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Every casting announcement.
Every playbill.
Every review that mentioned her voice.
Like it was some kind of miracle.
But none of that compares to hearing her sing in person again.
Not even close.
Carter’s private stage makes it even more unreal.
The bastard spared no expense.
The performance wing used to be an arboretum, and instead of tearing it out when he renovated the mansion, he built the stage around it.
Real trees still grow through pockets of soil cut directly into the marble floor.
Their branches stretch up toward the massive glass ceiling thirty feet above us, catching the afternoon light like something out of a dream.
It’s quiet in here.
Peaceful.
And the acoustics?
Fuck me.
Every note Amanda sings floats through the space like it was meant to live here.
She looks like a goddamn fairy standing under those lights.
And she’s not even dressed for the show yet.
We literally just got off the plane.
No makeup.
No costume.
Her hair is still loose from traveling.
It doesn’t matter.
She’s stunning.
And that voice?
It still knocks the air right out of my lungs.
It’s the same voice that wrecked me the first night I heard it.
Three years ago.
Some dive bar in Queens.
It was the middle of the night, the kind of place where the beer taps stick and the neon lights buzz like dying insects.
