“You never did have much of an imagination, Wickham.” Darcy emerges from behind the curtain. The sight of him is enough to get my insides coiling, but Wickham’s reaction provides a very different kind of pleasure.

His nostrils flare, his posture going stiff, his eyes widening as the dots connect. He swallows hard. “Pem-Pemberley?” He seems to choke on the name.

I just grin.

“You really think you can get in on this?” he spits. His eyes dart frantically from Darcy to me. “You think there’s room for two?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” I say as Darcy comes to stand beside me. “In any case, we’re set to open in two months. And from what I hear, you haven’t even gotten started on remodeling at Meryton, no?”

Wickham’s jaw goes slack.

“How’s the talent search going, Wickham?” I screw up my face in a mockery of sympathy. “Having a hard time finding folks to join you? Like, maybe word’s gotten out that you’re a conniving asshole and they might want to think twice before signing with you?”

Wickham frowns, brows drawn as though something he’s been trying to piece together has fallen into place—and he doesn’t like where it’s landed.

“How about staffing?” I step closer. Wickham steps back. “You weren’t able to put up money to retain the Meryton crew during renos. And, again, there’s the small detail of your lack of integrity, so any good-faith offer on your part might not be enough to make them stick around.”

“We have the talent. We have the staff. We have twice the occupancy . . .” Darcy looks at me expectantly.

I smile, reveling in anticipation of the coup de grâce. “And we have my concept. You snagged the wrong sketch, man. What we’ve done to Pemberley? With the lake? And those ceilings!” I press my hand to my heart. “Ginn can tell you. Aerial performances there are epic.”

Wickham’s face purples.

“So did I find another show?” My voice goes dark. “No. I made one.”

A pop of static comes from beyond the curtain, followed by the intro to “All That Jazz.” The playful tune adds to the surreality of the moment. My moment. The rush is better than performing, surpassing invincibility. I am vibrating with triumph.

Wickham still hasn’t moved. I don’t even think he’s breathing.

“That’s the spirit, Wick,” says Darcy. “Bennet, do you need anything else or do you want to press on?”

I’d love to keep staring down Wickham, to watch him have to slink away or wait to see if any of that groveling I’ve imagined ends up taking place. But this closing beat is too good to pass up. I take Darcy’s hand and he beams at me, eyes alight with heat and something like pride.