In the grand auditorium of the Metropolitan Opera House, crystal chandeliers bathed the gilded dome in dazzling brilliance. Golden light spilled onto the velvet boxes, refracting a halo of luxury over the patrons below.
Shane stood near the velvet curtain of a second-floor box, fingertips lightly tapping the freshly delivered copy of TheTimes. The front-page headline declared:
"Chaplin's Latest Release Sparks Frenzy — 19,000 Tickets Sold Out in 24 Hours."
Below it, a slightly blurred photograph showed dense crowds forming a winding line outside the Leicester Square. Police had deployed temporary barriers for crowd control, while officers carefully navigated the throng.
"Crocker has finally learned to bow his head," Noël Coward's voice came from behind, his tailored burgundy velvet evening suit sharp against the dim light, a miniature camera-shaped brooch pinned to his lapel.
Shane did not turn, eyes fixed on the main floor, where Crocker lingered awkwardly outside the box of a prominent industrialist, beads of sweat glistening on his iron-grey temples. He clutched a bouquet of precisely wrapped red roses, pacing nervously, adjusting his bow tie repeatedly yet avoiding any step toward the door.
"Half an hour early," Shane murmured, glancing at the citizen complaint column in the paper about the long queues. "It seems the VIP invitation was even more effective than anticipated."
At some point, Ivor Novello had sidled over, champagne glass in hand. "Just came from backstage," he said with a playful smile. "Professor Monkton is fiercely debating projector speed with the technical director; their voices carry all the way to the orchestra pit."
A commotion erupted below. Lady Diana Cooper entered elegantly, arm-in-arm with a silver-haired gentleman. The pearl necklace at her throat glimmered softly, while the crest on her fan shimmered subtly as she moved.
"The industrialist has arrived," Coward whispered, amusement in his tone. "Just in time to witness Crocker's… awkward exchange."
Downstairs, Crocker stumbled, almost dropping the roses. The gentleman—the industrialist himself—frowned, clearly unimpressed by the interruption.
"The timing is perfect," Shane noted, glancing at his Patek Philippe. "The reporter in the next box can cover the spectacle of the ticket queues tomorrow."
Lawrence appeared beside him, her black pearls forming a graceful arc. "The Duchess told me everyone in New York is debating who got tickets," she whispered, voice low and mysterious. "She's curious about the American businessman who stirred such a sensation overseas."
Crocker was finally escorted away by a waiter. His suit remained impeccable, yet his posture exuded defeat. As he passed the main hall, his gaze met Shane's, downward but calculating.
Coward clinked his glass with a crisp note. "To digital magic."
"To the true art of social maneuvering," Shane replied, raising his glass, a faint smile playing on his lips.
The chandeliers dimmed, signaling the start of the performance. Crocker's hand hesitated on the box door, revealing the unnatural tension of a man usually composed.
The golden velvet curtain rose, and the orchestra played Verdi's La Traviata. In the shadows, Crocker loosened his tie, sweat forming along his forehead. On stage, Violetta's voice soared; in the box, the monologue of failure quietly unfolded.
As the curtain fell and applause surged, Shane caressed the newspaper recording the sales triumph, satisfaction in his expression.
Mikhail appeared quietly behind him. "Sir, Crocker left in a hurry—knocked over a waiter's tray, but his car is still in the lot."
Shane's gaze swept over Professor Monkton, who animatedly discussed projector mechanics with the industrialist, cane tracing air diagrams.
"It seems our professor exceeded expectations," Coward noted, toying with a cufflink.
A stir came from the VIP section. The Times art editor, notebook filled, had recorded every detail of the unprecedented ticket frenzy.
Lawrence raised her champagne. "Tomorrow's front page will declare: 'A Single Ticket Is Hard to Come By.' Truly a first."
After the performance, Shane walked through the exit corridor lined with portraits of performers. In a corner dressing mirror, Crocker adjusted his tie, looking more exhausted than ever.
"A splendid performance, wasn't it?" Shane remarked.
Crocker froze, knuckles white. After a pause, a dry chuckle escaped him. "Splendid… very splendid."
He handed Shane a gold-embossed envelope, its honeyed glow catching the dim light. His pinky trembled. "The seating chart… has been rearranged per your request."
His gaze met Shane's in the mirror. "Seems we underestimated your sensitivity to numbers." Each word sliced sharply, coated in ice.
Back at the Hotel Savoy, Shane's eight-day chain clock pointed to one in the morning. Among telegrams scattered on the desk, one from New York stood out:
"Brother, I miss you. When are you coming home? — Mary"
Shane's fingers caressed the paper as if feeling the tremor of his sister Mary's handwriting.
"Soon," he whispered to the empty room, voice echoing softly, dissipating into the damp London night.