reached out to take Sugar Kane's suitcase.
His voice sounded cheerful — maybe too cheerful for a man who, just a few days ago, had been hiding from gangsters in a filthy Chicago basement. But the Florida sun worked miracles. Or maybe it was just relief. Or hope. Vincent didn't know and didn't want to figure it out.
Sugar Kane looked at him — brightly, warmly, with that particular trust that grows between people after a long journey, when it no longer matters who you are or where you're from; what matters is that you traveled together and nobody lost their mind.
"Thank you! You're so sweet, Violet!" she said, smiling easily, as if they'd known each other not for two days but for a lifetime.
She handed him her suitcase. Then, adjusting her hat, which had slipped sideways in the wind, she headed toward the hotel.
She walked lightly, almost dancing — her hips swaying to some invisible melody — and Vincent found himself staring at her, forgetting he was hauling two suitcases and a saxophone case.
The hotel rose toward the sky like a giant white wedding cake, as if some mad pastry chef had decided to gift it to the resort town. Palm trees flanked the entrance — their trunks wrapped in garlands of tiny bulbs not yet lit but already promising an evening fairy tale. A doorman in a livery with gold buttons, polished so bright you could check your reflection in them, stood at attention.
And on the veranda, in rocking chairs, sat elderly men — the kind of millionaires who came to Florida to warm their bones but ended up only warming their newspapers, held up in front of their faces. Each clutched fresh press — The Miami Herald, The New York Times; one was even reading The Wall Street Journal, though from his sleepy expression, he clearly hadn't understood a word in some time.
They rocked peacefully, peering over glasses sliding down their noses, studying the newly arrived guests with interest. Their looks were oily, appraising — like at the racetrack before the final heat. Especially one gentleman in a hat, who lowered his newspaper entirely to get a better look at the girls.
Vincent followed behind everyone, puffing under the weight of the luggage. Two suitcases — his and Sugar Kane's — and the saxophone case, which kept slipping off his shoulder and whacking him on the ankle.
"Damn you," he whispered, catching the sliding case.
He'd almost made it to the steps when his foot treacherously slipped on the smooth stone. His loafer flew off his foot and clattered dully down the step.
"Hell!" Vincent exhaled, barely keeping his balance and not dropping the suitcases.
And in that same instant, from somewhere on the veranda, that same gentleman in the hat came running toward him. He ran with surprising agility for his age — his hat nearly flew off his head.
"Don't worry, miss! May I?" he said, already bending down for the shoe.
His voice was deep, a little raspy, with that velvety tone that comes to people accustomed to speaking a lot and with pleasure.
"You're very kind!" Vincent replied, nodding, trying not to topple over again. One foot was shod; the other — bare — stood on the hot stone step.
The man straightened up, holding the shoe in his hand, and Vincent finally got a good look at him.
The man was clearly wealthy. A snow-white suit fit him perfectly — not a single extra crease. The fabric was expensive. A hat of fine straw — not the cheap kind sold on every corner, but the real Ecuadorian kind, custom-ordered six months in advance. On his feet, white leather shoes.
He looked at Vincent the way a cat looks at a canary left unattended on a windowsill. And the canary did not like it one bit.
The man smelled of expensive cologne — Imperial — heady, with notes of bergamot and oakmoss — and of Havana cigars, the scent so deeply embedded in his jacket fabric that it probably wouldn't wash out even after ten dry cleanings.
He dropped to one knee — right there on the hot steps, unafraid of dirtying his spotless white trousers — took Vincent by the ankle, and began carefully slipping the shoe back on. His fingers — dry, ring-laden, one of them a large emerald that felt unpleasantly cool against Vincent's skin — lingered on his ankle a second longer than necessary.
"Allow me to introduce myself — Osgood Fielding the Third. At your service!" the man said, still holding Vincent's ankle.
"And I'm Cinderella the Second…" Vincent drawled, tugging his leg to free it.
"What I admire most in a woman," Osgood ran his fingers along Vincent's ankle — slowly, almost tenderly, as if petting a cat — "is the legs. The ankles especially. They reveal so much about one's character."
"What a coincidence!" Vincent yanked his leg free, nearly sending Osgood into a somersault. "Bye-bye now!"
And he hurried toward the hotel doors, leaving the old roué kneeling in the middle of the staircase.
"Allow me to help you!" the old man fussed, bounding over to Vincent with such spryness that his Panama nearly flew off. "Such a charming young lady shouldn't be carrying heavy things!"
Vincent thought for a second. Then grinned wickedly.
"Oh, thank you!" he said, and handed the man all three suitcases at once. "You're so kind!"
Osgood staggered under the weight but held steady — evidently, years of wooing women had built up considerable strength.
In the hotel lobby, the air mingled with the scents of expensive tobacco — heavy, slightly sweet — women's perfume, and something musky that made your head spin. There was also the smell of beeswax used to polish the furniture — the smell of very expensive houses where no one ever cooks or truly lives, only stays for the season.
Vincent's eyes glazed over from all this splendor.
"So glad to see some young blood here!" Osgood said, smiling contentedly.
"My blood is a very rare type…" Vincent replied flatly.
"You know, show business has always fascinated me!" Osgood pressed on, readjusting the saxophone case in his grip.
"Is that so?"
"Yes! It's cost my family a great deal of money!"
"Oh! You finance shows?" Vincent asked, surprised.
"The performing girls!" Osgood corrected fervently, his eyes lighting up with an oily gleam. "I've been married seven or eight times!"
"You don't remember?" Vincent raised an eyebrow.
"My mother keeps count!" Osgood confessed, almost childlike notes slipping into his voice. "She worries terribly and sent me to Florida… Right now, she thinks I'm on one of my yachts — fishing out on the open sea…"
He stepped close to Vincent — so close that Vincent felt his breath on his cheek.
"Reel it in, Mr. Fielding…" Vincent said quietly but firmly, stepping back. "You've hooked the wrong fish."
"If I promise to be a good boy," Osgood pressed on, his voice almost pleading, "how about dinner tonight?"
"Unfortunately, I'll be performing on stage!" Vincent snapped, hoping it would sound like a final refusal.
"What instrument do you play?" Osgood's eyes lit up anew.
"Saxophone…"
"Lovely!" the old man breathed, looking as if Vincent had just proposed marriage. "I adore the saxophone. That sound… so soulful… so sensual…"
He rolled his eyes dreamily, and Vincent realized that if he didn't escape right now, he'd be trapped in a half-hour monologue about how the saxophone reminded Osgood of one of his wives, who was surely also soulful and sensual.
And then, as if in answer to his silent prayer, the elevator doors opened.
"I'll leave you here…" Vincent tossed out, grabbing the luggage from Osgood's hands and trying to squeeze himself, the suitcases, and the saxophone case into the elevator.
"Oh no!" Osgood stepped in after him, squeezing into the cab at the last second. "You're not getting rid of me that easily…"
They entered the elevator. The cab was cramped, paneled in dark wood with brass handrails gleaming in the lamplight. And mirrors — mirrors that multiplied reflections, creating an endless corridor of their figures.
The elevator operator — an imperturbable young man in white gloves, his face utterly expressionless — pulled the lever. The cab chimed melodically, shuddered, and began to rise.
Vincent pressed himself against the wall, feeling goosebumps race down his spine. He counted seconds to himself, praying the elevator would go faster. The brass handrails chilled his back through the thin fabric of his dress.
And then Vincent felt a stranger's hand unceremoniously squeeze his left buttock.
He jumped as if stung. Inside, everything exploded with rage and outrage.
"You — !" escaped him in a bass growl, but he caught himself just in time, cleared his throat, and finished in falsetto: "— pervert! What kind of woman do you take me for, Mr. Fielding!"
The resounding slap echoed through the cab, multiplied again and again by the mirrors. Osgood's glasses slid sideways; his Panama fell to the floor. The elevator operator didn't even raise an eyebrow — just smiled faintly at the corner of his mouth. Osgood stared at Vincent with wide eyes, in which genuine astonishment mingled with delight. And strangely enough, there was not a trace of malice in that look.
"What passion!" he exhaled, rubbing his cheek, where a red mark had already appeared. "My God, what a woman! Forgive my impertinence — I lost control! You're so beautiful! Such grace, such poise! Your profile is worthy of Michelangelo's chisel!"
The elevator doors opened with a melodic chime, and Vincent, not waiting for Osgood to collect himself, grabbed his luggage tighter and flew out into the hallway. He ran without looking back, his heels drumming on the marble floor like machine-gun fire.
The elevator door closed behind him with a loud, almost triumphant thud.
---
“…And can you believe it, Sugar Kane? That old goat grabbed my butt!” Vincent whispered indignantly as Sugar Kane came into his room to pick up her things.
He was pacing the room — from the window to the door, from the door back to the window. His voice kept cracking into falsetto when he tried to imitate Osgood, then dropping low again when he couldn’t contain his outrage.
“Right there in the elevator!” He stopped in the middle of the room. “Pinned me against the wall and — groped me! I slapped him so hard! I barely stopped myself from kneeing him somewhere lower! He probably has a bruise now! Serves him right!”
Sugar Kane listened, leaning against the doorframe. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her head tilted slightly to one side, and on her lips played that particular smile — barely noticeable at first, then growing wider and wider. With each passing second, her eyes sparkled brighter.
And then she couldn’t hold it in anymore.
She burst out laughing, throwing her head back so that her dark hair spilled over her shoulders and glittered in the sunlight streaming through the window. She laughed, covering her mouth with her hand, but the laughter still escaped — loud, infectious, almost hysterical. She doubled over, holding her stomach, and tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving wet trails through her powder.
Vincent looked at her and, forgetting his indignation, found himself admiring her. There was something liberating in that laughter. It echoed off the high ceilings, filling the room with warmth, and Vincent suddenly felt himself starting to smile.
“Oh, Violet,” Sugar Kane breathed through her laughter, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. She was still hiccupping with laughter, each word coming with difficulty.
She caught her breath, trying to calm down, but the moment she looked at Vincent — at his outraged face, at the way he stood with his hands on his hips — another wave of laughter washed over her completely.
“Don’t be so mad at him! You’re such a beauty!” she added, finally getting herself under control. “How could anyone resist? Just think about it — we only just arrived, and you’ve already found yourself an admirer! I wish I had your luck!”
She winked — slyly, playfully — and, grabbing her suitcase by the door, glided out of the room. At the threshold, she turned back, and Vincent noticed her eyes were still glistening with unshed tears of laughter.
“By the way, the girls and I are going to the beach!” she said from the doorway. “Come with us!”
She blew him a kiss and disappeared behind the door, leaving behind a trail of jasmine perfume — light, sweet, intoxicating.
Vincent was left alone.
He stood in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door, and felt something new slowly but surely beginning to stir somewhere in his chest. Something he wasn’t yet ready to name.
He sighed and ran a hand over his face.
“What am I going to do, Sugar Kane?” he whispered into the emptiness.
And in reply — only silence, only the distant roar of the ocean outside the window, and the scent of jasmine that refused to leave the room.
Vincent sighed. What was he going to do… if only he could spend time with Sugar Kane without being dressed as a woman!
And then someone knocked on the door.
The knock was insistent, but somehow cocky — not like a maid afraid of disturbing the guests, but like someone who felt completely at home. Short, loud, with an unspoken “open up, don’t be scared.”
Vincent sighed, adjusted his crooked wig, and went to open the door.
A hotel employee stood on the threshold. A short but sturdy young man.
He was holding a suitcase.
“Your luggage!” he announced loudly, barging into the room without an invitation.
Vincent wanted to protest such audacity, but his gaze fell on the suitcase, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
It was Mr. Bienstock’s suitcase.
The orchestra manager’s suitcase. And he was surely carrying his suits in there. Expensive suits. Perfectly tailored, with silk linings. Suits that Vincent could only dream about while counting his last coins before dinner.
“My luggage?” he repeated, feigning surprise, though inside he was already boiling. A plan had formed in his head in a split second — crazy, risky, but damn tempting.
“Oh, right! My luggage!” Vincent sang, trying to make his voice sound carefree.
The guy set the suitcase on the floor but made no move to leave. He gave Vincent a long, shameless look — the kind men usually give desserts in a pastry shop window. His gaze traveled from Vincent’s shoes all the way to the top of his head, lingered on his neckline, and returned to his face.
“Looking good, doll!” he said, with such self-satisfaction in his voice that he might as well have just won poker with a royal flush.
“I suppose you want a tip?” Vincent asked, reaching for the suitcase handle, trying to hint that the audience was over.
“Forget it, doll!” The guy waved his hand. “You work here, I work here! It’s great that you’re staying here with the band.”
He took a step closer. Vincent instinctively stepped back.
“Bye-bye now!” Vincent said, trying to sound as insistent as possible.
“Oh, listen, doll!” the guy blurted out. “What time do you get off today?”
Vincent rolled his eyes.
“I work the night shift,” the guy continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that made Vincent’s skin crawl. “And I’ve got a bottle of gin. Good gin, not the alleyway stuff. And when everyone’s settled down, we could…”
He didn’t finish. Instead, he raised his eyebrow meaningfully and smiled — a smile that was presumably meant to look seductive.
Vincent stared at him and felt the world around him losing its color. Another one. Another suitor. In a single day.
“Aren’t you a little young for this, sonny?” Vincent asked, trying to sound as maternally reproachful as possible.
“Want to see my driver’s license?” the guy shot back defiantly. “I’m twenty, miss. Just the right age to keep a beautiful woman company.”
“Get lost, you hear me?” Vincent barked and shoved the guy in the shoulder — not hard, but enough to make him stagger back.
The guy didn’t take offense. On the contrary, his face broke into an ecstatic smile, and his eyes lit up even more.
“That’s my kind of woman!” he exclaimed, rubbing his shoulder like a man who’d just received the highest award. “Strong and feisty! Oooh!”
He blew Vincent a kiss and, before Vincent could throw something heavy at him, darted out the door. The door slammed shut with a bang.
Vincent was left alone.
He stood in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door, feeling a blush of embarrassment creep across his face.
“Damn it!” he exclaimed and punched the suitcase with his fist.
The suitcase’s locks clinked resentfully, but it didn’t open.
Vincent exhaled.
“And now, Mr. Bienstock,” he whispered with a crooked grin, “I’m sorry, but your wardrobe has been conscripted for a more important cause than your managerial backside.”
He clicked open the locks and saw several excellent, expensive suits.
Vincent stood in the middle of the room, staring at the contents of the suitcase, feeling an idea slowly but surely ripening deep inside him. Crazy. Reckless. Dangerous. But no less tempting for it.
A young millionaire. One Sugar Kane would like. Who would bring her flowers and take her to dinner. Who would look at her with that certain look that made her eyes light up.
And what if that millionaire was him?
The thought was so wild that Vincent laughed out loud — a nervous, cracking laugh. But then he caught himself. And why not, really? He’d been pretending to be a woman for almost two days now — and pulling it off pretty convincingly. Would pretending to be a millionaire really be any harder?
Vincent smiled to himself, closed the suitcase, and shoved it under the bed.
The game was on.
---
“Violet, are you coming?” Sugar Kane called, poking her head into the room. She was already wearing a light red silk robe, her hair falling freely over her shoulders, and in this morning, still undisturbed image, there was a particular, touching beauty. “Sun, sea, sand! Why sit around in the stuffy room?”
Vincent, who had just finished feverishly devising his plan, put on a pained expression. He pressed his hand to his forehead and made a face he thought suitable for someone suffering from a migraine.
“Oh, I think I’m just so exhausted from the trip that I’ve got a migraine,” he moaned, flopping onto the bed and clutching the blanket. “My head is pounding. You go ahead. I’ll just lie here. Don’t mind me!”
“Suit yourself,” Sugar Kane shrugged. There was a hint of concern in her voice. “Feel better, sweetie. Want me to bring you anything? Some ginger tea?”
“No, no,” Vincent waved his hands, afraid she might come in and notice the feverish gleam in his eyes — hardly the look of an invalid. “Go, enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine soon!”
The moment the door closed behind her, Vincent sprang up from the bed with such speed that his wig nearly flew onto the floor.
From under the bed, he pulled out Mr. Bienstock’s suitcase.
His fingers trembled like a thief cracking a bank safe. Vincent clicked the locks — once, twice, three times — each click sounding like a gunshot. He lifted the lid. And froze.
The suits lay in neat stacks, separated by thin sheets of tissue paper that rustled like dry leaves underfoot in an October park.
He ran his hand over the fabric — soft, slightly rough, real wool. A gray suit, thin pinstripe. A single-breasted jacket with wide lapels — exactly the kind people were wearing in New York, in Chicago, everywhere people knew style. Next to it — a light sand-colored one, almost white, for the Southern heat. And a third, dark blue, almost black, formal.
Vincent chose the sand-colored one.
He laid it carefully on the bed. Then he took out the trousers, the shirt — thin cotton, with a spread collar — and the tie. Narrow, dark burgundy, with a thin stripe.
He stood before the mirror.
The mirror was large, set in a heavy wooden frame, with a slight patina of age on the glass.
The dress flew onto the bed. The wig followed, collapsing into a shapeless heap on the pillow. The slip, stockings, garters — he peeled them all off with an almost physical sense of relief. The high heels he kicked off with his feet — first one, then the other — and they fell into the corner with a dull thud, like shot ducks, their helpless heels knocking against the baseboard.
And there he stood, in just his underwear. In the reflection, he saw Vincent — not Violet. How he’d missed him. A man with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long, sinewy arms that knew not just the keys of a saxophone but heavy suitcases and the cold of Chicago’s streets.
His mismatched eyes — one blue, one green — which he’d grown used to hiding behind his bangs, were now fully visible. And in them burned that dangerous fire that always appeared before a caper — before he agreed to a dubious gig, before he got on the train to Florida. The fire that said, “Go on, Whittman. Take the risk. It can’t get any worse.”
“Well, Whittman,” he said to his reflection with a crooked grin — a nervous grin, the corner of his mouth twitching like a man who didn’t quite believe his own words — “let’s see how this turns out.”
He picked up the shirt.
The shirt fit almost perfectly — a pleasant surprise. The cotton — thin, almost translucent when held to the light — cooled his heated, sweat-damp skin. The buttons — small, mother-of-pearl, with a faint pinkish sheen — slid obediently through their buttonholes. Vincent fastened them all, from bottom to top, and paused for a moment with his fingers on the top one — the one at his throat. His pulse beat beneath his fingers like a trapped bird in a cage.
The collar was a little too big — a finger slipped easily between the fabric and his neck. It was noticeable. But Vincent tightened his tie.
The tie, however, gave him trouble.
Vincent had never been good at tying them neatly, since he usually wore bow ties. The last time he’d worn a tie was at his uncle’s funeral — ten years ago, in Chicago, on a rainy November day when the sky was gray as an old sheet and the air smelled of wet leaves and carnations. A neighbor woman — in a black dress and veiled hat — had tied it for him, saying, “Hold still, boy, or you’ll strangle yourself.” Now he was moving. A lot.
He stood before the mirror, the tie draped around his neck, trying to remember how it was done. Right end over left. Then left — through the loop? Or right? He got it wrong three times, then twice more, then undid it all and started over. The knot came out either too small — pathetic, a little rabbit’s tail — or crooked, lopsided. Once, the tie somehow ended up shorter on one side — Vincent never figured out how that happened.
“Damn you,” he whispered, retying it for the sixth time.
His fingers trembled. He clenched them into a fist, waited for the trembling to subside, and tried again. On the seventh attempt, the knot finally took on a somewhat presentable shape — not perfect, of course, not the kind a Savile Row tailor would approve, but from a distance, if you didn’t look too closely, it might pass. Vincent straightened the ends, adjusted the knot just under his Adam’s apple, and exhaled. The mirror showed a man with a slightly crooked tie and a wild gleam in his eyes.
“Good enough,” he told himself. “Good enough. It’s not a beauty contest, after all.”
The trousers slid over his legs with a soft, almost inaudible rustle. The fine wool — soft, cool — hugged his hips, fell over his ankles in perfect creases. They fit like a glove. He tugged the legs, straightened the creases, ran his palm over his thigh to check for any tightness.
None. They fit like they were made for him.
Vincent took the jacket by the shoulders, gave it a shake, and put it on. The silk lining — cool, slippery — settled on his shoulders like a second skin. The jacket fit perfectly too — the shoulders slightly broader than his own, but that only added to his presence, made his figure more masculine, more substantial. Vincent adjusted the lapels, buttoned the single button, and turned to the mirror.
A gentleman looked back at him.
The suit fit impeccably. The tie — still a little crooked, carelessly elegant — glinted with silver thread.
Vincent ran his hand through his hair and ruffled it.
“Not bad,” he said aloud, and his voice came out low, confident — more confident than he actually felt. “Not bad at all.”
He left the hotel through the service entrance — a narrow, inconspicuous door at the end of the corridor that the maids and deliverymen used. The door led to a small courtyard. Vincent slipped through it, trying to be quiet, walked around the building along the waterfront, and keeping to the shade of the palm trees — which cast lacy, whimsical shadows on the sidewalk — headed toward the beach.
His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat, echoing in his temples with a heavy, uneven pulse. What if Sugar Kane recognized him? What if he made a fool of himself with his very first sentence? What if he failed, and she just laughed in his face?
He brushed away those thoughts like pesky flies and walked faster.
The beach was private, well-groomed — the kind where every square foot of sand cost more than a musician’s monthly salary in Chicago. White, as if sifted through the finest sieve, the sand sparkled in the sun with thousands of tiny specks of glitter. Loungers under striped umbrellas — red, blue, yellow, like flags of distant exotic countries — stood in neat rows. Waiters in snow-white suits with gold buttons polished to a mirror shine darted between the loungers, carrying cocktails in tall, ice-glinting glasses that clinked with every step.
The sun-heated sand burned the soles of his feet even through the thin leather of his shoes. Vincent walked along the water’s edge — where the damp, packed sand was harder and cooler — and the waves, with a soft, soothing whisper, lapped at his feet, leaving dark wet marks on his shoes. He scanned the faces of the vacationers, searching for a familiar silhouette, and suddenly froze, as if hitting an invisible wall.
He saw Her.
Sugar Kane lay on a lounger under a large umbrella, its long shadow falling across the sand, creating a cool, cozy twilight around her. Her silk robe, crimson as an ocean sunset, as blood, as passion, was slightly open, revealing her slender legs. Her dark hair, freed from its strict hairdo, curled and played with the wind — falling over her shoulders, her back, the pillow of the lounger, sometimes covering her face, sometimes revealing it.
Her eyes were closed. Her lips wore a faint, serene smile. And she looked so calm, so unattainably beautiful, that Vincent caught his breath.
He stood looking at her, forgetting why he’d come. The surf roared around him, seagulls cried, people laughed, music played somewhere, but for Vincent, nothing existed but this girl. The salty wind tousled his hair. He felt his heart drop somewhere into his heels, his knees tremble treacherously, his mouth go dry. Not a single thought remained in his head.
She still lay with her eyes closed, and Vincent watched the sun play on her eyelids, with the long shadows of her lashes.
He took a determined step forward.
And then a boy rushed past him — out of nowhere.
Seven years old, maybe. Red-haired, freckled. In one hand, he clutched a ball — bright yellow with red stripes, some particularly silly, defiantly cheerful color combination. In the other, a leash, at the end of which a dog ran, tongue happily lolling out.
The boy wasn’t so much running as flying — bare heels flashing, kicking up little fountains of sand behind him.
Vincent barely managed to jump aside.
“Hey, kid!” Vincent shouted after him, straightening his jacket. “No running! Decent people are relaxing here!”
The boy didn’t look back. He was already ten paces away, weaving circles around the loungers, and the dog, barking happily, raced after him.
Vincent shook his head, adjusted his hat, and turned his gaze back to Sugar Kane. She still lay with her eyes closed.
Get it together, Whitman, he commanded himself. You’re confident. A ladies’ man. You can walk up to any girl.
He took another deep breath — so deep his head spun, his lungs filling with salty, humid air — squared his shoulders, and took a few more steps forward.
Now he was just a few feet away.
Vincent stopped. He felt the sand crunch under his soles, the sun beat down on his crown, his heart thumped somewhere in his throat.
“Hey, miss!” he called out, trying to sound cheerful and confident. “May I…”
He didn’t finish.
Because at that very moment — that very second when his confidence had reached its peak, when his voice had sounded particularly sincere, when he was sure that now, right now, it would happen — the ball hit him.
It struck Vincent square in the shoulder and bounced away.
And then — as if that weren’t enough — the dog jumped on him.
The dog, barking happily, launched into the air, arcing like a circus dog. Its paws — wet, sandy — landed right on Vincent’s chest.
Vincent felt himself knocked backward, felt his feet lose their grip on the wet sand, felt the world turn upside down. His hat flew into the air and landed in a puddle three feet away.
He fell flat on his back, arms flung out like a starfish that had decided to go horizontal. The dog, now on his chest, began licking his face.
“Down!” Vincent shouted, trying to dodge the wet tongue. “Down! Get off!”
Groaning, Vincent shoved the dog off and propped himself up on his elbows. Lifting his head, he saw Sugar Kane.
She was no longer lying with her eyes closed. She was sitting up on the lounger, staring at him in surprise.
And she wasn’t the only one watching.
An elderly lady under a blue umbrella had set down her book and was staring at them, mouth slightly open. A man in a hat had half-risen from his lounger to get a better look. A young waiter carrying a tray full of cocktails had frozen in place.
Vincent lay on the sand, wet, ridiculous, his hat floating in a puddle of saltwater. His glasses had slipped down his nose. His suit was hopelessly ruined: wet, sandy, with dog paw prints on the chest.
The boy finally caught up.
“Oh, I’m sorry, mister!” he blurted out, looming over Vincent with wide, frightened eyes. “Rex, come here!”
And grabbing the dog’s leash, he bolted away from the scene of the crime.
Vincent looked at Sugar Kane again. She was still staring at him in bewilderment. Gathering the last scraps of his confidence, he struck a pose: lying on his side, arm bent, he propped his head on his hand as if this were all part of the plan.
“What a beautiful sunny day!” he said, forcing a satisfied smile. “As beautiful as you are, miss! From this angle, you look even more beautiful!”
Sugar Kane blinked a few times in confusion, then laughed. She leaned back, turning her face to the sun, and the light played across her cheeks.
“That’s a rather original way to introduce yourself,” she said, laughing.
Vincent smiled, pushed himself up on his elbows, and brushed off his jacket — sand poured off him like fine rain.
“I…” he began, getting to his feet. “I wanted to make an impression.”
He picked up his hat. It was soaked — water dripped from the brim, plopping onto the sand — and the brim had drooped hopelessly.
“You succeeded,” Sugar Kane breathed. “You’ve made an unforgettable impression. On every sunbather within a hundred yards. People have told me I sweep them off their feet, but I didn’t think it was literal…”
Vincent stood before her, feeling his cheeks burn. He felt like an idiot. A complete, utter, hopeless idiot.
But she was smiling. And that made him glad.
“I’m sorry about that scene… let me start over. I hope I’m not disturbing you?” Vincent asked, finally gathering his thoughts and trying to sound confident. “I just couldn’t walk past. Such incredible beauty, all alone. It’s a crime.”
Sugar Kane propped herself up on an elbow, adjusted her robe — the crimson silk slid over her shoulders — and on her lips appeared that same mysterious half-smile that had driven Vincent crazy on the train.
“You’re a very interesting man… please, sit down!” Sugar Kane nodded toward the lounger next to hers — a slight movement of her head that made her hair slide over her shoulders. Vincent stepped toward the lounger.
“Thank you,” he parried, feeling her gaze melt everything inside him. He sat down on the lounger. And suddenly realized he’d forgotten what he wanted to say next.
“Are you always like this?” she asked, smiling.
“Like what?” Vincent asked, sitting on the edge of the lounger.
“Awkward,” she listed, ticking off on her fingers — thin, long fingers. “Funny. Cute. The kind who falls down and still manages to look like it was all part of his brilliant plan.”
Vincent opened his mouth to reply but realized he didn’t know what to say. She’d called him cute.
“I…” he began and faltered. His throat was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I don’t usually fall.”
“Of course,” she nodded seriously.
“Usually, I come across as an inventive and graceful gentleman,” Vincent continued, feeling the tension slowly release, his shoulders relax, the sticky, nasty fear that had gripped his chest for the last half hour begin to fade.
She laughed — softly, warmly.
“Are you often inventive?” she asked, studying him with undisguised interest. “And what’s your name, inventive stranger?”
“Vincent. Just Vincent.” He reached out his hand and felt her fingers — warm, dry — touch his palm. A shiver ran down his spine at the contact. “And you, I understand, are traveling with the orchestra? I heard there’s a concert tonight. They say the pianist is a real enchantress.”
“You follow the posters?”
“Of course. I love orchestras! Music!” Vincent smiled. “I’d bet you’re the enchantress everyone’s whispering about in the lobby.”
“Enchantress?” she repeated, a coquettish note entering her voice. “You, Vincent, are clearly overestimating my modest talents. But I’ll take the compliment. You look familiar to me. Have we met?”
“Perhaps you’ve seen me in the newspapers or magazines. I’m just passing through,” Vincent waved his hand vaguely toward the ocean, where yacht masts were visible in the blue haze. “I have a yacht in the harbor. Decided to take a break from business. From boredom. And then — such a treasure.”
He spoke without believing a word himself. A yacht. What yacht? He didn’t even have enough for a decent dinner. But Sugar Kane was looking at him with interest — the kind that made his heart beat faster — and Vincent realized he couldn’t stop now.
“A yacht?” Sugar Kane’s eyes gleamed, and sparks of excitement lit up in their depths. “How romantic. Do you often… take a break from business on it?”
“When I have someone to take a break with,” Vincent allowed himself a slightly more daring look, and his heart skipped a beat when she didn’t look away. “It’s boring alone.”
“I understand…” Sugar Kane smirked, and there was so much challenge in that smirk that Vincent felt blood rush to his cheeks.
Sugar Kane pretended to think it over, though her eyes were already dancing with mischief. She leaned back on the lounger, turning her face to the sun, and Vincent held his breath, mesmerized.
“Well, Vincent,” she said at last, and there was a note in her voice that made his heart pound. “Come to the concert. I insist. Come for sure. And if I get the feeling you’re not clapping louder than everyone else, I’ll be offended and never speak to you again.”
“I’ll clap so hard I’ll deafen myself,” Vincent blurted out, completely forgetting that he himself was playing at that concert. Then, catching himself, he rattled on: “But… but I’m not sure I can be there tonight! Maybe you’d like to have dinner with me sometime instead?”
“We’ll see,” Sugar Kane said slyly. “But come to the concert anyway. And if you’re convincing enough in your appreciation of my playing… maybe.”
They talked for a long time — about the weather, the sea, jazz, how pleasant it was sometimes just to sit and watch the waves, thinking of nothing at all. Sugar Kane told him about New Orleans, about her childhood home. Vincent listened, and every word she said resonated in him with sweet pain. He watched her lips move, the play of light in her hair, and realized he was lost. Completely and irreversibly.
When he left — half an hour that had flown by like an instant — he looked back and caught her gaze. She was watching him go, half-risen from her lounger, and in that look was unmistakable curiosity. And something else. Something that made Vincent’s legs go weak and spread a feverish warmth through his chest.
He walked along the beach, barely feeling the ground beneath him, grinning like an idiot. His wet shoes squelched with every step, sand trickled from his sleeves, his tie still stuck out sideways.
Vincent was happy. Truly, for the first time in years.
Vincent returned to his room, spinning dreamily and collapsing onto the bed. There was only one problem: he didn't have a penny to his name. No yacht, no luxurious suite…
And then, as if in answer to his silent prayer, the phone rang. The sharp, rattling sound tore through the silence, making Vincent jump.
"Hello, miss?" came a familiar voice on the line, slightly husky, breathy. "This is Osgood Fielding the Third. I wanted to offer my deepest apologies for today's incident. I swear, it was a momentary weakness, unworthy of a gentleman. As a token of my sincere remorse, please allow me to invite you dancing this evening. There will be a full moon tonight! What do you say?"
Vincent froze, the receiver pressed to his ear. Through the crackle of the phone line, he suddenly pictured a moonlit deck, white tablecloths. God, this old rake had been sent to him by heaven itself.
"I… I'll think about it, Mr. Fielding," he cooed into the phone, carefully drawing out his vowels. "Let's talk later."
He didn't think long. That evening, before the concert, he called Osgood back and agreed to the date. But with one condition: Mr. Fielding had to be a gentleman. No wandering hands. Just dancing and conversation. The old man, overjoyed — his voice held such gratitude, as if Vincent had agreed to marry him — swore solemnly to behave himself.
---
That evening, the concert took place. The hotel's grand ballroom blazed with lights, glittering with crystal chandeliers and the polished smiles of the audience. Gold, silks, diamonds in ladies' ears, starched shirt collars so stiff they looked like they could cut skin. Sugar Kane performed first on piano. Vincent sat backstage on a hard chair, squeezed between the bassist and the flutist, watching the stage through a narrow gap in the heavy velvet curtains that smelled of dust and old paint.
His fingers trembled — not from pre-performance nerves, but because she was about to walk onstage. He adjusted his wig, smoothed his skirt, and froze.
The lights in the hall dimmed. Darkness settled over the rows of seats, muffling whispers and rustles, and only the golden spotlights remained, illuminating the white piano at center stage.
Sugar Kane emerged from the wings with a light, gliding step, and Vincent forgot how to breathe. She wore a long black silk dress, so deep in hue it seemed she was wrapped in a piece of the night sky. The fabric flowed behind her, shimmering in the spotlight — now silver, now inky blue, now suddenly flashing with a mysterious violet sheen. A white fur stole draped her shoulders. Tonight her hair was curled and pinned perfectly in place. She looked incredible.
Sugar Kane walked toward the piano, and the hall was so silent that Vincent could hear his own heart — pounding somewhere in his throat, echoing in his temples with a heavy, uneven pulse. He watched her approach the instrument, adjust her skirt as she sat on the velvet stool, square her shoulders, readying herself for the first chord. Every movement held grace — not feigned, not rehearsed, but natural as breathing, as water flowing.
And then she raised her hands.
For a moment, they hovered above the keys — slender, elegant fingers that seemed made only to caress those black and white ivories. A curl escaped her hairdo and fell across her cheek, and Sugar Kane, without looking, tucked it back with a motion that stole Vincent's breath. Then her fingers touched the keys — softly, almost weightlessly, like the first snow falling to earth.
And the music poured forth.
At first, it was quiet, almost inaudible — like the sound of surf far, far away, like wind whispering through leaves. But with each chord, the sound grew, swelled, filled the space, and Vincent felt the music penetrate him, fill every cell, make his heart beat in time with this invisible but tangible wave.
Sugar Kane played a complex composition. And there was something more in her playing than just notes learned by heart. There was passion.
Vincent watched her fingers flutter across the keys — sometimes light as butterflies touching a petal, sometimes strong, almost predatory, striking the keys with such force that the strings inside the piano seemed ready to snap. She leaned forward, her shoulders rising, back arching, and it seemed she wasn't playing the instrument but fighting it — or loving it, conquering it, making it sound exactly as she wanted. She leaned back, her face illuminated from above, and Vincent saw her close her eyes, her lips slightly parted, as she herself became part of the music — its soul, its body, its breath.
At the climax, when the melody soared to its peak and then plunged down into a deep, growling bass, Sugar Kane struck the keys so hard that her curls broke free from their pins and scattered over her shoulders. She tossed her head, flinging them back, and for a second opened her eyes — and Vincent could have sworn she was looking right at him, through the curtain, through the darkness, through his masquerade. There was something in her gaze that made his heart stop, then start again with new, incredible force.
The music faded slowly, as a storm fades, yielding to silence. The final chords were soft, almost transparent — Sugar Kane touched the keys with her fingertips, and the notes dissolved in the air like smoke, like morning mist over the ocean. When she played the last note — a single, high, pure note — and held it, finger pressed to the key, the hall was so quiet that Vincent could hear the distant murmur of the sea.
Then the silence exploded into applause.
Sugar Kane opened her eyes, smiled — a smile meant for everyone and no one at once — and rose from the stool to take a bow. She was beautiful in that moment: hair tumbled down, eyes shining. She bowed, and the applause didn't stop, and someone in the front row was already standing to shout "Bravo!" while Vincent stood backstage, hand pressed to his chest, feeling his heart tear apart with desperate, impossible love.
---
They played most of the concert. And during the intermission, when the hall filled with the buzz of voices and the clinking of glasses, a bellhop — a boy in livery, struggling to hold an enormous basket overflowing with crimson roses — approached Violet. The bouquet was so huge that the messenger was almost invisible behind it. The girls around gasped, and Vincent felt his cheeks flush.
"For Miss Violet!" the boy whispered, setting the basket on the floor. "From a secret admirer!"
"Wonderful!" Vincent replied with a strained smile, feeling all eyes turn to him. He looked out into the hall and saw Osgood, sitting in the last row, waving at him with all his might. The old man blew kisses, his face beaming with a satisfied smile.
Vincent smiled crookedly and waved back. The moment Osgood looked away, Vincent snatched a pre-prepared note from his sleeve and deftly slipped it into the bouquet.
"Sugar Kane! A bouquet for you!" Vincent exclaimed in feigned surprise, pretending he'd just noticed the card. He grabbed the basket and, trying not to drop a single petal, carried it over to Sugar Kane.
The girls gasped even louder. Sugar Kane, who had just stepped down from the stage, raised a surprised eyebrow as she accepted the bouquet. She buried her nose in the roses, inhaling their fragrance, and a smile blossomed on her face — so bright, so happy, that Vincent's heart ached.
"Who's it from?" he asked with the most innocent expression, though inside he was rejoicing.
Sugar Kane looked up at him with shining eyes — the chandelier lights reflected in them, and in that glow Vincent saw his own reflection.
"Remember I told you about that young man on the beach?" she whispered. "It's him. He writes that he couldn't make it to the concert, but he'd really like to invite me to dinner. On his yacht!"
Vincent painted a look of genuine surprise on his face — as genuine as he could manage.
"Congratulations," he smiled, feeling his heart burst with both happiness and anxiety. "Looks like your millionaire has appeared."
"Violet," Sugar Kane whispered. "I think he likes me!"
"Of course he likes you," Vincent said softly, more feeling in his voice than there should have been. "How could anyone not like you?"
Sugar Kane suddenly looked at him intently, tilting her head. Something flickered in her gaze — and Vincent's heart lurched.
"You know, Violet," she said thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes slightly. "When I talked to him, I felt… I felt like we already knew each other. Strange, isn't it?"
Vincent smiled nervously.
"It happens," he managed, looking away. "Maybe it means he's your person. Destiny, you know?"
"Maybe," Sugar Kane shrugged and buried her face in the roses, inhaling their scent with closed eyes. Then she looked up at him, adding with a grin, "Maybe I'll even fall in love with him…"
Vincent exhaled in surprise, feeling his cheeks redden and a strange, bittersweet ache spread through his chest.
---
When the concert ended with its final chords, the hall filled with the hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the rustle of evening gowns.
The audience began drifting from their seats, but most stayed, and the air filled with anticipation. The chandeliers dimmed, and now the light was soft, golden, turning the dance floor into a smooth mirror. Somewhere, the first glasses clinked, muted laughter sounded, whispers — that particular whisper exchanged in semi-darkness when words become more intimate and glances more daring.
The girls from the orchestra, freed from their performance, scattered with squeals and laughter. Some ran off to change, others were already accepting invitations from generous vacationers queuing up. But Sugar Kane stayed by the stage.
She looked as if she were waiting for someone. Vincent knew who.
He stood in the shadow of a column, feeling a strange, bitter emptiness spread through his chest. He was already supposed to go get ready for dinner with Osgood. But he simply couldn't tear his eyes away from Sugar Kane.
Your own fault, Whitman, he thought, watching Sugar Kane scan the entrance doors for the umpteenth time. You should have come up with something smarter… said right away that you couldn't make it tonight! Or found a way to be in two places at once!
The music began — smooth, languid, with a light jazz note. The melody flowed, enveloping the hall in a warm, honeyed wave. Couples swirled across the floor — dresses billowed, tails flashed, and the whole ballroom seemed to turn into one large, slowly spinning carousel. And Sugar Kane still stood alone at the edge of the dance floor, her pose holding so much anticipation and so much hope that Vincent's heart clenched.
She was beautiful in that black silk, beautiful and a little sad. The chandelier light reflected in her hair, igniting golden sparks, and she stood, head slightly bowed. There was something in that sadness that suddenly made Vincent feel like the worst coward.
Make up your mind, idiot, he commanded himself, feeling fear and resolve clash in his chest. This is your chance. Your only one. Now or never.
He stepped forward, and in that moment, the entire ballroom ceased to exist for him. There was no music, no lights, no people — only her, standing by the stage, and the few steps that separated him from happiness or humiliation. The heels — those cursed heels! — clicked treacherously on the parquet, each step like a gunshot that would surely draw attention, but he walked on without looking back. He approached Sugar Kane, stopped, and she looked up at him.
Surprise mingled with mild confusion flickered in her eyes.
"Violet?" she asked, surprise in her voice. "What are you doing?"
Vincent took a deep breath. His throat was dry, his heart pounded in his ears, but it was too late to back out. He extended his hand — and paused for a second.
"Sugar Kane," he said, trying to keep his voice steady though everything inside him trembled. "Allow me to ask you for this dance. It's not right for such a beauty to stand alone."
Sugar Kane looked at his hand, then at his face, and something flickered in her eyes. Then she smiled and placed her palm in his.
"You're too sweet, Violet," she said as they stepped onto the floor and Vincent placed his hand on her waist.
Vincent didn't reply. He led her in the dance, and every movement came with incredible ease — as if he'd done nothing his whole life but waltz with her beneath these chandeliers, in this golden light, to this sweet, languid music. His hand on her waist felt the warmth of her body — the silk of her dress was thin, almost weightless, and through it he could feel her pulse. His fingers held her palm, and he felt her fingers respond with a light, trusting pressure. His heart beat somewhere in unison with the music, and he feared she might hear its frantic rhythm.
They spun across the floor, and Vincent caught surprised glances. But he didn't care. He looked at Sugar Kane, at her dark eyes reflecting the chandelier lights, and the world ceased to exist. There was no hotel, no ballroom, no people — only her, only this dance, only this moment that he wanted to stretch into eternity.
"Strange," Sugar Kane said suddenly, surprise in her voice. "You lead very well, Violet."
Vincent nearly stumbled. He felt the blush flood his cheeks and quickly looked away, pretending to watch the other couples. His heart beat faster, and he cursed himself for not being able to hide his embarrassment.
"I suppose it comes with experience," he mumbled, hoping his voice sounded carefree enough. "I danced a lot in Chicago. With different partners."
"No," Sugar Kane shook her head, and something studying, almost penetrating, flickered in her gaze. "It's different. You have a confident hand."
"Lucky," Vincent choked out, feeling his heart ready to leap out of his chest and go bouncing across the floor.
They danced a little longer in silence, until Sugar Kane spoke again. Her voice had changed — become dreamy, slightly distant.
"You know, Violet," she said, looking somewhere over his shoulder, toward the darkness outside the windows where the ocean murmured. "I met someone today. I told you about him."
"Oh?" Vincent asked cautiously, feeling everything inside him tense. His fingers twitched on her waist.
"His name is Vincent." Sugar Kane smiled, and there was so much warmth, so much tenderness in that smile that Vincent caught his breath. "He's… he's so interesting. He looks at me as if I'm the only woman in the world." She paused, and her voice took on thoughtful, almost intimate notes. "And his eyes… they're unusual."
Vincent felt the blood rush to his face, flooding his cheeks, his neck, even his ears. He tried to turn away, to pretend he was watching the neighboring couples, but Sugar Kane, still dancing, looked directly at him, and there was no hiding from that gaze.
"One eye blue, the other green," she continued, and there was such admiration in her voice, such sincere, childlike wonder at a miracle, that Vincent wanted to sink through the floor, become invisible, dissolve into the golden light. "I've never seen anything like it. It's amazing. As if someone mixed sky and grass, and sea, and sun, and put it all into one gaze."
"That's… that's probably strange," he managed, feeling his voice tremble treacherously, his cheeks burn. "Such an unusual… deformity."
He looked away, staring at someone's lace dress, a patent leather shoe flashing in the dance, anything but her. His head buzzed like a seashell pressed to his ear. As a child, he'd been ashamed of his eyes. At school, they laughed at him, teased him. But as an adult, he'd stopped caring. On the contrary, he considered it his unique trait.
But in this second, when Sugar Kane highlighted this distinctive feature of his appearance, he felt like that insecure little boy again.
Suddenly Sugar Kane stopped. She stopped right in the middle of the dance floor, and Vincent, confused by the unexpected movement, froze too. Couples swirled around them, flowing around like water around stones, but for the two of them, time stood still. She looked at him — seriously, intently — and there was no mockery in her dark eyes. There was something else — warm, deep, real.
"Violet," she said firmly, and each of her words fell into the silence like a drop into still water, spreading in ripples. "Look at me."
Vincent raised his eyes. He looked at her, feeling his heart stop, time freeze, the entire vast, noisy, glittering ballroom shrink to a single point where only she existed. Her face was so close — he could see every lash, every glint of light in her pupils.
"It's not strange," Sugar Kane said, and there was such certainty, such strength in her voice that Vincent believed her — believed her instantly, unconditionally, as he'd never believed anyone. "It's beautiful. It's amazing. It's the most unusual and most wonderful thing I've ever seen. You —" She stopped herself, corrected, and in that momentary stumble, that barely noticeable adjustment, Vincent sensed something important — "He. He shouldn't be ashamed of it. It's like… like a rare jewel. The kind that probably only one person in a million gets."
Vincent looked at her and couldn't speak. A lump rose in his throat — hot, unbearable. Something huge and warm spread through his chest, something that didn't fit inside, that burst out, blurring his eyes, constricting his throat, stealing his voice. No one had ever said such words to him. No one.
He looked at her, and something inside him turned over, broke free, spread its wings. He felt tears prick his eyes — stupid, impossible tears — and held them back with all his might.
"You really think so?" he asked, and his voice broke — not into a feminine falsetto, not into a masculine bass, but into something in between, trembling, alive, real. There was no act in that voice, no pretense — only him, Vincent, real, without masks or wigs.
"I'm sure of it," Sugar Kane said firmly, and in her eyes he saw such sincerity, such depth, that he lost his breath. "And if he didn't come tonight, he must have had his reasons. But I hope he comes tomorrow. Because I want to see him again. I want to look into those eyes and tell him how beautiful they are. As much as he can take. And then a little more."
Vincent stood looking at her, feeling something new, unprecedented, impossible blossoming somewhere deep in his chest, in the most hidden corner he'd kept from everyone for so long. He didn't know what to say. He'd forgotten every word in the world.
"You… you're very kind, Sugar Kane," he breathed at last, feeling his voice tremble, hating himself for the tremor, yet knowing he couldn't hide it. "He'll be lucky if he hears that."
"He'll be lucky if he understands it," she corrected, smiling gently. "Now let's finish our dance, Violet. The music is still playing."
She placed her hand back on his shoulder, and Vincent, still not believing what had happened, led her in the dance again. But now he danced differently. More lightly, more freely, as if a weight he'd carried his whole life had fallen from his shoulders, as if someone had removed chains he hadn't even known existed.
And the music played on, and candles flickered in the crystal chandelier drops, casting fantastic shadows on the walls, and the ocean outside the windows whispered of something eternal, and Vincent felt his heart fill with that very feeling — the one he'd both feared and waited for. A feeling without a name, but one he would now recognize among a thousand. He spun her across the floor, and in his ears still sounded the music she had played tonight — that same music where passion intertwined with tenderness, strength with fragility. And he knew he would never forget that music. Or this dance. Or this look. Or these words. No one had ever spoken such words to him.
"Thank you for a lovely evening, Violet," Sugar Kane said, smiling, and pecked him on the cheek. "I'm going up to my room. See you tomorrow, sweetheart!"
"See… see you tomorrow!" Vincent breathed, his hand instinctively reaching for the spot where Sugar Kane had kissed him. His cheeks burned.
He stood in the middle of the dance floor, smiling foolishly, watching her go.
Couples drifted past, someone brushed his shoulder, someone cast curious glances, but he noticed nothing. Her voice still echoed in his ears, the warmth of her lips still burned on his cheek, and something huge, bright, unbearably sweet grew in his chest. He suddenly felt a strange, aching lump rise in his throat — not from sorrow, no, but from tenderness that wouldn't fit inside. And in that moment, standing in the middle of the glittering ballroom, Vincent understood: he was ready for anything. For any caper, any risk, any lie, just to see her again tomorrow and hear her speak his name. He didn't know how this mad game would end, but one thing he knew for certain: there was no turning back.