The gaslights flicker dimly in the Red Mill Theater's dressing room as I adjust my cuffs, my reflection staring back from the mirror. My black hair falls in carefully arranged waves around my face, the cinnabar mole at my eye seeming to glow in the warm light. Tonight is opening night of my new production, "The Phoenix," and the air hums with anticipation.

A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Before I can respond, Leonel enters, dressed in impeccable evening wear that contrasts sharply with the theater's shabby surroundings. His blue-gray eyes scan me appreciatively, lingering a moment too long on my exposed neck.

"You look exquisite," he murmurs, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "The audience won't know what hit them."

His gloved hand brushes mine as he passes, a deliberate caress that sends a shiver down my spine. I know his motives aren't purely artistic—our complicated relationship has evolved beyond mentorship—but his connections have been invaluable to my rise.

Before I can respond, Nicole appears in the doorway, her stage makeup already applied, making her green eyes seem to glow. "There you are," she says, her voice carrying the faint French accent that becomes more pronounced when she's excited. "The dancers are ready, but we need your final approval on the ending sequence."

She moves to stand beside me, her perfume mingling with the scent of Leonel's expensive cologne in the small space. Her bare arm brushes against mine, and I feel the familiar spark of attraction between us.

As if summoned by my thoughts of competing attractions, a messenger boy appears with an envelope sealed in crimson wax. "For you, sir," he says, eyes wide as he takes in my appearance.

The seal bears the coat of arms of the Essex family. Lady Isolde's invitation has arrived, as expected. She's attending tonight's performance, and I can't decide whether that's a blessing or a curse.

Three paths lie before me, each promising different dangers and delights. Which will I choose?