Chapter 76-The Lighting Director

Ryan's POV
I hated interviews. All that polished pretense. The calculated display of ambition tempered with just enough humility to seem grounded. The unspoken understanding that we were all performing—interviewer and interviewee engaged in an elaborate dance of mutual deception.
It was a theater without the honesty of admitting it was a theater.
I tugged at my collar, already feeling confined by the button-down shirt Dorian had insisted I wear. The Hamilton production office occupied a sleek space in midtown—all glass and clean lines, intimidatingly pristine. My interview wasn't for another fifteen minutes, but I'd arrived early, partly from anxiety, partly from the nagging voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Dorian saying, "Punctuality demonstrates respect."
The receptionist smiled professionally. "Mr. Dellinger? They're running slightly behind. Would you like some water while you wait?"
I nodded, trying to suppress the urge to run my hands through my carefully styled hair. Another of Dorian's directives: "For God's sake, Ryan, leave your hair alone for once." He'd spent twenty minutes this morning arranging what he called "artfully tousled but intentional" locks, using products I couldn't pronounce.
The waiting area offered a view of the city—Manhattan spread out like a circuit board of ambition and light, even in midday. Somewhere out there, Braden, Nadia, and Dorian were rehearsing their audition pieces. And here I was, pursuing a job that would take me across the ocean with them.
I hadn't planned it this way. When Charlie mentioned the European tour position yesterday, my first instinct was dismissal. I'd built a life in New York. I had connections, reputation, a comfortable routine. But then I'd imagined the brownstone without three-fifths of its inhabitants—empty rooms, quiet mornings, the absence of Nadia's laughter echoing through the halls.
The prospect had been intolerable. And suddenly, a European lighting design tour had seemed not just appealing but essential.
Which brought me here, perched uncomfortably on a designer chair, waiting to convince strangers I was worth relocating across the Atlantic.
"Ryan Dellinger?"
I looked up to find a woman with a clipboard and efficient posture. "That's me."
"Follow me, please. The team is ready for you."
I stood, straightening my jacket, and followed her down a corridor lined with Hamilton production photos. International casts, touring companies, the iconic imagery of the show replicated across continents and cultures. I tried to imagine my lighting designs applied to those stages—Paris, Berlin, Madrid, London.
London. Where Nadia might be performing eight shows a week as Christine Daaé. Where I could surprise her at the stage door with flowers after her show. Where we could walk through Covent Garden at midnight after performances, her still buzzing with stage adrenaline, me with the satisfaction of technical precision executed perfectly.
The interview room contained three people seated at a conference table. Charlie, whom I knew from various industry functions, flanked by a woman in a crisp suit and a man with designer glasses and an iPad.
"Ryan, thanks for coming in," Charlie greeted me, rising to shake my hand. "This is Elise Michaels, our production manager, and Daniel Kwan, technical director for the European tour."
I shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, settled into a chair. The dance began.
"Tell us about your experience with touring productions," Elise started.
I launched into my prepared answers, detailing my work on regional tours, the challenges of adapting lighting designs to different venues, my experience training local crews. The words came automatically, professional and polished, while beneath I calculated what this would mean for Nadia and me.
Our relationship had always been the most straightforward of her arrangements with the four of us. Physical, direct, with the emotional clarity that came from knowing exactly where we stood. Neither of us had expected the genuine affection that had grown alongside the physical attraction. But now, faced with potential separation or continued proximity, I realized how much that connection had come to matter.
"Your work on The Proposition has been particularly notable," Daniel commented, interrupting my thoughts. "The way you created distinctive lighting palettes for different emotional states was innovative. Would you bring similar techniques to Hamilton?"
I refocused, discussing the thematic elements of Hamilton's lighting, the historical considerations, the opportunities for contemporary interpretation. All the while, another conversation ran parallel in my mind—what I would tell Nadia when I returned home, how she would react, whether this was foolish or necessary.
"The tour begins in Paris in September, then moves to London in December," Elise explained. "It's a significant commitment—six months minimum, possibly extending to a year depending on ticket sales."
A year away from New York. But potentially months in London with Nadia, watching her flourish in her dream role. And months in Paris before that, a city I'd never seen despite years of promising myself I would go.
"That timeline works for me," I said with more confidence than I felt.
The interview continued for another twenty minutes—technical questions, artistic philosophy, practical logistics. I answered on autopilot, my mind split between performance and contemplation. When it finally concluded, Charlie walked me back to the reception area.
"Off the record," he said quietly as we reached the elevators, "you're their frontrunner. Your work on The Proposition really impressed Elise, and she's not easily impressed."
Hope flared, unexpected and almost unwelcome in its intensity. "Thanks for putting my name forward."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you've spent six months living out of a suitcase." He grinned. "But you'd be great for this, Ryan. Think about it seriously."
As if I'd been thinking of anything else.

The brownstone was uncharacteristically quiet when I returned. No piano from the library, no voices practicing scales, none of Dorian's dramatic proclamations echoing through the halls. Just stillness, the kind that feels like held breath.
I shed the interview armor—jacket hung precisely as Dorian had instructed, tie loosened, top button undone with a sigh of relief. The kitchen yielded no signs of recent activity, though a half-empty coffee pot suggested someone had been home not long ago.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice sounding strangely tentative in the quiet house.
No response. I checked my phone—no messages explaining absences. Perhaps they'd all gone out together, some spontaneous excursion while I'd been selling myself to Hamilton.
The thought made my chest tighten in a way I didn't care to examine.
I poured the remaining coffee, grimacing at its tepid temperature but drinking it anyway. The silence felt accusatory somehow, as if the house itself questioned my potential departure. I'd lived here for two years, since Braden had first invited me to share the space he'd inherited. Before Dorian joined us. Before Andy. Long before Nadia arrived and transformed our household into something none of us had anticipated.
Wandering into the living room, I found traces of morning activity—scattered sheet music, a forgotten sweater draped over a chair, an empty water glass on the side table. The familiar detritus of our shared life. Would London feel like this? Or would it be a pale imitation, missing essential components?
The sound of the front door opening interrupted my thoughts. A moment later, Andy appeared in the doorway, looking slightly windblown and carrying several shopping bags.
"You're back," he said, setting down his burdens. "How did it go?"
"Well, I think." I hesitated. "Charlie says I'm the frontrunner."
Andy nodded, his expression friendly but neutral. "That's great. Congratulations."
"It's not definite yet," I reminded him—and myself. "They're interviewing others."
"But you want it." Not a question.
I met his gaze directly. "I'm considering it seriously."
He moved to the kitchen, unpacking his bags with methodical precision. I followed, leaning against the doorframe as he arranged groceries in their designated spaces—pasta in the left cupboard, coffee beside the tea, produce in the proper drawers. Andy's systems extended throughout the brownstone, creating order from the chaos the rest of us might otherwise generate.
"Where is everyone?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Braden got a call from Vandercant about some changes to tonight's performance. They all went to the theater early." He placed a carton of eggs in the refrigerator with particular care. "They should be back around six."
"Nadia went too?"
"Something about wanting to work with the pianist on a tempo issue." Andy closed the refrigerator door. "Just us for a few hours."
I nodded, watching as he organized the remaining groceries with practiced efficiency. Andy was the quietest of our household, often overshadowed by Dorian's theatrics or my own bluntness. But his steady reliability had become essential to our unconventional family.
"I bought ingredients for dinner," he continued. "Thought I'd make that pasta you like."
"The one with the spicy sausage?"
He nodded. "Figured you deserved a decent meal after surviving an interview in actual formal attire."
"Hey, I clean up okay," I protested, though without heat.
"You do," he agreed simply. "Dorian's handiwork with your hair?"
I ran a hand through it, destroying whatever artful styling remained. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who knows how much you hate product in your hair." He moved past me, reaching for cutting boards and knives. "Want to help with dinner? Or are you still in recovery from corporate interaction?"
"I can chop things without emotional damage."
"High praise." He handed me an onion and a knife. "Quarter-inch dice, please."
We worked in compatible silence—Andy managing multiple elements at once while I focused on the specific tasks he assigned. This was our pattern, established long before Nadia arrived and our household transformed into its current constellation. We'd spent countless evenings like this, cooking together while sharing the events of our days.
"You're thinking loudly," Andy observed, stirring something that smelled increasingly delicious.
"Professional hazard. Sound engineers are always listening."
He gave me a sidelong glance. "To what, exactly?"
I hesitated, knife pausing over a half-chopped onion. "Do you think it's crazy? This Hamilton tour idea?"
Andy continued stirring, his expression thoughtful. "No. It makes perfect sense for you professionally. European tour experience would be valuable. And the timing is... convenient."
"The timing being that three-fifths of our household might relocate to London."
"Precisely." He adjusted the heat under the pan. "You've finished with that onion, by the way."
I pushed the cutting board toward him, watching as he swept the diced onion into the pan with practiced efficiency. "And you're okay with potentially being the only one left here?"
Andy was quiet for a moment, focused on the cooking process. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured.
"I wouldn't say 'okay' is the right word. But the performing arts center project runs at least through next spring. I've made commitments I can't simply abandon." He stirred the sauce, adding a splash of wine with precise measurement. "Life rarely arranges itself to our perfect convenience."
"Dorian said almost the same thing this morning."
"Dorian occasionally stumbles into wisdom despite himself." A small smile accompanied the observation. "Besides, London isn't Mars. Flights are frequent. Technology exists. We would adapt."
The carefully controlled practicality of his response made me appreciate Andy's steady presence in our household. Always the reasonable one, finding solutions where others found drama.
"It's not ideal," I said.
"No." He looked up then, meeting my eyes directly. "But neither is watching the rest of you leave while declining an opportunity that could advance your career significantly. That's an unacceptable alternative."
The kitchen felt temporarily weighted with unspoken considerations. Before I could respond, the front door opened with a bang, shattering the moment with Dorian's distinctive theatrical entrance.
"Darlings, we've returned bearing news both magnificent and concerning!" he announced, sweeping into the kitchen with Nadia and Braden following in his wake. "Oh, something smells divine. Andy, you've outdone yourself again."
My attention immediately fixed on Nadia. She looked flushed with excitement, her hair twisted up in the messy bun she favored for rehearsals, eyes bright with whatever news they carried. Something in my chest eased at the sight of her.
"What's the news?" Andy asked, turning back to his cooking with practiced composure.
"Vandercant has invited London casting directors to tonight's performance," Nadia explained, helping herself to a piece of bread from the counter. "They're specifically coming to see the three of us before the formal audition next week."
Her eyes met mine across the kitchen, a private message in her glance—excitement mixed with nervous anticipation. I gave her a small nod of encouragement.
"Which is both thrilling and terrifying," Dorian added. "My understudy nearly wept with joy when I demanded an additional hour of rehearsal time."
Braden, quieter as always, moved to the refrigerator for water. "How did the interview go?" he asked, glancing at me.
"Well, I think. No definitive answer yet."
"But positive indications," Andy supplied. "He's their frontrunner."
"Marvelous!" Dorian exclaimed. "Our plan for world domination proceeds apace. Three Phantom principals and a lighting director for Hamilton. We shall conquer London by Christmas."
"You're getting ahead of yourself," Braden cautioned. "None of us has been cast yet."
"Details," Dorian dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Tonight's performance will seal our fates. Which reminds me—Nadia, you simply must let me help with your makeup this evening. If you're to be seen by London casting directors, we must ensure you look properly luminous."
Nadia rolled her eyes, but affectionately. "Fine. But no false eyelashes this time. They felt like spiders all night."
"Such dramatics," Dorian sighed. "One would think you were the actor among us." He turned, noticing my attire for the first time. "Ryan! You're still wearing the interview suit! And you've completely destroyed my careful styling of your hair, but we shall address that travesty another time. How did Elise Michaels receive you? She has a reputation for terrifying competence."
As the conversation swirled around London prospects and tonight's performance, I found myself watching Nadia—the animated way she gestured when excited, the subtle shifts in her expression as she listened to Dorian's theatrical pronouncements, the sidelong glances she occasionally sent in my direction. In the months since our arrangement began, I'd memorized these details, finding unexpected pleasure in knowing her so thoroughly.
Nadia caught me watching and slipped away from the general conversation, moving to stand beside me at the counter.
"So, Hamilton in Europe?" she asked quietly, her shoulder brushing mine. "That's a big move."
"Says the woman auditioning for the West End."
She smiled, the private smile that appeared only in unguarded moments. "We could be in London together."
"We could." I matched her hushed tone, our conversation a bubble separate from the others. "If we both get the jobs."
"We will." Her certainty ignited a fire in my core that blazed through my veins. "We're too good not to. And then we'll have London all to ourselves."
"I've never lived in London," I admitted.
She slipped her hand into mine beneath the counter, but didn't stop there. Her fingers traveled up my wrist, then down to my thigh, her touch deliberate and possessive. "We'll get lost in Soho together after midnight," she whispered, her lips so close to my ear I could feel the heat of her breath. "You'll design lights for the stage while I perform. And after the curtain falls..."
Her hand squeezed my thigh, dangerously high. "After the curtain falls, I'll be waiting in your dressing room, still in costume at first. You'll peel it off me, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but skin and want." Her voice dropped even lower. "You'll take me against the wall, with the last of the stage makeup still on my face and your name on my lips."
Blood rushed from my head so quickly I felt dizzy. I fought to maintain control as memories from our last night together flooded back—her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails scoring my back, the way she'd trembled when I'd tasted between her thighs. I shifted uncomfortably, grateful for the counter's concealment.
"I'll make you come so hard the whole theater will hear," I promised, my voice a ragged whisper. "Just like that night in the lighting booth."
Her pupils dilated, a flush creeping up her neck at the reminder. That night I'd bent her over the control panel, one hand covering her mouth to muffle her cries while the other worked between her legs, bringing her to the edge again and again until she begged for release.
"London won't know what hit it," she breathed, her hand inching higher until her fingertips brushed against the unmistakable evidence of my arousal. The brief, forbidden contact nearly undid me there in the kitchen.
"Perfect," I agreed, my voice thick with need. I reluctantly caught her wandering hand before things progressed past the point of no return, even as every cell in my body screamed in protest.
Dorian swept back into our conversational orbit, oblivious to the primal tension crackling between us. "Nadia, darling, we must discuss your second act costume. If they're seeing you specifically for Christine, we should subtly emphasize the parallel without being painfully obvious about it."
She allowed herself to be pulled away, but not before meeting my eyes with naked hunger. Her gaze deliberately traced down my body, a visual caress that promised delicious retribution for stopping her exploration. We would continue this later, that looked said. When the others were asleep. When I could bury myself inside her and make her scream my name into the darkness.
I shifted again, painfully hard and aching with anticipation. London's stages could wait. Tonight, I would worship every inch of her body until she came apart beneath me, around me, because of me.
As Dorian led Nadia away, his enthusiastic chatter about costumes and staging faded into background noise. My body remained tense with anticipation, the phantom sensation of her touch lingering on my thigh. I forced myself to focus on mundane kitchen tasks, helping Andy with dinner preparations while my mind raced with vivid images of what tonight might bring.
Throughout dinner, Nadia maintained perfect composure, discussing the upcoming performance with professional detachment. But beneath the table, her stockinged foot occasionally brushed against my ankle, each seemingly innocent contact a deliberate reminder of our unfinished business.
The others remained oblivious to our silent communication - the loaded glances, the way her lips lingered on her wine glass, how she deliberately licked chocolate from her finger after dessert while holding my gaze. Every gesture was calculated to wind me tighter, to ensure I wouldn't forget her earlier promises.
As the evening progressed and preparations for the performance intensified, we found ourselves momentarily alone in the hallway. I pulled her into the shadows, pressing her against the wall.
"You're playing with fire," I murmured against her neck, inhaling her perfume.
She arched against me, her body fitting perfectly against mine. "Maybe I want to get burned," she whispered back, her hand boldly cupping me through my pants. "I love watching you try to keep control when we both know you're seconds from losing it."
"Tonight," I promised, reluctantly pulling away as I heard Braden's footsteps approaching. "After the show. No interruptions."
Her smile was wicked with anticipation. "I'm counting on it."
The theater awaited. London beckoned. But first, we had a different performance to perfect - one with just two players and no audience at all.