Meals of Misery Part 2

In the weeks that followed, Annetta tried her best to forget what she saw and experienced at the mansion. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, especially when Tomas suggested to invite her sister for supper at their house and game night. However, Audrey seemed better to Annetta: physically and emotionally as if she was not being blackmailed for months in to being their personal plaything by the same scumbags blackmailing her. In fact, Aud during those times acted nonchalant and cheerfully, playing with Annetta's children table-top games and nudging her own son Adam to not be passive. Annetta was amazed by how carefree her older sister seemed. Not like my fucking internal emotions on the matter.

Every time Anne tried to secretly start a convo with her older sister about what had happened, Audrey simply smiled at her sadly and shook her head saying that “it is what it is”, and that Annetta should drop it, because there’s nothing anyone can do to change things.

 *

One of the first things Annetta did after arriving home those weeks before was going to the bank the next day in order to see whether the cheque was legit. She remembered having conflicting emotions about it: on the one hand, she hoped that the cheque would be bogus, because if not, then that would mean that she virtually was blackmailed in to being a prostitute for unknown parties, and if it was legit, well… the woman thought of the possibilities that extra ten thousand per month would bring her and the family. Of course, she would have to devise a credible lie for Tomas, but she would burn that bridge when she crossed it.

The drive to the bank felt longer than usual. At every red light, she found herself checking the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the sleek black SUVs of the financiers tailing her, or perhaps the synthetic version of herself sitting in the backseat, wearing her face and her clothes. But the streets were normal: mothers pushing strollers, businessmen talking into phones. The world was spinning as usual. Anne, you idiot, this isn’t some movie, she remembered chiding herself for being so overly nervous.

Inside the bank, the air conditioning was too cold, raising goosebumps on her arms. Damn these public institutions with their AC’s blasting on full, the blonde grumbled while waiting for her ticket to ping on the waiting screen. Finally, after ten minutes, her number popped-up and Annetta, while rubbing her hands, went to the teller.

"Oh, good morning, Mrs. Mortison," the brunette woman spoke looking up to her in surprise, clearly not having expected to see a local celebrity here this day. Anne smiled at the woman before sitting down. "How can I help you today?"

"Good morning. I, uh, I have a cheque I need to deposit. I just wanted to make sure it... clears." The blonde slid the piece of paper across the marble counter.

The teller picked up the cheque with manicured fingers. She studied the figures, then the bank it was drawn from (a private institution based in Switzerland that chef didn't recognize) and finally the signature. A small frown creased the woman’s forehead as she tapped away at her keyboard. "Everything is in order, Mrs. Mortinson," the teller said after a moment, her voice dropping to a professional, discreet volume. "Ten thousand euros. The funds are verified and ready for immediate transfer."

Annetta felt her legs being as heavy as lead. Good thing that I’m sitting, because… whoo… "It cleared? Just like that?"

"Just like that," the teller confirmed, her tone efficient and bored. The woman stamped the cheque and began the terminal process. "Would you like the full amount transferred to your primary checking account, or would you prefer to split it into your savings?" ...

*

The worst part of it, though, was having to see the same three faces who helped sell her out. In a way, Annetta thought that it might have been kinder to keep her captive, at least she would know what to expect. But since she was technically a free woman, with a career and was required to actually be at her job, there was nothing really she could do. Because, how can I suddenly explain to Tomas quitting the national broadcaster?

No, she had to woman up and not seem like things were affecting her. So, on Wednesday, after dropping her kids at school, the blonde was following a slow traffic to her work. Maybe, I should buy a gun or pepper spray, she thought as the national broadcaster’s building loomed on ahead.

*

The air inside the conference room at the broadcaster's headquarters was stuffy and hot, a faint smell of sweat invaded her nostrils, because, of course, the ventilation system had to go bust today and the handy-men were taking their sweet time repairing it. Anne sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, clutching a lukewarm latte, inhaling its smell to combat the odours in the room.

Across from her, Fox, Aurelius, and Jim were nodding sagely at the two young scenario writers standing awkwardly by a whiteboard. To anyone else, it looked like a standard production meeting. But to Annetta, the air was thick with a suffocating, unspoken tension. Every time she looked at Fox, she didn't see a TV executive; she saw the man who had handed her the envelope of cash, the man who had stood by while she was shown a deepfake of a colleague being degraded. When her gaze shifted to Aurelius, she recalled the USB drive and his calm explanation of how technology could ruin her life. And Jim... he was the one who had calmly explained the logistics of her own prostitution. Her nostrils flared when the guys chanced looks at her.

"So," began the younger of the two writers, a nervous young man with thick-rimmed glasses, clicking a dry-erase marker pen. He wiped a patch of the whiteboard and scrawled '200 YEARS' in oversized, looping letters. "For the bicentennial celebration, we’re thinking of moving away from the standard studio cooking. We want to take 'Annetta's Kitchen' on the road. A historic tour."

Beside him, a woman with a tight bun nodded enthusiastically, picking up the thread. "Exactly. We draft a menu based on what our cuisine looked like two centuries ago. Root vegetables, rustic meats, open-fire cooking. We could film at a restored manor house or an open-air museum. It gives the show a... gravitas. A cultural anchor."

Anne took a sip of her lukewarm coffee. Her mind unwittingly moved to the mansion, in which her sister was tortured and raped, in which she herself experienced the advances of the damned synths. She shook her head from her dark thoughts and tried paying attention.

"We think it could be a ratings winner," the male scenario writer continued, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Nostalgia is huge right now. People want to feel connected to their roots. We could even do a segment on traditional preservation methods: smoking meats, pickling vegetables. It’s... wholesome."

The chef looked at the three producers. Fox was stroking his chin, his eyes fixed on the whiteboard, but she caught the slight twitch of his jaw. Aurelius was leaning back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling, looking bored. Jim, however, had his eyes fixed on her.

"What do you think, Anne?" Fox asked, breaking the silence. He turned to her, his expression carefully neutral, professional. "Does a historic deep-dive appeal to you? It would certainly get us out of the studio for a few weeks."

A few weeks? Is this where my degradation will start? Will my doppelgänger, while I’m away, replace me? The blonde sighted. “Well, it sure looks promising. I don’t know about two weeks, though, I think we can do the usual for celebratory type shows: three-four days with regular shooting hours. It’s not like we are doing anything actually live these days”, she finished putting her cup of coffee down on the table.

"Three to four days," Jim repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of the words. He tapped a pen against his lips. "That is a tight turnaround for a location shoot. Especially one that requires... authentic atmosphere."

"We can manage," Aurelius interjected. He finally looked away from the ceiling, offering a noncommittal shrug. "If we keep the crew lean. No need for a full circus for a cooking segment. Just the essentials."

"I agree," Fox said, nodding at the writers. "It’s a solid concept. Nostalgia sells. It fits the 'wholesome' image the network is desperate to project right now."

The conversation on the details of the shooting went for a while more and Annetta felt herself zoned out from most of it. She was playing with her watch, not really looking at anyone. Finally, a cough shook her from her musings. The blonde looked around the conference room and swallowed a nervous lump in her throat. She was alone with the three men that sold her.

The silence that followed was charged with something unspoken. Annetta sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, gripping her own fingers until the knuckles turned white. The hum of the building's HVAC system seemed deafening in the quiet room. She watched them. She watched the way Fox loosened his tie, the way Aurelius stared at the grain of the mahogany table, and the way Jim leaned back, spinning a pen between his fingers with indifference. They were monsters in suits. They were men who had auctioned off her dignity for a paycheck and the favor of shadowy financiers. Worst of all, I let them.

 "You're quiet," Fox said finally. "That’s a good sign. It means you're thinking."

"I'm thinking about how easy it was for you to sign my life away," the chef said, her voice low and steady, surprising even herself. She stopped picking at her cuticles and looked them each in the eye, one by one. "I'm thinking that if I had a spoon right now, I might consider gauging out your eyes just to see if you blink."

Fox let out a long, weary sigh and leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. "Gauging my eyes out certainly won't fix the hole we're all in."

"We're all in the same boat," Aurelius added, though his tone lacked any real empathy. "Do you think we had a choice? Do you think I want to look over my shoulder every time I walk to my car? These people... they don't just threaten your career. They threaten your existence."

"Don't," Anne hissed, the word sharp enough to cut through the stale air. "Don't you dare try to play the victim with me. You didn't just look over your shoulders. You looked for buyers. You drafted the contract. You sat there and smiled while you discussed who I would have to—"

Jim let out a soft, dry chuckle. "We didn't look for buyers, Anne. We were approached. Just like you. There is a hierarchy to these things, and frankly, we are much closer to the bottom than you seem to realize."

"We are trying to mitigate the damage," Fox pressed on, his voice taking on that soothing, practiced cadence he used during tense interviews. "The alternative wasn't just you losing your job. The alternative was burying you under so much scandal and debt that you would never see your children again. We secured a deal. A profitable one. Ten thousand euros an episode, tax-free, is more than most people see in a year."

"I don't want their money," the chef spat, though the memory of the cleared funds in her bank account flickered traitorously in her mind. It was a safety net, whether she liked it or not. "I want my life back. I want you to admit that you sold me out because you were scared, or greedy, or both."

"What does admission matter anymore?" Fox said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the corporate veneer. "This is about survival. You think that these guys one day woke up and simply decided: “Hey, let’s screw around with some hot women from the TV world, wouldn’t that be a hoot? We’re talking about infrastructure. Mr. A and his associates have their hands in everything: shipping, construction, the energy grid. They own the servers the national broadcaster uses. They own the banks where we keep our money. If they decide to tighten the screw, this country grinds to a halt. We aren't just employees; we are caretakers of a small patch of grass in a jungle, and the lion just woke up."

"Why bother fighting against it?" Aurelius muttered, inspecting his fingernails. "Just take the money. Keep your head down. You’re a mother of five, Anne. Do you really want to become a martyr for a cause that doesn’t exist? No one is coming to save you. The police? The courts? They’re compromised. Has been for years."

The woman stared at them, a cold realization settling in her stomach. The urge to leap across the table and scratch Aurelius' eyes out surged again, hot and prickly under her skin, but it was quickly extinguished by the suffocating weight of his logic. If the system was truly rigged that high up, violence wouldn't solve anything. That is, if they are not bullhistting me.

"So," the blonde started, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest as if to shield herself from the predatory gaze of the room. "Let's cut the philosophical nonsense about lions and jungles. You brought up this 'historic deep-dive' idea. You pushed for a location shoot. Tell me the truth. Is this it? Should I prepare myself to be... raped on camera in some restored manor house? Is that the 'authentic atmosphere' Jim was talking about?"

The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. The three producers exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from defensive arrogance to genuine confusion. Fox frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. "What? No."

"Raped?" Jim repeated the word as if it were a foreign concept, his face scrunching up in distaste, however, he was trying to conceal a small smile on his lips. "Anne, stop being so dramatic. This is a cooking show. A bicentennial special. We want to celebrate our country's heritage, not... whatever it is you're implying."

Aurelius shook his head, looking almost disappointed by her lack of professional nuance. "The pitch from the writers is genuine. It's a standard production strategy to boost ratings with patriotic content. The network is under pressure to produce 'family-friendly' programming to balance out the... edgier stuff that happens in other time slots."

"Think about it logically," Fox interjected, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his voice firm and reasonable. "If Mr. A, or his associates, wanted you to perform for them, they wouldn't bother with this kind of elaborate ruse. They don't need to disguise a dungeon as a nineteenth-century kitchen. They have the mansion. They have the technology. They own us. If they wanted to film you, they would just snap their fingers and tell us to deliver you to some warehouse or shit."

"If they haven't contacted you directly," Jim added, tapping his pen against the table for emphasis, "and if you haven't seen your mechanical twin strolling through the studio lobby, then you are safe. For now. They don't play games with proxies when it comes to the main event. When they want you, you'll know. There won't be a meeting about smoked meats and root vegetables."

Annetta felt her shoulders drop, an inch of tension leaving her body that she hadn't even realized she was holding. It made a sickening kind of sense. The men at the mansion wouldn't waste time on subterfuge when they had already proven they could take whatever they wanted whenever they wanted.

*

Sure enough, the upcoming days were business as usual, and Anne was relieved. Did she wait for the other shoe to drop and be kidnapped by some masked men like in the movies: them having put a hood on her, tie her up and throw her in the car’s trunk? Sure she did. But that never came. In fact, the preparation and the shooting was as boring ritual as usual. The producers ordered a new set to be erected in a couple of days. Was it fancy? No, but it did get the job done none the less. For the bicentennial special, the producers had transformed the familiar "Annetta's Kitchen" backdrop into a tribute to the past. The sleek, modern countertops were covered with faux-rough-hewn timber, and the bright studio lights were diffused through gels to mimic the warm, flickering glow of hearth fires.

Annetta stood by the prep table, dressed in a modest, nineteenth-century-inspired folk costume. The neckline was high, the sleeves long, and the heavy wool skirt felt restrictive compared to her usual kitchen attire. She felt like a character actor in a low-budget period drama. Why did I agree to this?, she mused looking down at her clothing.

Sitting across from her in the guest chair was a history professor from local university - a man with a wild, white beard and thick spectacles who looked as if he had stepped out of a history painting himself. He was droning on about the agricultural reforms of the era.

"...so the introduction of the potato was not merely a culinary shift," the man continued, wagging a finger for emphasis, "but a sociopolitical revolution. It changed the very structure of our dinner table. Before that, it was all grains and turnips. Hard, tough fare for hard, tough times."

Annetta nodded, fixing her best 'interested hostess' smile onto her face. She had to try hard to remember what little time she had to research beforehand to ask the right questions, luckily, the teleprompter was there to help her.  This went on for a couple of hours, with the crew having to yell cut a couple of times to reshoot some scenes. The professor seemed not to mind this, while the chef inwardly groaned since she was bored out of her mind with talks about history and dishes that span over a couple of centuries.

Finally, the director was satisfied with the final product, and Annetta could not wait any longer to get out of this silly costume. I think it’s going to give me a rash, she grumbled to herself as she said her goodbyes to the professor and went to the dressing room to change clothes. Her mood soured, when after opening the door, she saw Fox sitting on the couch. “What do you want”, the blond coldly said.

The man looked her up and down, a small smile was playing on his lips, which made Anne’s nostrils flare. She briefly wondered whether she should just simply walk out the door, but having to walk in this stuffy period dress probably all day long would pose questions to the staff. So, she sighted and closed the door, looking expectantly at the man.

“Nice dress”, he finally said. “Sorta authentic in LARP kind of way”.

She shrugged going to the vanity mirror and unclipping fake silver earrings. “You should know, you guys are the ones who ordered them”. She sat on a blue swiveling office chair. “I repeat, what do you want?” The producer seemed to think his words, and that made the blonde angrier. "Fox," she snapped, patience wearing thin. "I have five children and a husband waiting for me at home, also, I’m beginning to have a headache, because we still have to shoot the meal preparation segment tomorrow, and I have to research the portions after going back home, so just spit it out".

The man held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Peace, Anne. I'm not here to deliver a summons, if that's what you're worried about. I genuinely just wanted to check in. See how you’re holding up."

The chef stared at him through the reflection in the mirror, her eyes narrowing. She let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Check in? You want to know how I'm holding up? You watched me get blackmailed, then I was kidnapped, from my blood some fucking android received all my memories, then I was forced to endure unwanted sexual advances and see my sister being tortured in order to convince me not to do anything stupid. And now you want to have a cozy little chat in my dressing room like we're friends? You must be a halfwit."

Fox leaned back, resting his ankle on his knee, looking perfectly at ease. "I’m just looking out for you”, the producer said watching how Annetta grabbed the shears that were on the vanity table. He swallowed a nervous lump in his throat, but continued. “Honestly, I’m worried about you, I know that the experience could not have been pleasant for first-timers".

"First-timers," the chef repeated slowly, wondering if this man is insane. With her other hand the blonde ripped the heavy bonnet off her head, letting her blonde hair spill out, shaking it loose as if she could shake off his presence. "You make it sound like a spa day."

"I'm serious," Fox said, his voice dropping, losing the casual, teasing lilt. "You're walking a tightrope. The stress, the anticipation... it's going to eat you alive if you don't find a way to manage it."

"Manage it?" Anne turned the chair around to face him, the shears still glinting in her hand. "I'm not managing a schedule here. I'm trying to survive a nightmare that you and your friends helped create."

Fox eyed the weapon in her hand warily, but still continued. "And that is exactly why I'm here. Think about it. The inevitable is coming. Mr. A and his associates... they have specific tastes, some of which I don’t think you will be comfortable. If you are going to be a plaything for the highest bidder, you might as well get some experience going in”.

The woman stared at him, feeling her face flush with shame and anger, mostly anger. The shears in her hand felt light. I could just stab him in his balls, fucking bastard. “And I suppose I’m going to get that experience with you?”

"Why not?" Fox shrugged, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, predatory light. "I can be gentle. I can be straightforward. No games, no torture, no androids. Just you and me, getting you accustomed to some of the things you will be doing".

The woman held his gaze, her expression unreadable, the anger in her chest cooling into something sharp and calculated. She let the silence stretch between them, watching the way Fox's confidence grew with every passing second. He thought he had her. He thought the fear of the shadowy syndicate was enough to break her completely, to turn her into a compliant thing that would seek "practice" from the very man who had orchestrated her downfall. Fucking asshole.

She slowly loosened her grip on the shears. It was a deliberate movement, her fingers uncurling one by one from the plastic handles. With a soft clatter, she placed them back on the vanity table, right next to her open makeup bag. Fox let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders sagging in relief. A smug, triumphant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, erasing the wariness that had been there moments ago. He stood up, adjusting his suit jacket, and walked around the small coffee table that separated them.

He stopped right in front of her chair, invading her personal space with a confident leer. Annetta had to tilt her head back to look up at him, the posture making her neck feel exposed. The smell of his cologne (something woodsy and expensive) mixed with the stale scent of the dressing room’s air, making her want to gag.

"We don't have to rush into anything... drastic," Fox murmured, his voice dropping to a hush that he probably thought was seductive. He braced his hand on the armrest of her chair, caging her in. "We can start slow. Ease you into it. Perhaps... just a kiss to begin with? To test the waters, so to speak."

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his eyes half-lidded in anticipation. He looked so sure of himself, so convinced that she had been cowed into submission by the threats hanging over her head. He saw a terrified woman who needed a "gentle" introduction to her future.

“A kiss?”, the chef whispered, her eyes half-closed. Her chest was rising up and down just like in those cheesy romance novels. Oh, you’ll taste the waters alright, my friend, she mused.

“Yes”, the man murmured as he closed the remaining distance, his lips landing on hers with a wet, confident pressure. Annetta rolled her eyes as she tasted coffee and whiskey. Fucking figures this dickhead would be drinking on the job. However, the blonde did not pull away. Instead, she forced her muscles to relax, parting her lips slightly to allow him deeper. Even reciprocating his advances a bit with her own tongue. In her head, she counted seconds until the man will lose his guard (Not that he had any guard or sense to begin with, she mused): one second, two seconds – Fox’s hand moved from the armrest to her shoulder, his fingers digging into the heavy wool of her costume. Three seconds, four seconds – the man groaned in satisfaction as his tongue battled Anne's own for dominance.

At the five second mark the chef's right hand, which had been resting casually on her thigh, moved quickly. She didn't go for the shears. She didn't need a blade. She drove her hand upward, cupping him firmly through the fabric of his expensive suit trousers, and then her fingers curled into a claw, digging viciously into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his scrotum.

The sound that escaped Fox's throat was akin to a squeal of a stepped-on dog toy. It was a high-pitched, strangled whistle that abruptly cut off as his breath seized in his lungs. The man’s eyes bulged, the confident half-lidded look instantly replaced by a wide, watery stare of pure, unadulterated shock. The kiss broke as he tried to jerk back, but the blonde didn't let him go. She tightened her grip, her fingernails digging into the delicate skin through the wool and cotton, twisting with calculated, brutal precision.

"Slow enough for you?" she hissed, her face inches from his, watching the colour drain from his cheeks.  "Is this the gentle introduction you had in mind?" The chef was sure that the Fox will either pass out or vomit on the floor. She eased up a little on her vice-like grip. “Listen up, you stupid piece of shit”, Annetta growled low in the man’s ear making him shudder. “I may have signed my freedom away, but not to you. You want me to be eased in to my role? Well, I got news for you, buddy. I have my husband for that, not some slimy son of a whore, who helped sold me out and now expects me to spread my legs for him. Do I make myself clear?”

She watched intrigued as the man tried to form words, but couldn’t. “Nod your head, if you understand me”. Fox frantically nodded his head in the affirmative. She held the grip for a few seconds longer than necessary, relishing the power she held over the man who thought he owned her. She could feel his pulse hammering frantically against her fingertips, a terrified rhythm that synced with the shallow gasps escaping his lips. Finally, with a dismissive shove, she let go.

Fox didn't try to maintain any semblance of dignity. He crumbled instantly, sliding out of her grasp and collapsing onto the faux-wood floor of the dressing room. He curled into a fetal ball, clutching his groin with both hands, his face buried against the cheap carpet. A wet, hacking cough rattled through his chest, followed by a high-pitched wheeze that sounded painfully pathetic.

Annetta watched him writhe for a moment, her chest heaving with adrenaline. Calmly, she reached back to the vanity table. Her fingers wrapped around the cool plastic handles of the shears. Just in case Fox would decide to retaliate. She gripped the shears tightly, the blades opening and closing with a soft snip-snap sound. Though, at that moment in time, retaliation was the last thing on the man's mind. He was completely incapacitated by the blunt trauma to his most sensitive area. He gasped for air, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the expensive upholstery of the couch, his earlier arrogance completely evaporated.

Minutes dragged by, the only sounds in the room being Fox's wet, ragged breathing and the hum of the air conditioning unit. The chef stood her ground, the shears held loosely but ready at her side, watching him like a hawk. Finally, Fox stirred. He rolled onto his side, groaning, and slowly, shakily, pushed himself up. He used the edge of the coffee table for support, his knuckles white as he gripped the wood. He swayed dangerously, his legs trembling as if he had just run a marathon, but he managed to stay upright. He looked a mess: his suit jacket was wrinkled, hair disheveled, and eyes were red and watery.

Fox opened his mouth to speak, lips trembling as he tried to form words that matched his earlier bravado. He looked at the shears in her hand, then up at the chef's stony face, and the defiance drained out of him instantly. He snapped his jaw shut, the sound audible in the quiet room. The man took a staggering step backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I... I'm..." he stammered, his voice cracking and weak, nothing like the corporate baritone he used in board meetings. "I'm sorry."

He didn't wait for a response. He didn't even try to smooth out his suit or compose himself. Fox turned and fled the dressing room as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him, clutching his abdomen with one hand. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Anne alone in the sudden silence.

Annetta watched the empty doorway for a long moment, listening to the fading echo of the producer's footsteps. She got up from her chair and closed the door. A slow, predatory smile spread across her lips. The blonde felt some primal satisfaction. The air in the room felt somehow lighter now. She had gone into the lion's den and she had clawed the lion. It was a small victory, a fleeting moment of control in a life that will be systematically stolen from her, but she intended to savour this moment. Of course, I might regret this later, but that’s future me’s problem. I defo should invest in to some pepper spray or guns.

The woman tossed the shears onto the vanity table with a clatter, no longer needing the weight of steel in her hand to feel safe. With decisive, jerky movements, she began to unbutton the heavy wool costume. She stripped off the blouse and skirt, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and pulled on her jeans and a simple sweater. Dressing in her own clothes felt like putting on armour.

*

The hallway was a hive of activity, crew members scrambling to dismantle the historical set and strike the lights. The familiar chaos of the studio usually grated on her nerves, but today, it felt grounding. It was reality: messy, unglamorous reality of television production. Just as she reached the exit doors, she bumped into the lighting technician, who was wrestling with a tangled coil of heavy cable.

"Hey, Anne! You heading out?" the man asked, heaving the cable onto his shoulder. He looked past her, his brows knitting together in concern. "We saw Fox stumbling out of your dressing room a few minutes ago. He looked terrible. Pale as a ghost. Did something happen?"

The chef adjusted her purse on her shoulder, feigning a look of mild surprise before offering a nonchalant shrug. "I think it was something he ate," she said smoothly, keeping her voice level. "He came in to talk about the episode, and then suddenly looked like he was going to be sick. Maybe that takeaway from lunch didn't agree with him."

The technician chuckled, shaking his head as he gestured toward the exit with his free hand. "Well, he’s usually got a stomach of steel. Must be a bug going around. Drive safe, Mrs. Mortinson. Good work today."

"Thanks, you too," she replied, giving him a small wave as she pushed through the heavy studio doors.

*

The parking garage was cold and smelled of wet concrete and exhaust fumes, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the studio lights. Annetta walked briskly, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against the pavement. The smile she had worn for the technician faded as soon as she was alone, replaced by a grim set to her jaw.

She reached her car (a practical SUV that could fit five children and a week’s worth of groceries) and unlocked it. As she slid into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut, the silence of the enclosed space rushed in. It was heavy. Suffocating. She sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white.

 The adrenaline from the confrontation with Fox was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a cold, trembling residue. She replayed the scene in her mind. It felt good to hurt him, to see the arrogance drain out of his eyes. But it was a dangerous game. She had poked a bear, and even if the bear was currently limping away, it was still a bear…