The Greatest Showman #1313 - Private Show
This Renly felt unfamiliar.
A faint, seamless smile adorned his calm and elegant face, shielding all guesses and speculations. Even Matthew found himself at a loss, unable to decipher Renly's mood or intentions. The sense of unease gnawed at him, filling him with worry.
Matthew couldn't begin to imagine the depths of the scandal and slander high society would unleash if Renly actually performed at this private party, as requested by Viscount Bioford.
Renly had painstakingly carved his path to success, earning recognition through sheer effort and perseverance. As an artist, he had graced the Earl of Oxford's dinner, and even the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge had acknowledged his presence. And yet, now, he was about to "debase" himself into mere entertainment—a performer, a tool for amusement. Did this mean that everything he had worked for was unraveling before their very eyes?
Matthew's gaze flickered.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of George and Elizabeth, still clinging to their status and prestige rather than worrying about Renly's predicament. He couldn't fathom what Renly was feeling at this moment, but his own frustration boiled over, his fists clenching involuntarily.
Yet Renly remained unshaken, an unhurried smile playing at the corners of his lips. The impeccable poise of a gentleman radiated from his demeanor, his presence so refined that even Viscount Bioford couldn't find fault. He didn't speak, merely meeting Matthew's gaze, his eyes flickering with an unreadable intensity. And then, without hesitation, he turned and walked toward the hall.
Each step carried a resolute momentum, cutting through the shadows toward the light. It was as if the very act of moving forward transformed him into a giant, steadily filling the space with an undeniable presence. The room, the crowd, the very air itself seemed to shift toward him.
He had been placed in a passive position, but now he took control.
Beatrice shot Viscount Bioford an irritated glance, stomped her foot, and quickly followed after Renly. Richard, shaking his head in frustration, muttered under his breath but remained silent. Instead, he called a waiter and began making swift arrangements.
Matthew lingered for a moment, scanning the crowd before finding Andre and Eaton. With a subtle signal, the three of them quietly disappeared into the throng, working to rally support for Renly.
William and Kate exchanged glances.
William hesitated, torn between disengaging from this private affair and following his wife's unwavering resolve. Kate's firm gaze made her stance clear—she wasn't going to stand idly by.
Eventually, the stalemate broke.
Kate moved forward, while William lingered a moment longer before sighing and following suit. Staying back now was futile—everyone's attention had already turned toward the hall.
George and Elizabeth, however, longed to escape.
They knew humiliation was inevitable. Renly had endured it countless times, but they hadn't, and they couldn't bear the thought of such public disgrace. Leaving was their only option.
But they had no way out.
Viscount John de Beaufort's piercing gaze pinned them in place. He scrutinized them mercilessly, as if dissecting them layer by layer, daring them to make a move. One wrong step, and he would strike.
Slowly, begrudgingly, George and Elizabeth followed him into the hall.
Edith, standing on the balcony, suddenly felt a pang of anxiety. "What's happening? Why is Renly walking toward us? What's going on? Oh, please don't let it be another disaster."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Really? You're worried about a disaster? Right now?"
Edith, still caught up in the drama, turned to him. "Seriously, look at them! They're all moving toward the hall. Something is definitely off."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I swear Matthew just looked at us like he was signaling something… God, does he think I have eagle vision? How am I supposed to catch that from this distance?"
Before he could continue, they both fell silent, their bodies tensing instinctively.
Renly's footsteps echoed as he ascended the stairs. Shadows cascaded over his shoulders before melting away beneath the warm golden light, revealing his composed figure in stark clarity. He glanced briefly toward the balcony but made no other acknowledgment before disappearing into the crowd.
Edith exhaled sharply. "He saw us, didn't he?"
Arthur sighed. "Yeah. He definitely did."
They exchanged glances, silent but understanding. Edith shrugged. "Let's go."
No matter what happened, they needed to be there. Whatever unfolded next, they couldn't sit on the sidelines.
The hall buzzed with anticipation.
This was no ordinary ballroom—a grand space meant for elegant gatherings, capable of accommodating 300 guests. Normally, a host would never allow more than 200 to preserve an air of exclusivity. But tonight, the rules no longer applied.
The crowd swelled beyond the usual limits. Whispers mingled with hurried footsteps, transforming the once-refined atmosphere into something bordering on chaotic curiosity. Elegance and decorum had been cast aside. Some guests even took to the second floor, peering down like spectators at a grand spectacle. It was improper, childish even—but no one cared. Everyone knew something was about to happen.
And no one wanted to miss it.
"Ladies and gentlemen."
Renly's voice rang out, effortlessly commanding attention. The murmurs faded, replaced by an almost tangible silence. All eyes locked onto him, anticipation crackling in the air. The scene was reminiscent of a circus—an eager audience awaiting the performance.
"Welcome to tonight's party. Thank you, Richard de Ville, for inviting us to gather here."
His words were measured, his tone unwavering, as if this were the grandest stage in the world and he was its maestro. He let the pause linger, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.
"I had the pleasure of meeting Viscount John de Beaufort earlier," he continued. "He mentioned that since I am a Hollywood actor, I should perform. After all, why refuse such an opportunity?"
A ripple of understanding passed through the guests. The pieces fell into place.
Renly shrugged lightly. "I can't argue with that. Hollywood is the grandest stage on earth, and this—" he gestured around the room with a faint smile, "—is a performance of its own. So, what's the difference?"
His words were a double-edged blade—mocking both Hollywood and the aristocracy.
These so-called elites considered Hollywood beneath them, yet they now flocked like commoners at a street performance, eager for entertainment. No different from the very masses they disdained.
The sting of his remark struck deep.
Shame. Anger. Annoyance. Disdain. Curiosity. Contempt.
The emotions swirled, tangible in the air.
George and Elizabeth's faces turned ashen. They could feel Renly's scorn piercing them, his words laced with venom. Months of frustration surged within them, leaving them flustered, hot and cold in equal measure.
Meanwhile, Matthew, Andre, and Eaton struggled to navigate the packed hall. Eventually, they retreated to the spiral staircase, watching from above like children craning for a better view.
And there stood Renly, beside a grand piano, his right hand elegantly outstretched.
His smile deepened. "Then, let the performance begin."
In his eyes, a storm brewed—wild, untamed, and unstoppable.