Chapter 85 ：London Nights（1）

Nadia's POV
London rain fell in gentle persistence against the bedroom window, creating a silver backdrop to my reflection in the mirror. Two weeks in London, and already the city had begun to seep into my skin—its rhythms, its weather, its particular energy so different from New York's aggressive pulse.
I studied my appearance with professional assessment—the sleek black dress Dorian had insisted was "absolutely essential for proper West End integration," the careful makeup that highlighted without overwhelming, the subtle jewelry that suggested sophistication rather than ostentation. Tonight marked our first official appearance at a West End industry event—a pre-production reception for the Phantom revival, introduction to London's theatrical establishment.
A soft knock at the bedroom door pulled me from self-scrutiny.
"Are you decent?" Braden's voice, measured and controlled as always.
"Depends on who you ask," I replied with a smile he couldn't see. "But I'm dressed, if that's what you mean."
He entered, already impeccable in tailored charcoal suit that emphasized his height and broad shoulders. His eyes swept over me with appreciation that transcended our long familiarity.
"You look stunning," he said simply.
"Passable?"
"Extraordinary." He crossed the room, stopping just behind me, our eyes meeting in the mirror's reflection. "The West End won't know what hit it."
His hands settled lightly on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. The simple touch generated complex response—comfort and desire interwoven in familiar pattern. Of my four relationships, the one with Braden had always carried particular gravity—perhaps because it had been first, perhaps because he'd offered sanctuary when I most needed it, perhaps because beneath his controlled exterior ran unexpected emotional depths.
"Nervous?" he asked, reading micro-expressions in my reflection.
"A little," I admitted. "These people have been doing Phantom for decades. We're the American interlopers."
"We're the fresh perspective they specifically sought," he corrected, his thumbs tracing small circles at the base of my neck, finding tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. "Victor Blackwood and Sophia Mercer didn't cast us despite our being American—they cast us because we bring something new."
I leaned into his touch, allowing his certainty to steady my nerves. "Always so practical."
"One of us should be." His lips curved in rarely-seen smile. "Balance your artistic temperament."
"Is that what you do?" I turned to face him directly, my hands finding his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate slightly beneath expensive fabric. "Balance me?"
"Among other things." His voice dropped lower, the controlled tone acquiring edge of something deeper, more primal.
I rose on tiptoes, bringing our faces level, close enough to share breath. "What other things?"
Instead of answering, he kissed me—not the measured, controlled kiss that characterized our public interactions, but something rawer, more honest. His hands slid from my shoulders to my waist, pulling me against him with uncharacteristic urgency.
I responded with equal intensity, fingers threading through his carefully styled hair, deliberately disrupting its perfection. Against me, I felt his body's immediate response, familiar yet always thrilling—the evidence that beneath Braden's rigid self-control ran rivers of genuine passion.
"We'll be late," he murmured against my mouth, even as his hands traced the curve of my spine.
"Fashionably so," I countered, nipping at his lower lip. "Isn't that expected of artists?"
His laugh, rare and genuine, vibrated against me. "Not of this artist." But he made no move to separate, his hands continuing their exploration, finding the zipper at the back of my dress with practiced ease.
"Braden Williams, are you suggesting we be unprofessional?" I teased, arching against him as his fingers traced the newly exposed skin of my back.
"I'm suggesting—" he began, but was interrupted by Dorian's theatrical entrance, door flung wide without preliminary knock.
"Darlings, the car arrives in fifteen minutes and—" He paused, taking in our embrace, the partially lowered zipper, our flushed faces. "Well! Pre-event celebration already in progress, I see."
Instead of embarrassed separation, Braden surprised me by maintaining his hold, turning only his head to address the intrusion. "Knocking remains customary, Dorian."
"Unnecessary formality among intimates," Dorian dismissed with characteristic flourish. "Besides, if I waited for proper invitation, I'd miss half the interesting developments in this household."
The complaint carried no real criticism—our unconventional arrangement had long since established its own protocols, its particular balance of privacy and shared experience. Dorian's theatrical timing, however, remained occasionally inconvenient.
"Did you need something specific?" Braden asked, his hands still warm against my skin.
"Merely timeline confirmation and appreciation of preparatory aesthetics," Dorian replied, making no move to leave. His eyes traveled over us with unabashed admiration. "Which I've now received in abundance. Please, continue your... sartorial adjustments. Though I recommend restraint in timeline consideration."
With dramatic wink, he withdrew, leaving the door conspicuously ajar—partial privacy being his particular compromise between interruption and departure.
"Restraint," Braden repeated with subtle irony once Dorian's footsteps had receded. "His specialty, clearly."
"Never has been," I agreed, reluctantly stepping back, turning to present my partially unzipped dress. "Though in this case, he's probably right. We should finish getting ready."
Braden's fingers lingered at my zipper, drawing it up with deliberate slowness, his knuckles tracing my spine in feather-light contact that sent shivers across my skin. "To be continued," he promised, his voice carrying rare suggestion of anticipation that quickened my pulse despite the necessary delay.
"I'll hold you to that," I replied, turning to straighten his tie, deliberately allowing my fingers to brush his throat, feeling his response in the subtle tension that ran through him.
Our temporary London flat had required significant adjustment to our household patterns. The compression of space necessitated new negotiations, new boundaries, new forms of interaction. Where the brownstone had allowed physical separation when needed, London quarters created constant awareness, constant proximity.
Not that any of us particularly minded this compression. In some ways, it had intensified our connections, forced new appreciations, created unexpected configurations. What we'd lost in personal space we'd gained in collective intimacy.
I finished adjusting Braden's tie, smoothed his lapels, and reached up to fix his hair where my fingers had disarranged it. "Presentable again," I declared, stepping back to assess the results.
"As are you," he replied, though his eyes suggested he preferred the slightly disheveled version of moments earlier. "Shall we join the others?"
In the living area, Dorian held center position, regaling Ryan with elaborate commentary on British theatrical hierarchies and social protocols. Both men looked exceptional in their evening attire—Dorian in characteristic theatrical elegance, Ryan in surprising sophistication that transformed his usual rugged appearance.
"The vision appears complete," Dorian declared upon our entrance. "Our quartet assembled in appropriate splendor for London society's critical assessment."
"It's a production reception, not a royal audience," Ryan pointed out dryly, though his eyes lingered on me with unmistakable appreciation.
"In theatrical London, darling, they're practically equivalent," Dorian insisted. "First impressions establish essential positioning within social and professional hierarchies."
Despite his dramatic framing, Dorian's underlying point held validity. Tonight's event would introduce us formally to London's theatrical establishment—not merely the Phantom production team, but critics, fellow performers, the interconnected network that comprised West End society. The impression we created would influence professional perceptions beyond our immediate production context.
Ryan crossed to where I stood, his assessment more direct than Braden's measured appreciation or Dorian's theatrical accolades. "You look incredible," he said simply, the straightforward compliment carrying particular weight from someone who generally disdained excessive commentary.
"Thank you," I replied, equally direct. "You clean up pretty well yourself."
His smile, slightly crooked and entirely genuine, created familiar warmth low in my belly. Where Braden's attraction manifested in controlled intensity and Dorian's in theatrical appreciation, Ryan's appeared in unvarnished desire—direct, physical, unobscured by pretense or performance.
"The car should be arriving momentarily," Braden announced, checking his watch with characteristic precision. "We should proceed downstairs."
"Another opening, another show," Dorian declared theatrically, leading our procession with characteristic flourish.
The hired car delivered us to the Savoy Hotel with perfect timing, London traffic having cooperated unusually well with Braden's meticulous schedule. The venue's elegant entrance welcomed us with understated luxury, doormen in traditional uniform creating immediate sense of occasion.
Inside, the reception occupied a private event space overlooking the Thames, the London skyline providing dramatic backdrop to theatrical gathering. Production staff and existing company members already circulated with practiced sociability, while bartenders served champagne with professional efficiency.
"Maintain consistent proximity without excessive demonstrativeness," Braden murmured as we entered, his hand resting lightly against my lower back. "Unified presence while establishing individual professional identities."
The guidance reflected our careful negotiation of public presentation—how our unconventional private arrangement would translate into professional context. For this evening, we'd established specific parameters: Braden and I would present as a conventional couple, while Dorian and Ryan would appear as close friends and colleagues. The full complexity of our arrangement remained private, irrelevant to professional relationships.
Geoffrey Thornfield, the resident director, approached immediately upon noticing our arrival. "Ah, our American contingent! Welcome, welcome. Delighted you could join us."