The Other Woman |Charlie Barber x Reader|

~The Therapist~

| One Year Later |

Charlie Barber's observant eyes remain glued on the stage before him. From the dark void of the theater seats, he watches on as his performers move about. Their voices clamor over one another, adding onto the peculiar artistry their director had called for.

Their bodies move in unison, breaking apart and pulling back together as the main character takes center stage. This play was one Charlie would be proud of; he could already feel it. What might have looked like everything but the kitchen sink, was going to develop into something deeply profound and emotional. Charlie always felt their sincere sense of pride knowing that it was all under his control. That his creations were thriving because of his hard work.

From behind him, the empty rows of seats watch on with their blank, judging stares. Cold filters through the crevices and gaps as the theater's old air conditioning springs to life with a low grumble, spreading a chill over the nonexistent audience. As if to prove its strength to Charlie, the AC delivers a strong blow atop his head, ruffling his hair and the pages of his notebooks.

Charlie clicks his tongue disapprovingly, glancing up at the old vents as though telling them that they would need to get replaced eventually. He thumbs through his little notebook in an attempt to locate the page. Dozens of his old scribbles flash before his eyes; as messy and rushed as ever. The man always liked to get his thoughts down quickly before they evaded him.

No one ever questioned his process. After all, why would anyone question a genius?

"Stop," his deep voice rumbles abruptly around the massive room.

Everything on stage halts very suddenly, guided by their director's talented hand. Even the old ghosts haunting the theater pause to watch the master at work. The lights in the auditorium flicker back on as Charlie climbs the steps. They creak beneath him in defiance of his size. A size kept unassuming beneath tame button-ups and cardigans and sweaters. The giant glances at his wife but brushes past her, feeling her eyes upon him. For now, his notes would not be directed towards her.

"Frank," Charlie peers down at the older man, standing heads beneath him. "I thought we had an agreement about this scene."

"I figured I could face the other way since-"

"This isn't something we can argue about tonight. We have a few weeks until opening night and we made an agreement. I want everything to run smoothly. That goes for everyone. Clear?" He opens his arms, looking around the stage expectantly.

Cheery responses of "clear" ripple through the space. Nobody took poorly to Charlie's notes. They all respected him and saw him as a visionary. They would be right, of course, he was brilliant.

The stairs groan at him again as he rushes back down and seats himself. Charlie pulls his little notebook into his lap once more, furiously flipping through it to scribble some last-minute ideas down now that new inspiration had struck him. Anyone—even those who didn't appreciate theater—could see Charlie Barber truly had a gift. He saw people for who they were and he could pick apart potential. Anything mundane could be made grand if he merely applied himself.

A man with a vision, it seemed, for everything but his marriage.

His watchful eyes travel to Nicole, observing her closely as she performs with the others. She always put her heart and soul into her performances, but she always wanted to have some control over it all. An untamable, moody woman as stubborn and competitive as he was. That was, perhaps, a few of the reasons they argued so much.