The Chandelier Disaster

Part I

To most people in the professional acting industry, the best thing about working full-time on Broadway would probably be not having to wake up before noon if you didn't feel like it.

...Unless your detestable production manager decides to text you six hundred times before seven A.M., that is.

Valentina Morgan was pretty sure that her groan could be heard at the other end of Brooklyn, but she really didn't care. Who in their right mind thought it was appropriate to bother her like this when she had only just gone to sleep a few hours ago?

Ethan Bradshaw, apparently.

So she had to deal with him before she'd had her necessary morning dose of caffeine – great. Valentina rolled over in her bed, slapping a hand down on her bedside table to cease the incessant, obnoxious buzzing coming from the tiny metal box. Groaning again, she yanked the cell from its charger and scrolled through an unending stream of messages, cringing as she noted that every single one of them was from her abhorrent coworker. As the production manager, Bradshaw didn't have the obligation of being at Phantom's performances every night, and didn't seem to care whether or not any of his associates did – or whether or not they got any sleep – based on the number of blasts Valentina had just gotten.

Nearly all of the obnoxiously-worded texts were reminding her of the cast change that was to take place that night, telling her about everything that needed to be absolutely perfect for the performance – all the things she had already set in place at the put-in. The principals' dressing rooms needed to be cleaned out and refitted? She'd made sure the dressers vacuumed every nook and cranny the night before, between shows. Costumes needed to be taken in, replaced, and put on their proper rack in the Wardrobe Village? She'd had the racks organized for weeks. Lighting, mic, sound, and tech details? Already planned in the cue book. Briefing the new ensemble members on backstage protocol? Done during tech. They were on the same level of seniority, below only the director and the board of producers, and yet Bradshaw assumed that she was nothing more than a fresh-faced grad student straight out of technical school, a newbie who had no idea what she was doing. Absolutely disgusting.

The thought made her want to moan again, but if she had this much to double and triple check for the millionth time before fight call, she'd better just roll out of bed and start making calls before the beast of burden decided to make a house call himself. With a to-do list stretching the length of Manhattan running through her head, Valentina sat up sharply, tossing her phone on the bed and giving it a sour scowl before moving to pull something from her closet.

I've been here for three years, she thought. I think I know what I'm doing.

Two and a half hours later and the scowl hadn't shifted an inch, even though the setting had. Nine A.M., and Valentina was stuck in the stuffy, humid, overly-crowded Fulton Street subway station, waiting for the 8:54 A train to 42nd Street that would take her away from scabby Brooklyn and whisk her away to the magic world of Broadway lights, where she could pretend for a few hours that her hellhole of a neighborhood didn't exist.Her job was a safe haven, even if she had to deal with a few minor frustrations; well, as minor as things can get when you're essentially the head honcho of the longest running production in Broadway history.

The girl had a talent for creating a bubble of personal space around her, just from her appearance alone. She was the sole occupant of the wooden bench on the A train side, her old work satchel piled on the seat next to her and her wide-spread stance in sitting taking up almost two whole seats on its own. Her heavy dreadlocks hung in two straight planes at the sides of her face, blocking it from view of anyone else on the platform, and her arms were perched on the edge of her legs, holding her torso in place.