Chapter 2 — Adrian’s Dramatic Entrance

Adrian

The late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the grand windows of the Astoria Theatre’s lobby, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. Adrian Blackwood paused just beyond the heavy wooden doors, his fingers brushing over the cool brass handle. A faint echo of laughter drifted out alongside the hum of activity within—muffled voices, barked instructions, and the distant looping strains of rehearsal music. The rhythm of it all was both magnetic and unnerving, pulling at something deep within him while pressing a sharp weight against his ribcage.

He adjusted the strap of his leather bag on his shoulder, its worn canvas digging into his palm. Through the doors, the Astoria beckoned, a sanctuary and arena all at once. But his gaze lingered on the intricate carvings etched into the theater’s facade—gargoyles frozen mid-sneer and theatrical masks caught in perpetual tragedy and comedy. He’d spent a full minute staring at them when he’d first arrived, his cab idling along the curb. Was he stalling? Or just taking it in?

A quick glance at his watch confirmed what he already knew: he was late. He could almost hear his mentor’s voice chiding him, equal parts affectionate and exasperated. *“Theater waits for no one, Adrian. Least of all actors with reputations to mend.”*

The thought made his chest tighten. He reached instinctively for the journal tucked in his bag but stopped short. Not here. Not now. He rolled his shoulders back, forcing a calm veneer over the jittery undercurrent. “Deep breath, Blackwood. You’ve done this before. You’re ready.” The words were barely a whisper, a mantra he wasn’t entirely sure he believed.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

The theater’s backstage was a symphony of motion and noise, every corner alive with bursts of color and purpose. Technicians adjusted lighting rigs overhead, their voices ricocheting off the high ceilings. A costume rack rattled past, laden with sequins, silks, and Prospero’s robes shimmering in the dim light. The faint metallic tang of old pipes mixed with the earthy scent of sawdust and paint, grounding the chaos in something familiar. Adrian’s gaze swept upward to the catwalks, where shadows moved methodically, their steps rhythmic and rehearsed, like a carefully choreographed dance.

And in the middle of it all stood Margot.

She was unmistakable, a towering figure in tailored black, save for the crimson scarf draped around her neck like a banner of war. A clipboard rested in one hand, a sleek ebony cane in the other—its silver serpent handle gleaming faintly under the stage lights. Margot Deveraux didn’t just command attention; she demanded reverence. Even as the chaos raged around her, she cut through it with the precision of a maestro conducting an orchestra.

“Blackwood!” Her voice pierced the din, sharp and authoritative.

Adrian’s shoulders tensed instinctively, and the bustle around him slowed as heads turned his way. He adjusted the strap of his bag and stepped forward, weaving his usual charm into a warm, apologetic smile.

“Margot,” he greeted, his voice pitched low and steady, his vowels tinged with that faintly theatrical lilt his accent lent to every word. “Apologies for my lateness. Traffic.”

Her arched eyebrow lifted, skepticism etched into every sharp line of her face. “Traffic,” she repeated, her tone curling around the word like a whip. “An amateur excuse for a professional failing. This production, Mr. Blackwood, is no mere play. It is an undertaking of precision, discipline, and artistry. If you can’t respect that, you’re wasting not only my time but the entire company’s.”

Her cane tapped once against the scuffed wooden floor, punctuating her words with all the drama of a closing curtain. Adrian dipped his head, taking the reprimand with practiced grace, though he could feel the sting of it settle like a thorn just beneath the surface.

“Understood,” he said smoothly, his smile unwavering. “It won’t happen again.”

Margot’s gaze flicked down to his bag, where the edge of a leather-bound journal peeked out. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she turned her attention elsewhere, her voice ringing out again: “Carter!”

A second voice answered from the shadows by the stage. “Yes, Margot.”

Isabelle Carter emerged like a general stepping into battle, clipboard in hand and a no-nonsense air enveloping her. Petite and sharp-eyed, she exuded a quiet authority that was as unyielding as Margot’s was commanding. Her dark hair was tied back in a practical bun, and her green eyes swept over Margot first, then flicked briefly to Adrian. If she recognized him, it didn’t show. Her expression was cool and unreadable.

“You’ll be working closely with Mr. Blackwood,” Margot instructed, her words clipped and deliberate. “Ensure he’s up to speed on the blocking and cues. And keep his… artistic flourishes in check.”

Adrian’s brow quirked at the comment, but before he could respond, the woman with the clipboard stepped forward, extending her hand briskly. “Isabelle Carter. Stage manager.”

Her handshake was firm and impersonal, gone before he could register the warmth of her palm. “Adrian Blackwood,” he replied, his tone equally professional but softened by the natural charisma he couldn’t quite suppress. Her gaze, steady and assessing, swept over him again, and he felt as though he were being cataloged, measured, and—almost certainly—found wanting.

“I know who you are,” she said evenly, her clipped voice betraying no hint of emotion. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Blackwood. This production thrives on precision and teamwork. There’s no room for grandstanding or ego trips. Do I make myself clear?”

Adrian bit back the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Crystal clear, Ms. Carter. Though I might argue there’s always room for a little artistry amidst precision.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a split second, Adrian thought she might actually roll her eyes. Instead, she flipped her clipboard to a fresh page and turned on her heel. “Follow me.”

He trailed after her, weaving through the narrow backstage corridors. The scuffed wooden floors creaked beneath their steps, and the sharp tang of paint varnish lingered in the air. Adrian’s gaze darted between props and set pieces as they passed—a ship’s wheel, half-painted, leaned precariously against the wall; a bundle of rope coiled like a serpent at the base of a ladder. Everywhere, people moved with intent, their actions synchronized like the gears of a well-oiled machine.

“Here’s the rundown,” Izzy said suddenly, spinning on her heel so abruptly that Adrian nearly collided with her. “You’re late, which means you’ve missed the first run of Act Two, Scene One. Margot’s running a tight ship, and she won’t hesitate to cut anyone who doesn’t meet her standards.”

Adrian leaned lightly against the wall, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Good thing I’m not just *anyone,* then.”

Her green eyes narrowed, her tone dropping a degree in temperature. “Margot may have chosen you, but that doesn’t make you untouchable. Trust me, I’ve seen bigger names crash and burn here.”

The words struck a chord deeper than he wanted to admit, tugging at the edges of his pride and the lingering shadow of old failures. His smile faltered for a heartbeat before he straightened, his tone softening. “I appreciate the warning,” he said quietly. “And for what it’s worth, I’m here to work. No ego. No games.”

She studied him for a moment, as though searching for cracks in his armor. Whatever she saw, it seemed to satisfy her. Izzy nodded once, sharply. “Good. Then we might just survive this production after all.”

They emerged onto the stage, where the dimmed house lights cast the cavernous space into a muted glow. Adrian paused at the edge of the boards, his bag slipping from his shoulder to rest at his feet. The familiar creak of the wood beneath his boots sent a thrill up his spine, awakening something long dormant. He looked out across the rows of red velvet seats, their emptiness buzzing with potential, and let the weight of the moment settle over him.

“This is your mark,” Izzy said, gesturing to a spot downstage. “We’re starting with the storm scene. I’ll cue you.”

He nodded but didn’t move immediately. As Izzy turned to speak with a lighting technician, Adrian knelt to pull the journal from his bag. The soft leather felt warm and familiar beneath his fingers as he flipped to a page marked by a faint crease. His mentor’s words stared back at him, a quiet voice from the past: *Theater is chaos disguised as art. Embrace the storm, Adrian, but don’t get lost in it.*

The chaos around him seemed to fade, dulled by the gravity of the words. He snapped the journal shut and tucked it safely away, inhaling deeply as he squared his shoulders.

“Ready?” Izzy called, her voice sharp and expectant.

Adrian stepped into his mark, his stage voice steady and clear. “Always.”

And with that, the storm began.