Monday morning on set felt less like a workplace and more like a funeral.
Bastian sat in his director's chair, radiating an aura so cold that the camera operators were afraid to cough. He wore all black, his sunglasses hiding his eyes, his jaw set in a permanent clench.
"Cut," Bastian barked. "Lighting is off. Fix it. We go again in five."
He didn't look at the actors. He didn't look at the script.
He was staring at the corner of the room.
There, sitting on a folding chair, was Anaïs (Eve).
She had a cane leaning against her leg. Her ankle was wrapped in a thick bandage. She looked pale, but she was working furiously on her tablet, ignoring the pain.
And ignoring him.
Bastian felt a spike of irritation.
She acts so professional, he thought bitterly. Like she didn't spend the weekend laughing at me with her model boyfriend.
"Manager Eve," Bastian called out, his voice slicing through the studio chatter.
