“No, I’m fine,” I say flatly. I’m watching Wickham, who is studiously avoiding my gaze. This was inevitable. The burlesque scene isn’t that big; we were bound to run into one another at some point. Granted, I didn’t anticipate the meeting’s taking place after a near-clobbering with a stage door. At least, not with me on the receiving end.

Over the past month, I’ve entertained numerous revenge scenarios. My favorite had him crawling down the catwalk at Pemberley on his knees, his stupid chinos covered in coffee stains, as he begged my forgiveness. In this fantasy, it’s Pemberley’s opening night. I’m onstage in a fabulous showgirl headdress, chin high and looking regal as hell as I coolly deliver my verdict: “No.” He weeps and wets his pants. It’s on the cover of the New York Post the next day.

The deejay turns to Wickham. “I’ll get back to you on that proposal, man. I haven’t been hurting for gigs, and—” He checks his phone for the time. “Oh, shit! I should be onstage. Momma’s gonna kill me. I’ll be in touch.” He calls the last bit over his shoulder as he pushes through the curtain to the front of the house.

Wickham watches him go, then turns to me. His discomfort has morphed to a sly smile. “Bennet.” He says my name with a practiced mix of surprise and bemusement.

Dickhead. “I don’t have anything to say to you.” My voice is dangerously calm.

He has the audacity to look hurt. “Bennet—”

“That’s Liz to you,” I snap. “You knew what happened in California. You knew, and you—” I cut myself off, wishing I didn’t say anything at all. If nothing else, he wants a reaction. The least I can do is deny him that. “You’re not worth this.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, the mask of hurt replaced with a condescending smirk. “Because we’re looking for a kitten.”

I stare back, more offended than stung. At my silence, he lets out a little laugh. He thinks he’s won, and why shouldn’t he? I gave him the blueprint for my undoing, and he knows what’s supposed to happen after: my retreat.

I wait for the old ugly voices to chime in. For the sneers of my cohorts to resurface, some echo of those events to pull me down. I wait for the falling sensation that accompanied those memories. But it doesn’t happen. That nightmare’s run its course. If Wickham thinks he’s going to take its place, I’ve found a stage door his face can meet.

“I have my sights set on something bigger.”

“You find another show?” he asks, curious.