Madamina (Ch 18)

Wherein the stage rises, the body answers, and the line between torment and devotion blurs beautifully out of focus.

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The car slid into motion, city lights blurring into streaks across the tinted windows. Harold reached forward without a word and pressed the button to raise the partition. The sound of it gliding shut was soft and definitive, a quiet sealing off of the world outside.

Something about the specter of Don Giovanni—the architecture of its seductions, the dark gleam beneath its wit—returned him to himself. Opera always did this to him: restored his sense of scale, lent him a scholar’s armor and a libertine’s license in equal measure. For the first time all evening, he felt more like himself than the man fumbling after mints in Eva’s kitchen.

He turned back to Eva. She watched him, head alluringly tilted, one brow lifted in silent question. As usual, she saw everything, but gave him space to speak his mind on his own terms. He chose not to. Instead, he slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew a small, matte-black jewelry box.

“One more thing,” he said.

He opened the lid.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, lay a pair of silver nipple clamps, fine-banded and elegant in design. The metal gleamed faintly in the cabin’s low light, the soft rubber tips belying their bite. Eva’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.

He lifted the first clamp, holding it between his fingers like a delicate instrument. His gaze found hers—asking without asking. Eva slid her dress straps off her shoulders and eased her bra down, baring her breasts to the cool air of the car. She kept her eyes on him the entire time.

Harold affixed the first clamp with meticulous control—just tight enough to stay, not yet tight enough to sting. Even so, the cold kiss of the metal against her areolae made her inhale sharply. That small, involuntary sound curled heat low in his abdomen. He repeated the gesture on the other side, and though the second clamp was no harsher than the first, Eva’s body reacted as if it were.

He cupped both breasts in his hands, warmth enclosing the cool metal. For a long moment he simply admired her—the contrast of silver against skin, the faint trembling in her breath, the quiet reverence of the pose she held for him. Then he let go.

“Present them,” he said.

Eva arched her back, offering herself more openly. She placed her hands where his had just been, framing her own breasts as if holding forth a present. Harold sat back, satisfied.

“Good,” he said. “Remember the conversation we had yesterday, about my love of opera?”

“Yes,” Eva replied, a note of question in her voice.

“Excellent.” His tone sharpened slightly. “We’re going to play a little game. Something to get your mind off—” he paused, jaw tightening ever so slightly, “—clowns.”

Eva’s mouth twitched despite her best efforts. She bit the inside of her lip to keep her smile from blooming. Harold noticed and chose not to comment.

“First question,” he said. “In La Traviata, what is the name of the courtesan who falls in love with Alfredo Germont?”

“Violetta,” she said without hesitation.

Harold raised an eyebrow. “Last name?”

Eva’s eyes widened. She straightened, clamps tugging as she adjusted her posture.

“Oh,” she breathed. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“No,” Harold said simply. “Answer.”

She searched her memory, struggling to sift through haze and mild throbbing.

“Grenvil…no, that’s the doctor.” Eva bit her lip in earnest this time, wracking her brain. Harold sat patiently, his face giving nothing away.

”Wait—Valéry. Yes, Violetta Valéry.”

“Correct.” Harold’s voice was calm, almost professorial.

She smiled and relaxed slightly. Harold reached up and tightened each clamp by one full turn.

Eva’s gasp was sharp and exquisite, her breath fracturing as sensation flared outward from each point of pressure. The clamps bit now—not painfully, but enough to change the temperature of her thoughts.

“But—I got it right!” she protested.

“Precisely,” Harold said, letting a small trace of a smile tug at the corner of his lip as he let her outburst slide.

She met his gaze through the rising ache, a hint of a crease forming between her brows. He watched her closely, the concern beneath his composure detectable only to someone who knew him well.

In a quieter voice he said, “Don’t forget your colors.”

Eva nodded, grateful for the reminder even as she fought to regulate her breathing. “Still green,” she whispered softly, enough to reassure him and anchor herself. Still, she was flustered by what a correct answer had earned her. Harold gave an approving nod, then continued.

“What year,” he asked, “was Don Giovanni first performed?”

Eva’s face fell instantly. Of all the things he’d rattled off last night, the venues stuck—Prague, estates, theaters—but the dates had slid straight off her mind like water off the proverbial duck.

“Seventeen eighty…something?” she ventured.

Harold waited, generously giving her space. The clamps swayed faintly as the car turned, a small tug that stole part of her focus. After several seconds, she shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

“Wrong,” Harold said. “1787.”

He tightened each clamp two full turns.

Eva’s eyes widened, startled by the increase in force. It sharpened into a precise little ache, heat radiating through her chest in quick pulses of sensation. How many questions would there be? The thought flickered through her with genuine trepidation.

“Third question,” Harold continued, his tone maddeningly even. “Which of the following operas was not written by Puccini: Tosca, Madama Butterfly, I Pagliacci, Turandot.”

Eva’s gaze drifted unfocused toward the window as she tried to think. The car hit a pothole; both clamps torqued, making her wince.

La Bohème would have been easy—too easy—probably why it wasn’t an option. She cursed Harold silently.

She was certain Tosca and Turandot were Puccini. That left Butterfly…and Pagliacci.

For one ridiculous second she considered the possibility that Harold might be wrong—and then laughed at herself internally. Harold would never screw up something like this.

“Pagliacci?” she offered tentatively.

He only looked at her, waiting.

She swallowed. “I Pagliacci,” she repeated, this time with pseudo-confidence she did not feel.

“Correct,” Harold said.

He reached up and delivered her reward: another full turn on them both.

Eva’s breath escaped in a trembling rush. Her nipples throbbed now in a bright, blooming ache, each pulse syncing with her heartbeat. Not unbearable, but commanding enough to reorder her awareness around those two strict points of pressure.

This was not at all how she’d expected their outing to start.

“Last question,” Harold said.

Eva exhaled with such visible relief that she didn’t even bother to hide it. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Harold’s mouth. She was doing splendidly. And she looked devastating.

“Verdi’s final opera,” he continued, “was a comedy, and is widely considered one of his masterpieces. Name it.”

Eva searched her memory, jaw softening as she focused. It was based on Shakespeare, she remembered that much. Not As You Like It. Not Midsummer. And then—

“Got it,” she said with confidence. “The Merry Wives of Windsor.”

Harold didn’t even let the satisfaction settle. “Wrong,” he said matter-of-factly. “Falstaff.”

Eva groaned, exasperated. “I should at least get partial credit for identifying the correct source material!”

Harold’s hands paused midway to her breasts. His gaze lifted pointedly to hers, an unmistakable warning. One outburst was acceptable, but not two.

Eva froze, then corrected course at once.

“I mean—Sir. May I receive partial credit for correctly identifying the source material?”

Harold’s approval of her rephrasing was immediate, reflected in the slight upward tilt of his chin.

“You may not.” Another pair of twists to each.

Eva’s breath broke open on impact. The bloom sharpened into something bright and consuming, a heat that radiated through her chest in rhythmic pulses. Her fingers curled against the leather seat. Her face flushed like she’d just polished off half a bottle of rosé.

Harold leaned in until his lips hovered just beside her ear.

“That,” he murmured seductively, “is what you get for mouthing off about clowns.”

Eva let out a helpless little laugh—half moan, half indignation swallowed by pleasure.

His lips brushed her cheek before dipping lower. He drew one nipple into his mouth, teasing with his tongue for several long moments, testing the grip of the clamp with his teeth. She gasped, the sound caught between surprise and arousal. Then he moved to the other, repeating the motion, letting the vibration of her moans serve as musical accompaniment to the rhythm he pressed into her skin.

Finally he leaned back, watching the aftereffects play out as she lingered in the liminal space he’d dragged her into, skin tinged with warmth.

“Make yourself decent,” he said after a minute. “We’re almost there.”

It took her a moment to process the words. Then realization dawned like a cold ripple: she would likely be wearing these clamps beyond the duration of the car ride.

Harold glanced out the tinted window. “One block away,” he confirmed. Then back to her. “Still green?”

Eva nodded. “Yes. But…”

“But?” he prompted.

She eased her breasts carefully back into her bra, flinching as the clamps brushed the lace. “What if it’s not green later? During the show?”

Harold’s reply was immediate, unwavering. “Leave that to me.” He paused, letting the next line land with full weight. “If you need them gone, I’ll make it happen. Same for everything else.”

His gaze flicked downward briefly towards her waist, and Eva suddenly felt the devices he’d placed inside her with acute clarity. She nodded, slipping her dress back into place.

“Thank you, Sir,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as though savoring the discipline etched into her.

Harold reached out and stroked a curl back from her cheek, letting the touch linger.

“You look exquisite,” he murmured, “when you’re enduring something for me.”

Eva let the words wash over her, reigniting the flush in her cheeks. When she opened her eyes again, Lincoln Center was already rising into view.

He exited first, then offered his hand to her. As she stepped out of the car and slipped her arm through his, no one could possibly have guessed what had just transpired between them. None of the others around them could know the storm trapped inside her, kept in check by one quiet man in a dark suit.

They walked side by side toward the Met. Around them, the plaza buzzed with other patrons: older couples, chic young professionals, tourists dressed to impress. Not tuxedos and floor-length gowns on this late spring night, just breezy elegance. A few scattered attendees were in jeans and casual tops, but the prevailing look was slacks and sport jackets for the men, cocktail dresses and polished separates for the women. Eva fit in perfectly—except, of course, for the hidden torment beneath her polished exterior.

Inside the lobby, lights glittered overhead, and ruby velvet hush coated nearly every surface. Harold presented their tickets and guided Eva toward one of the parterre boxes at center right, elegant and intimate, positioned for optimal viewing. Each box held two rows of three seats, and Harold had chosen theirs with care: the back row, where privacy was greatest even when the box was shared.

He gestured for Eva to take the far end seat, nearest the plush velvet wall, then he took the middle seat beside her, leaving the aisle seat empty. A silver-haired woman in a pearl-trimmed shawl sat primly in the front row, and her companion—another woman of similar age—occupied the seat directly in front of Harold. On the end sat a middle aged man engrossed in his program.

Minutes later, a woman in a tailored navy blue pantsuit appeared at their aisle. Without hesitation, she began to lower herself into the seat beside Harold.

“Oh—this seat is taken,” he said smoothly.

The woman paused mid-descent and fixed him with an imperious stare. “I’ve been sitting here all season.”

Harold reached into his jacket and produced the ticket with a practiced flick, holding it up between two fingers.

She leaned in, squinted at the row and seat number, and frowned. “Then why aren’t you sitting in it?”

“It’s for my grandmother,” Harold said.

The woman blinked, confused, glancing around as if expecting an elderly figure to materialize.

“And how is she supposed to get in,” she asked slowly, “if you have her ticket?”

“Oh, no,” Harold said warmly, almost soothingly. “She’s dead.”

Eva stiffened beside him.

Harold continued with unbothered calm, “I buy her a seat whenever I attend one of her favorite works. So that her spirit may enjoy the opera with me—just as I did years ago with her corporeal form when she was alive. It’s my way of honoring her memory.”

The woman stared at him as though he had begun speaking in tongues.

“So…this seat is taken,” she said flatly.

“Yes,” Harold answered, unblinking. “By the ghost of my dead grandmother.”

There was a small moment of silence—then the woman stepped back as though he were contagious, muttered something under her breath, and fled the box.

Harold turned back to Eva, whose face was a perfect storm of disbelief and delight. “Scavengers,” he said, shaking his head, “always looking for a better seat.”

“And the Tony for Best Performance by an unhinged member of the audience goes to…” she whispered sweetly.

Harold laughed, low and pleased. “I learned years ago,” he murmured, “that if you behave unpredictably—but charmingly so—people will do anything to get away from you without causing a scene. The charm disarms them; the oddity encourages a hasty retreat.”

Eva bit her lip, fighting another smile. “Remind me never to underestimate your madness again.”

“With pleasure,” Harold said, settling back in his seat as the house chandeliers dimmed and began their slow ascent.

Eva smoothed her dress beneath her and tried to assume as modest a position as possible. Harold leaned in.

“Color?”

“Green,” she whispered. “For now.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew the slim black remote.

“Good. Let’s see how long we can keep it there.”

The first vibrations started—a low purr, whisper silent, just enough to remind her. She inhaled through her nose and held it. He watched her sidelong.

“Level one,” he whispered. “Just to keep you awake.”

“Oh, I’m very awake,” she murmured back, voice taut.

They faced the stage as the overture began. Fabric rustled, and a smattering of coughs punctuated the silence between the orchestra’s opening chords. Eva sat straight-backed, the very picture of composure. But inside her body, a different music had already begun—a quiet tension in counterpoint, a pulse moving to its own forbidden rhythm.

Harold leaned back, anticipation threading through him. There would be two performances that night, and only one involved the Metropolitan Opera’s famous golden curtain.

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