Saturday, November 9, 2024. Los Angeles, CA.

The heavy wooden door slams shut, muffling the chords of Dreams, by Fleetwood Mac. A beam of light cuts through the dark, and the sound of the latch echoes through the almost empty bar.

She doesn't walk in, she struts, stiletto heels clicking against the worn floorboards, her bare legs drawing the eye up to the hem of her black satin dress, which clings to her body like a second skin.

My posture stiffens. Without turning my neck, I adjust my shoulders, and the stool creaks under my weight. The stained mirror behind the bottles shows the whole scene. The brim of my cap dips an inch, enough to mask the ice-blue of my irises, but not my view.

Champagne hair falls in waves over her shoulders, a Renaissance painting set against the grit of Los Angeles. Confidence walks in first. She ignores the few stares in the room, not out of arrogance, but out of training. She walks to the bar and stops two stools away. The air turns heavy, thick with a vanilla scent that doesn't belong to old wood and stale beer. I sink my chin into my collar. Stay invisible.

But she turns her face toward the counter light, and invisibility becomes irrelevant. Recognition lands like a punch.

Madeleine. The ghost from Dylan's stories, Thomas's best friend. "Mad" always sounded like a stupid tabloid nickname, until I saw her in person. What the hell is she doing in my refuge?

"Maddie, what are you doing here?" Magnus's voice breaks her silence.

My jaw clenches. I shift my gaze, studying the amber liquid. I'm an actor. I recognize when someone is acting. And she's delivering the performance of her life.

The old bartender, whose default expression swings between indifference and hostility, breaks into a smile I've never seen on him. Magnus comes around the counter, wiping his hands on his apron, arms thrown open, embracing the expensive satin and the untouchable woman like she's his own flesh and blood.

"Magnus, it's been too long..." Her answer comes out raspy against his shoulder. A slight crack in her voice that makes me tilt my head.

I shouldn't be listening. But observing human behavior is a vice, and right now, I'm addicted to the scene unfolding beside me.

"Happy birthday!" Magnus pulls back to hold her hands with a familiarity that puts me on edge. "And I'm so sorry, my dear. Your grandfather meant a great deal to me."

The contrast is violent. Congratulations and condolences in the same breath. Madeleine pulls her hands free and goes straight for her own finger. The ring spins. I bring mine to the mark my wedding band left, now just a lighter patch on my skin.

"Merci..." Her tone drops to absolute zero. Cold. Mechanical. And it works.

"You've been too busy to stop by, haven't you?" His playful tone works. He gets a quick laugh out of her. "The usual?"

Magnus is already heading back behind the counter, reaching for the glass.

"Yes, please. With lots of ice."

She slides onto the high stool, her posture natural yet sculpted. She sets her designer bag on the dirty counter without a second thought. Close enough to be noticed. Far enough to stay in control. The counter light climbs her face. High cheekbones, the straight nose of the bloodline. But her skin is thin, the veins run underneath, and the violet under her eyes was covered by someone who knew what they were doing.

Madeleine Bennett. "L'Ange Blond", Hollywood's blond angel, devoured and spat back out. Child star, prodigy singer, a whole childhood stolen by spotlights.

I force my eyes back to the old TV in the corner, trying to find my focus again, but my peripheral vision betrays me.