Johan let her words cascade over him. She equated him with happiness. There was no way to suppress that joy. There was no room for his fears when he knew she’d pushed hers aside for him. Worry would always be there—always—but for just a few hours maybe he could manage to enjoy his time with Nya.
“I think I’ll try this ‘being happy’ you speak of,” he said, slipping into the backseat after handing her in.
They made their way to the theater’s side entrance for the royal box, with Nya showing delighted surprise at the long hallway decorated with framed photos of famous performers who’d graced the stage. They passed through the foyer, a parlor with a bar and bartender, grabbing a few snacks before making their way to their seats. The box wasn’t huge, because the theater wasn’t huge, but it was much bigger than the others.
All eyes turned upward when they stepped into the box with its plush red carpeting and gold gilded seats, and Johan felt the atmosphere in the theater change. He’d been focusing on being happy, on having Nya close, but then he remembered why he hated being on display in the opera house, and why he’d resisted when Greta had mentioned the show.
“By the way.” He leaned over once they’d taken their seats. “I love Rusalka. But it always makes me cry, so I hate seeing it in public. If I run off during certain portions, don’t mind me.”
He expected her to laugh and shake her head, but her gaze softened. “Why does it make you cry?”
“The sense of loss in the music. The idea of being so close to happiness and losing it all.” He shrugged.
“My shoulders are bare, but if you want to cry, these frills are very absorbent,” she said, plucking at her top. “You can pretend you’re being outrageous, and no one but me will know. But if you don’t want to hide, I don’t think anyone would judge you for that.”
“Crying is not very Bad Boy Jo-Jo,” he said, adjusting his bow tie.
“Well, I’m not with Bad Boy Jo-Jo, am I? And I don’t want to be. I’m with Johan, who sleeps with an evil-looking teddy bear and cries at the opera.”
She knew about Bulgom? And she hadn’t said anything?
She rested her hand on his leg and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t think Dvo?ák created this music so that men would run out of the theater instead of allowing themselves to feel it.”
Something in Johan’s chest loosened, and he grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I don’t think I’m ready to give these people that part of myself. But”—Johan’s heart beat faster—“I would give it to you.”
Nya reached up and brushed his hair behind his ear, happiness in her eyes, and then someone shouted “Kiss!” from the seats below and he remembered that hundreds of people were staring at them.
He scowled toward the audience, but Nya kissed his cheek softly, which drew some hoots and applause from the usually staid opera crowd, and then the lights dimmed and they took their seats. Nya held his hand, and didn’t let it go through the first act, and though Johan’s heart felt full to bursting with emotion, he wasn’t sure if it was from the music or from her.
When the curtain closed for the intermission, everyone began to stand, but then the star of the show stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand.
“Hello, everyone. I know this is a bit unorthodox, but we just had to make sure that we got to give a very special thank-you to someone.”
Johan froze in his seat because he had one of his bad feelings.
“This evening, a list of private charities funded by Prince Jo-Jo was released.”
Oh god, no.
“And one of those charities is the Liechtienbourg Fund for the Musical Arts, which allows young people from lower income backgrounds to train with the masters of their art. I am one of the beneficiaries of that program, and I just needed to say thank you. Thank you for caring, and your mother would be so proud of you.”
The audience broke into applause. They stood in their seats and turned to him—and all of those gazes, all of the clapping, reminded him that his secret had been revealed. It was only a matter of time before people found out everything about the charities, before the image he had worked so hard to cultivate was trampled.
Johan had lost the reins of his own image; he had lost the one thing he had control over in his life. Worse, now people would bring up his mother all the time. It would be okay, they would rationalize, because they were saying nice things. Now every good thing he did would be a reason to bring her up and if he did anything scandalous . . . when he lost Nya . . .
He stood and grinned and waved as inside of him he screamed at the unfairness of a life that would let you hold nothing sacred, no matter how much you offered in its stead.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered smoothly to Nya when the ovation was finally over. “You don’t have to come with me.”
He marched into the foyer, closing the door soundly.
“Would you like a drink?” the bartender asked.
“Actually, just some privacy.” He gave the man a rakish look.
“Got it.” The man winked and quickly left the room, and Johan locked the door behind him. He stalked over to the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, but didn’t twist off the cap.
So many worries swirled in his head, he wasn’t even sure why he was upset. But he was. And he needed to pull himself together. He’d promised Nya one night of happiness and he couldn’t even give her that, it seemed.