Chapter 1 — Opening Chaos at the Astoria Theatre

Izzy

The sound of a drill squealing against metal ricocheted through the backstage corridors, blending with the hum of activity and the faint creak of the old floorboards. Isabelle “Izzy” Carter pressed her headset closer to her ear, her sharp green eyes darting toward the stage where a group of carpenters wrestled with a rogue set piece. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, but she ignored it, gripping her clipboard—her lifeline—like a shield. Its frayed edges and color-coded tabs anchored the chaos swirling around her.

“Okay, no, stop—stop!” Her voice cut through the din like a whip. She stalked to the edge of the stage, black boots pounding against the worn floorboards. “That platform needs to be centered. Margot wants it aligned with the downstage marker, not six inches to the left. We’re not building a crooked carnival ride!”

One of the crew members, a burly man with a streak of sawdust in his hair, grunted in acknowledgment, but Izzy barely waited for confirmation before spinning on her heel. Her clipboard rose reflexively, and she made a quick, precise note before her gaze swept across the theater with the precision of a military general surveying a battlefield. To the untrained eye, it might look like controlled chaos—actors rehearsing lines high on drama but low on accuracy, technicians tinkering with lights that seemed determined to hum at the wrong pitch, and Ellie darting around with a tape measure like a particularly frazzled hummingbird—but to Izzy, it was pure, unadulterated chaos. The smell of sawdust and paint mingled with the faint, lingering scent of old wood, a constant reminder of the Astoria’s storied past pressing down on her shoulders.

“Ellie!” Izzy barked into her headset, her voice pitched just high enough to convey the urgency that had her pulse thrumming in her ears. “Where are we on the Act One costumes?”

A crackle, then Ellie’s familiar, lilting voice came through the headset. “Almost done. You’ll have your enchanted sprites in their sequined glory within the hour. Assuming, of course, that the sewing machine stops eating thread like it’s on some kind of fabric-only diet.”

Izzy exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “If the sprites don’t look like they’ve stepped out of Margot’s fever dream of Shakespearean fantasy, we’re in trouble.”

“No pressure, right?” Ellie quipped, the sound of her frantic movements audible even through the headset.

Izzy’s lips twitched despite herself, but the flicker of amusement faded as her gaze landed on the soundboard station across the theater. A stagehand waved at her, gesturing wildly at a tangled mass of cables that seemed to mock them all with its Gordian complexity. Fantastic.

“I’ll be right there,” she muttered into her headset before lowering it, weaving through the maze of ladders, props, and scurrying crew members. Her clipboard remained an extension of her arm, and she reflexively flipped through its pages as she moved. Each tabbed section bore the marks of her meticulous organization: schedules, diagrams, cue lists, and even a few quick sketches she’d made to troubleshoot problems on the fly. It was her anchor in the storm.

As she reached the soundboard, Nick, a young man with wide, panicked eyes, thrust a bundle of cables at her. “These aren’t connecting to the main—”

“Stop.” Izzy raised a hand, cutting him off. “Take a breath, Nick. You’re rewiring? Good. But you’re crossing inputs A and C. If you keep going, you’ll blow the board, and I’ll have to explain to Margot why our rehearsal sounds like an AM radio in a thunderstorm. Let’s not do that, all right?”

Nick visibly swallowed his nerves but nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he bent back to his task. Izzy crouched beside him, her voice softening but remaining steady. “Nice and easy. You’ve got this. Just...don’t panic.”

Nick’s movements grew more precise under her direction, and Izzy felt the barest sliver of relief creep in—until Margot’s voice thundered from the stage.

“Carter! Where are we on those lighting cues?” Margot’s imperious silhouette loomed center stage, her silver-streaked hair glinting in the dim light like a storm cloud frozen mid-rage. Even her tailored blazer seemed to radiate command.

Izzy straightened, squaring her shoulders. Her grip on the clipboard tightened, the edge digging into her palm. “I’m on it, Margot. Just finalizing the board rewiring. Lighting will be ready to run in twenty.”

Margot’s sharp eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her as though searching for cracks in her composure. Izzy felt her pulse quicken, but she didn’t avert her gaze. Not here. Not now.

“It had better be,” Margot said, each word clipped and deliberate, as though she were sculpting a monologue from raw stone. “Every second we waste now is a second stolen from the masterpiece we’re crafting.”

“Understood.” Izzy’s tone was clipped, professional, and devoid of the internal retort screaming that perfection, as Margot defined it, was exhausting. She had neither the time nor the energy to spar with the director right now.

Margot swept off in a swirl of dramatic authority, and Izzy turned back to her clipboard, her fingers flipping quickly through its meticulously annotated tabs. She mentally filed Margot’s latest demand into her ever-growing checklist, right alongside the fact that Adrian Blackwood, their star and Margot’s supposed muse for this production, was missing. Not late. Missing.

Pressing a finger to her temple, Izzy allowed herself a brief, private moment of frustration. Who signs on to lead *The Tempest* and then doesn’t bother to show up for the first full-cast rehearsal? And why the hell had Margot been so insistent that he was the only actor alive who could pull off this “bold, transformative” take on Prospero? The knot of anxiety in her stomach tightened with every passing minute, but she couldn’t afford to dwell. Not now.

“Hey, Izzy.” Ellie’s voice broke her reverie, this time not through the headset but in person, accompanied by the faint scent of coffee and fabric softener. Izzy turned to see her friend leaning against a rack of half-finished costumes, her auburn curls barely contained by the pencil precariously tucked behind one ear. “Thought you could use this.” She held out a paper cup, steam wafting invitingly.

Izzy accepted it with a grateful nod, taking a fortifying sip. The warmth spread through her, easing some of the tension in her neck and shoulders. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Ellie smirked. “I live to serve. Though, judging by the look on your face, I’d say you’re about five seconds from snapping and launching Margot’s cane into orbit.”

“She won’t let go of the damn thing long enough for me to try,” Izzy replied dryly, earning a bark of laughter from Ellie.

“Fair point. So, what’s the crisis of the hour?” Ellie asked, her tone light but her eyes scanning Izzy’s face with the perceptiveness of someone who knew her too well.

Izzy hesitated, her fingers unconsciously tapping the edge of her clipboard. “Where do I start? Lighting’s half-done, the soundboard was wired by someone courting disaster, and Adrian Blackwood is AWOL.”

Ellie raised a brow. “The Adrian Blackwood? The one Margot’s been gushing about since day one?”

“The same. Though at this rate, I’m starting to think I hallucinated him entirely.”

Ellie tilted her head, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips. “Maybe he’s waiting for his cue. Actors love to make us sweat.”

“Well, he’d better hurry up,” Izzy muttered, glancing at her watch. “Because if Margot doesn’t flay him alive, I might.”

“You’re adorable when you’re murderous,” Ellie teased, patting Izzy’s arm before retreating back to her workshop. “Don’t work too hard!”

Izzy rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. As Ellie disappeared into the labyrinth of costumes, a thought from earlier resurfaced, unbidden: Maybe Adrian wasn’t just late. Maybe this production meant something different to him—and not in the way Margot had sold it to them all. But there wasn’t time to chase that thread now.

The theater thrummed around her, a living, breathing entity that demanded every ounce of her focus. The faint echo of actors’ voices mixed with the metallic clang of tools, the hum of the stage lights vibrating through her skin. And if Izzy had her way, she’d give it exactly that—chaos, Adrian Blackwood, and Margot’s impossible standards be damned.

The show would go on. It had to.