Day Five of Production.
The air in the studio was thick enough to choke on.
It was the morning after the Restaurant Incident, and the tension between the Director and the Manager was radioactive.
Anaïs sat on her usual folding chair, hiding behind her sunglasses and a massive cup of black coffee. Her head was pounding. The champagne from last night had left her with a headache that felt like a tiny construction crew drilling into her skull.
But the headache was nothing compared to the anxiety churning in her stomach.
He knows, she thought, watching Bastian pace around the set. He almost pulled the mask off last night. I shouldn't have mentioned the beta-blockers.
Bastian wasn't yelling today. He wasn't throwing scripts. He was quiet. Deadly quiet.
He moved like a panther, his grey eyes constantly flickering toward her corner of the room. Every time he looked at her, Anaïs felt like he was dissecting her soul.
