Backstage is hectic. Lightning and sound staff scurry around with equipment. Testing different angles. A thunderous crowd sounds from beyond closed curtains. The floor compartments are whirled open and closed to confirm punctuation. Security surrounds me while a makeup artist powders my face. I don't get why this is done every time. The camera has filters that blur the face. 

I would complain about this, but I'm scared of the stage manager. A woman who'd be a perfect boarding schoolteacher. She strides from station to station with a menacing presence and blank face. These are the best people to do business with. The firm types. It means strong management and great quality. I watch the older woman direct groups of engineers and cleaners, pointing them in directions like a drill sergeant.

Once my makeup is done, a 5-minute countdown initiate from the mega screen behind me. The stage crew quickens their pace, adjusting wall lights, floor gates, and speakers. While the cleaners sweep the stage with swifters. Classical music cues. I stand, fixing my navy jacket and black turtleneck. My sleek hair shines under the bright lights. The stylist sprays me with Bois d'Argent, Dior cologne. A woody fragrance with leathery undertones. "Good to go, Mr. Harrison." The woman nods. The security guards follow me as I near the center of the stage. 3 minutes to go.

All the stage employees depart like a swarm of bees. The guards stay close to my side, waiting until all workers are clear from the area. Before stepping off to each corner of the stage. I hope they're as equipped as my men. Arenas are a high-risk location for assassinations. Plenty of concerts have been crashed by fans or angry shooters. But I shouldn't think this way. Fifty guards are protecting me, four are on the stage, and the others are acting as fans in the crowd. Plus, my satellite is standing by. I'm good.

"5.4.3.2.1!!!" The crowd counts down.

The pale curtains rise to reveal a blazing white stage. The arena is an endless sea of fans and cameras. The ceiling spotlights are ultra-bright. Dolly drones run on a track around the outer stage, gathering coverage for online viewers. The roar of applause distracts me from Madison. I put on my broadcaster persona. Well collected, unreadable, yet charming. The crowd can't spot any weakness...that'll shatter the fantasy they think I live. 

I power on an ear mic and stick the small metal piece in my lobe. I step to the edge of the stage and wait. There's always a long encore. A show of appreciation and devotion. Again, I maintain a reserved demeanor. I can't go against my brand. I'm a well-leveled, patient businessman. I must be that...despite wanting this all over so I can rush home to her. The clapping and cheering settle after about five minutes.

When it does, I clear my throat. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the 10th annual Strygent Expo. You all are in for quite a show. Shall we begin?" The applause returns. I raise a hand. At this cue, a floor display whirls upwards. The ritis-glove is showcased both on stage and on a massive projector behind me. "I'm proud to introduce the show's opener. The ritis-glove." The lightweight glove shines under the stage lights. Its color is close to transparent. I flick my hand. My fingers have metal clips on them. This motion causes a magnetic pull from the metal clips and attracts the glove my way. The crowd exclaims at the magician's trick. "It may seem simple, but it'll work wonders for early set arthritis in children." The rest of the demonstrations aren't as flashy as the first, since the products are heavier and larger. I announce each piece as they spin from the floor. Just as it was planned. The routine goes as such; I hand signal and interact with the item while explaining its features and significance.

When an intermission occurs, the curtain drops. I head backstage to the dressing room. My phone is on the vanity. I grab it and unlock it. There's a text from the doctors' group chat.

Lori: Madison will be waking in an hour.

This was expected, so I don't get annoyed. As I said, miracles don't happen twice. I'll see her when I can. Until then, I want her to be well accommodated. I call Helen. "Hello, sir."

"Hello, Helen. I'm calling to inform you that Madison will be awake soon."

"Oh, that's great news! The child has suffered so much."

"Yes, she has, unfortunately. I prefer that the patient is offered top service and comfort. She's allowed anything she asks for, even if it's an errand."

"Of course, sir. I'll be sure to do so."

"Thank you." I hang up. I can't help but frown at the fact that I'll be away when she wakes.

"Three minutes." A guard says from the door.

I fix my expression, not wanting to break character, and show anything other than professionalism. I have to be a solid brick. The last ten displays are vehicles. Motorcycles. Boats. RV's. Pickup trucks and tractors. 

All high-tech, as if from a sci-fi movie. Slim, compact, yet powerful, and environmentally friendly. The wrap-up is the part that receives the longest standing ovation. All displays are mounted on the stage like a collector's stash. I stroll to each and gesture to the model. On the projector, the prices are revealed, as well as payment plans and the eco-friendly effect. The impact is never higher than 25%. The audience cheers like a clashing sea. I summon the crew to the stage, as always, to acknowledge their importance. The manager as well. We all bow together.

My last words to the crowd are always the same. "Show your love for The Arena and its staff online. We appreciate your time. Thank you for attending the 10th anniversary. Have a safe drive home." Backstage, I shake hands with everyone and bid farewell to the manager with much appreciation. Before I leave, I sign off a time sheet, approving the schedule has ended. I'm outside at 9:15, climbing into a black, cigar-shaped aircraft. Finally, I can see her.

LATER

Helen opens the double doors. I enter the foyer, where a grand piano rests. "How is she?"

"She's eating."

"Good."

"I'm bringing her wine." She shows me the half-filled glass.

"I could use some too."

"Was the show bad?" Hel asks while returning to the bar just off the foyer.

"No...just long."

Helen hands me the glass while she pours a new one. She ascends the stairs. I follow her. "Well, you did say this year has the largest assemble."

"I wish it didn't. I could've been home sooner."

"I wonder why? You've never missed home." She turns to analyze me as a mother would.

"I just had a long day." I lie. We reach the upper level and near an endless corridor. This is it. I'm going to speak to her. But it has to be just us...alone. "I'll take the drinks. You're relieved for the night." Once at the door, she swaps the glasses to me. "Thank you, Helen." She smiles, still curious, as she departs. Okay, here it goes. I'll start with "hello again." I swing the door open, a bit nervous. I could do this so easily before. I've talked to her before. What's the issue? The monitor beeps wildly. I'm put off by the fast pace. Madison is on the bed, staring at a plate of food. Her chest is moving a bit too fast for my liking. "I thought you were getting better?" My dress shoes tap on the floor. I go to stand before the bed. My concern is evident.

She glances my way; her navy eyes shock me. The blood in my veins prickle hot and cold. I hate that she looks away so fast; I need more of the sensation. "I am."

"The monitor says otherwise. I'll call my doctors."

"No, I'm okay." Madison holds eye contact this time; the icy hot sensation returns. "I'm just not sure what happened, that's all." She controls her breathing to tame the monitor.

I set the glasses on the bookshelf. I love how her hair is behind her shoulders. Despite the bandages, she looks stunning. How? She's injured. I wipe the puzzling thought away and focus on sharing details. "I'll explain everything." I recap the hospital debacle, the cause of her condition, and how fatal it was before I intervened. I expected her to investigate; she's a smart blonde, after all.

 When she snaps at me about the spy ordeal, I think; there's that firing mind I missed. I wonder if her hands are warmer. Would she let me hold them while conscious? I slip up and express too much by admitting that I enjoy her. I ask if she has any questions to avoid this mistake. She asks what the tip meant.

"What do you think it meant?" I ask earnestly.

"I'm not sure."

"You must have a theory..."

"I think..." She plays with her food. "I think it meant something other than a tip."

"Like what?" Her eyes dart from mine. She's nervous. Why? I watch her eat some of the broccoli from her plate. She's stalling. "Madison?" I pry on to get an answer.

"You know what I'm hinting at...I don't need to say it."

Is she hinting at sex?? Wow...I think she is! How did she beat me to it? "You think it meant something sexual?" She blushes. "Look at me," I command. She doesn't do as I say. She acts as if I said nothing. I leave the chair and walk over. Madison forces her attention to stay on the plate. She ignores me. 

Why is she doing that? Also, why isn't she listening? I hate disobedience. I'm used to submissive women. 

I dig a hand into the mattress and lean towards her. With the other, I take hold of her face and twist it my way. "You don't listen." I breathe through my nostrils, wanting to scold her as I would another woman. But I remind myself that I have to be delicate. Instead, I fight the urge to correct Madison and explain the $500. "The tip was for our good conversation. If I wanted sex, I would've gotten it."

"Someone's conceited."

"I prefer the word assertive."

She laughs. What makes you so sure I'm that easy?"

"Because you're the one making things sexual." I withdraw my hand from her face. Madison's eyelids weaken sensually. I smirk at her yearning. "And you still are," I mutter. "I wouldn't want you bedridden longer than needed." I straighten my posture. "Eat."

She drops her fork to defy me. Her sassiness is amusing. "No."

"I'm glad you're not lifeless. You were worth the trouble. Are you single?"

"I have a boyfriend."

Ah, of course...I should have figured. It must be the idiot from the hospital. More like the boy from the hospital. She doesn't like when I call him a boy. Shame she doesn't realize this Brad guy is immature. He has a lot of growing to do. His mind isn't fully developed. Why be with someone like that? 

I boast about self-control and point out his blind rage. She doesn't like this either. Madi defends him. I hoped she'd know better than to go for a boy instead of a man. Of course, I gloat about how I'm better. I'm sure to mention willpower. I hope to steer her mind a bit, but she's stubborn and blunt.

"Wow...your ego is inflated." Madison shakes her head. "I feel bad for you."

"Or...maybe you haven't met a real man." I simper before heading to the bookcase. "You'll be here until my doctors clear a discharge. If there are any errands you require, tell Helen. She'll inform my assistant." I hand her the glass of wine and then step to the door with mine. "Goodnight, darling."

NEXT DAY

The marketing conference is as expected. Multiple promotional banners display on a projector screen. Each has the new tech lineup silhouetted on a white backdrop. The only difference is the font style. The long conference table contains strategists, designers, SEO agents, the COO, and myself. We each have iPads which present mockups. My COO, Lance, looks at me. "The thin, gray font is smoother. The bold ones are too aggressive."

I eye the one he's referring to. It resembles cursive writing, just a bit thicker. As if a marker scribbled the fancy script across the banner. "I agree...it's much cleaner and gives a signature effect rather than a typed text. Much more personal."

"Exactly. Well explained, sir." Lance agrees. Everyone else at the table selects this one. I'm made aware of this by an increasing number count below it. The others have counts of zero. "Now, onto the video ad." A slideshow of reels plays on the screen.

I stare out of the rows of windows beside the table. The beach is white, and the water is pure blue. My thoughts drift. I wonder what she's doing. Is she still resting? Maybe I went too far last night. I can't help it. Why is she with a guy like that? Can't she see the red flags? The childishness? The anger? Or does she ignore it? A tap comes from the grand door. "Yes, come in," I say, not looking from the windows.

"Good morning, business bunch." Helen brings a tray of coffee and bagels. She passes out tiny plates with sides of cream. Handing a cup to everyone. "Enjoy your refreshments."

"Thank you." A few say.

When she hands me mine, she says, "Ms. Hart says thank you."

I'm confused by her words. What? She thanked me? I thought I made her mad last night. Mad enough to not talk to me...yet she is. Hmm...so she thanked me? Helen watches me ponder. It's as if she's reading my mind. Is my expression too transparent? I need to fix it. I cover my stun reaction with a solid one. "I appreciate the message."

My maid studies me before saying, "of course, sir." Hel leaves the room.

"Now, back to the slide show." Lance gestures to the project screen, where stock footage of the Strygent factory shows in black and white. The assembly of cars, bots, VR consoles, motorcycles, and sea drones. The music is epic and theatrical, much like a movie trailer. I pay half attention to the footage while my mind focuses on the "thank you". I'd like to hear her say it...not it relayed to me from someone else. 

I know I said I didn't want her thanks, just her silent gratitude. But now, I'm second-guessing that belief. I do want that. I need to hear her say it. I should blow off this meeting as I should have done the Expo. Well...maybe not blow it off. That'll be unprofessional. I should step away for a bit. Just to hear the two words from her lovely pink lips. Just to hear her pleasing voice. "Excuse me." I stand.

LATER

I feel dumb for riling her up. Madison just got out of bed today, and here I go, bringing her discomfort. The phone argument was silly...and childish. I felt I needed to make a point, but instead, I became immature. I steeped to her boyfriend's level. I reached his temperament. I'm usually not that way. I've been trained by PR to be smart... to act older than I am. Ever since I was 22, I had to behave as established CEOs, as older men, to be an acceptable lead. I couldn't be myself in public. The image of Strygent depended on this. It still does. The training I received slipped away. I wish I could erase that call. I return to the conference and mute the presentation music and the voices around. My sight wanders out the window again.

LATER

Helen told me she's on the balcony. I head there in a quick stride. I should apologize...then again, I'm not sorry about what I said, only about how I acted. I hate admitting when I'm jealous. I never met a woman I couldn't have. Or one that lived in my mind without a payoff. I'm getting nothing from Madison...so why do I keep trying? Why am I going to her? 

I tread the looped balcony. As I reach her, I spot the jet nearing. It enters the garage below the deck. She's in a hospital gown...her blonde hair behind her shoulders, the way I like it. Its color sparkles under the moonlight; a head of gold. I take a long breath to compose myself from misbehaving again. "Your guests have arrived." She turns. There's a glimpse of shock in her eyes. "Don't worry. I won't offend your guy again. I'll be elsewhere. I've had his car transported here to make amends. Helen is finishing up the guest rooms; your friends can stay as long as you'd like." I speak tenderly.

Madison blinks rapidly, confused by my gentle tone. "Thank you," her light voice is soft. My heart weakens for the sound.

"You're welcome, Madison. Have a wonderful night." I stand still for a few seconds, wondering if I should explain the phone incident. Wondering if I should ask her for another chance. For forgiveness. But I keep quiet and leave. I should have said what I felt. Or maybe I should have left her alone. Madi defended Brad so much. She cared about him. I knew this. She called me to help spare his life... I decided to be a dumb genius. The signs were there. The snap chat messages. How she fought to keep him as a friend. How she fought to keep his sobriety badge.

All the red flags were there. I should have sent her away that night instead of storming off. I wouldn't feel like a fool if I had. I knew Madi was difficult, but I worked with that part of her. But running to her ex!! I can't forgive that. It's clear I care more. I dived deeper. And this is what I get? Embarrassment. Unfaithfulness. Excuses. I spilled my heart out for no reason. I moved too fast. The dress. The island. Confessing that I loved her. That was all a mistake.