Chapter 1 #3
But the other part, the part forged from all the hard things I’ve been through in my life, like losing my mom at seven and my dad at twenty-five, resists.
I need to know.
If he’s done something wrong, I can’t let it go.
Decision made, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then release it slowly.
I inch towards the door, trying to be as quiet as possible.
My voice continues, finally tapering off at the end of the song. From inside Ken’s office, I laugh lightly. A beat later, he makes a low, groaning sound.
My heart stutters.
Nausea rises.
Please, I beg silently, let this not be what I fear it is.
Then I put my hand on the worn wood and push open the door.
Just a few inches, but enough to get a glimpse of what he’s watching.
And oh.
No.
Before I can stop myself, I gasp in horror.
It’s me.
Not just a disembodied voice singing, but in full, graphic detail, right on Ken’s laptop screen.
I’m sitting at my desk, stretching, my arms raised towards the ceiling. The fabric of my shirt is pulled tight around my breasts. A sliver of skin peeks between the bottom of my shirt and my waistband.
I notice all these things because the video is paused. On me. On my breasts. My stomach. My body.
A cold, crawling sensation moves through me.
He recorded me. Using a camera planted in my office. A camera I had no idea about.
The reality of what I’m seeing slams into me, stealing my breath.
How many times did I change in there rather than making the trip to the cast changing room? How many times did he watch me do it?
Is that the only camera? Or are there more?
As I stand in his doorway, still reeling, Ken jerks his attention away from the screen. His expression displays a rapid-fire series of emotions: first desire, followed by shock, guilt, and finally, calculated innocence.
He closes the laptop and says calmly, “Noelle. I thought you’d left.”
I try to respond, but all that comes out is a dry click. On my second attempt, I manage, “I left my phone in the prop closet. I was just hurrying to get it, and I heard—”
Wait. Why am I explaining things to him? If anyone’s owed an explanation, it’s me.
“I assume you found your phone, then?” he asks.
“Why were you watching me?” I retort.
He doesn’t flinch. “It’s not a big deal, Noelle. It’s not like I did anything to you.”
“You recorded me.” My voice pitches up. “That was me. On your computer. You had it paused so you could look at my—”
“I did no such thing.” Ken sets his laptop on his desk and stands. “I don’t know what you thought you saw, but I certainly was not looking at your—”
“You were!” My pulse races. Angry heat rushes through me. Sweat prickles along my back. “Don’t lie to me. It was me, on your screen. Paused, so you could see my breasts. And you made this noise.”
I can’t bring myself to say what the noise sounded like.
“Noelle.” Ken advances towards me. He smiles, but there’s a hint of a threat in his eyes. “You’re making more of this than there should be. You’re in theater, you should know how things work.”
I take a stumbling step back. “This isn’t how things work. Performances are for the stage. Not for recording someone without their knowing. Watching them. Looking at their body like they’re—”
“Noelle.” It’s harder now. His hand clamps around my arm. “You need to stop. Now.”
“No!” Yanking my arm from him, I clutch my bag in front of me like a shield. “Don’t touch me! And don’t lie to me! If I go into my office, I’ll find a camera in there. Are there more? What about the changing room? The bathrooms? Are you watching everyone, or just me?”
“Noelle,” he repeats. “Come into my office so we can talk about this calmly.”
“There’s nothing to talk about!” Reluctant to turn away from him, I start backing down the hallway. “I saw you. And I’m going into my office to find that camera. I’m taking pictures to show the board. They’ll fire you, so you can’t do this messed-up shit again.”
In a blink, his features twist with rage. “Don’t you dare threaten me!”
Then he lunges towards me.
All thoughts of photos and evidence fly out the window.
Instinct tells me to run.
So I do.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I race down the hallway, Ken’s heavy footsteps right behind me. “Noelle,” he calls, “stop this. You’re acting like a child. Don’t do something you’re going to regret.”
I don’t answer him. It’s all I can do not to burst into hysterical sobs.
Just before I reach the front exit, he makes a final try for me, his hand glancing off my shoulder as I shove the door open. Then I leap off the top step, skipping the two beneath it, landing with a hard thud that almost knocks me to my knees.
From there, I sprint down the sidewalk, my bag bouncing against my side. Each breath is a painful stab to my chest. My heartbeat thunders in my head.
The race to my car feels like it takes hours, though it can’t be more than a minute. With every step, I’m convinced I’m about to be grabbed. Maybe hurt. Violated. Even killed.
I never would have thought it before—my boss going as far as to actually hurt me. But now… I’m not sure.
By the time I reach my car and fling myself inside it, I’m a complete wreck.
It takes me three tries to get the car started, and once I do, I’m crying too hard to see the road.
My shaking hands can’t seem to get the seatbelt to work.
When I reach for my phone, it slips from my sweat-slicked fingers and slides under my seat.
Just get home, I tell myself. Get home, lock all the doors, and call the police.
What if he hides all the cameras, that annoying voice of logic asks. How can you prove what he did?
I don’t know, I reply silently, but I had to get out of there.
After taking several shuddering breaths, I finally trust myself enough to drive without killing someone. So I put the car in gear and pull onto the road, checking my rear and side view mirrors frantically just in case Ken comes out of nowhere.
But he doesn’t.
Thank God.
For a second there, back in the theater, I wasn’t sure if he’d—
My phone chimes from beneath my seat.
Then again.
And again.
By the time I reach a red light, I’ve received at least ten texts.
While I’m waiting for the light to change, I put the car in park so I can search for my phone. Once I retrieve it, I quickly glance at the messages.
They’re all from Ken.
Noelle, come back. Let’s talk about this.
You’re overreacting. This isn’t a big deal. Come back.
I’m sorry if you took things the wrong way. Come back so we can fix this.
By the seventh message, the tone of them changes.
You’re making a huge mistake. It’s not too late to change your mind.
This is your last chance. Come back before you ruin your career.
And then, finally, the most terrifying of all.
You’re going to regret this.