I headed toward the private dressing rooms in the back of the studio. The hallway was quiet, away from the hum of the crew and the heavy bass of the playback music. As I pushed open the door to my room, I expected it to be empty.
Instead, I found Abigail.
She was standing by my mirror, her back to me. Her hands were gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles were white. She didn't turn around when I entered, but I could see her reflection in the glass. Her face was flushed, her hair slightly disheveled, and her eyes were fixed on the floor.
"You're supposed to be supervising the set, Abby," I said, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
She finally looked up, her blue eyes meeting mine in the mirror. There was no ice left in them—only a raw, frantic confusion. "I couldn't stay in there," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Watching you... doing that to them... in front of everyone..."
