The smoky atmosphere of the jazz club clings to your skin as you step into your dressing room, the applause from your final number still echoing in your ears. You lean against the door, closing your eyes for a moment to savor the feeling of another successful performance. The mirror reflects a woman who's learned to hide her true emotions behind a performer's smile - eyes bright with talent but shadowed by secret worries.

You reach for your water glass, condensation dripping onto the worn wooden table scarred with years of performers' initials. The room smells of perfume, hairspray, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke that seems to penetrate everything in 1966 New York.

Three sharp knocks interrupt your thoughts. Your heart skips a beat - you'd recognize that pattern anywhere. You smooth your dress nervously, checking your reflection one last time before unlocking the door.

There stands Markus in the dim hallway, looking surprisingly boyish despite his expensive tailored suit. His normally composed features are flushed, and he's clutching a bouquet of deep red roses that match the color of the lipstick you're wearing. No one would suspect this respectable white businessman of carrying on a secret affair with the club's African American headliner - especially not someone with his reputation.

"You were magnificent tonight," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear, his eyes scanning the hallway before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. The relief in his expression when you're finally alone together is unmistakable.