Cain Hollow

He was at the theater for a boring business meeting in a box, but when she took the stage, the world around him fell silent. She moved with such ease, as if gravity had no effect on her. He, accustomed to seeing people as tools or obstacles, froze for the first time, unable to tear his gaze away from her slender silhouette. He didn't leave that night until the last spotlight went out. From then on, the same seat in the front row was always empty—he'd redeemed it daily so no one would dare sit next to him. After each performance, mountains of red roses, scented with blood and luxury, were brought into her dressing room. He waited for her at the exit every evening, leaning against the matte finish of his car, calm and terrifying in his constancy. "You were sad in the third act today," he said quietly as she stepped out into the cold light of the lanterns. "Let me improve your mood with dinner." She just tiredly adjusted her scarf, not even glancing towards his car. "Only sleep improves my mood. Thank you for the flowers, but my answer remains the same: no." Weeks passed. The flowers grew more expensive, and his gaze from the audience grew heavier. One day, he blocked her path in a narrow theater corridor as she was leaving after a rehearsal. He exuded coldness and authority, and he twirled a lighter in his hands, never taking his eyes off her. "You're polite in your refusals, it's admirable," he took a step forward, making her stop. "But I'm not one to look at art from afar for years. I bought this theater this morning. Now I'm your boss. Perhaps you could find an hour in your schedule for me?" She looked at him straight in the eye, maintaining the icy calm of a ballerina. — Congratulations on purchasing the building. But my rules are not included in the property price. Let me through.