Chapter 2
The dressing room smelled of stale coffee, theatrical makeup, and quiet desperation. Clara slammed the heavy wooden door shut, locking it with a sharp, metallic click that echoed in the cramped space. She gently guided Maya and Lily toward the worn velvet sofa, helping them shed the stiff, uncomfortable costumes that felt more like straitjackets than children's clothing.
"You’re safe now, my loves," Clara whispered, her voice softening instantly as she wiped the sticky brown prop paste from Lily’s cheek with a warm, damp towel. The little girl sniffled, her blue eyes wide with residual fear. "Mommy is right here. Nobody is going to make you eat that awful stuff ever again."
Maya clutched a battered sketchpad to her chest, her small shoulders still tense. "Are we going home, Mommy? Real home?"
"Yes, sweetheart. Real home," Clara promised, though a cold knot of dread formed in her stomach. Their real home—a modest rental across town—was currently tied up in legal disputes, and their bank accounts were largely controlled by Richard’s production company. She had traded her financial independence for the promise of security when they married ten years ago, a mistake that now haunted her every waking moment.
A sharp knock rattled the dressing room door.
"Clara? Open up," Richard’s muffled voice demanded. The handle jiggled aggressively. "The network executives are furious. They’re talking breach of contract. Do you have any idea how much money that scene cost to set up?"
Clara stood up slowly, her muscles aching. She walked over to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open just enough to block Richard’s path. He stood there in his immaculate blue suit, looking more like a corporate liquidator than a husband or a father. His expression was a volatile mix of panic and suppressed rage.
"Your precious network can keep their money, Richard," Clara said quietly, her voice dangerously steady. "And you can keep your job. We are done."
Richard scoffed, stepping into the room regardless of her blocked stance. He ran a hand through his thinning blonde hair, his eyes darting nervously around the room before settling on Clara. "Done? Don’t be ridiculous. You signed the contracts. The girls are under contract. We need this season's renewal, Clara, or we lose everything. The house, the cars, the investments—it all goes."
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"Let it go," Clara retorted, her gaze unflinching. "I would rather live in a tent than watch you and your mother use our children as props in your toxic little melodrama. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice what they were feeding Lily? That prop wasn't just foul; it was chemically spoiled. You knew, didn't you, Richard?"
Richard flinched, a micro-expression of guilt flashing across his features before he quickly masked it with a sneer. "You’re being paranoid. It was a simple catering mix-up."
