I have plans this weekend. Studio sessions booked.
“But my hair?—”
“Looks fine, Ty. Two minutes now.”
I grab my coffee, letting the bitter warmth ground me. 6:15 AM. The morning’s slipping away faster than caffeine can fix.
Cancel them. Your work isn’t as important as mine.
Something hot and angry coils in my stomach. The same feeling I used to swallow daily, until I learned better.
“Mom! Blythe used all the hot water!”
“Did not!”
I save the script file, knowing I won’t get another clean take before school drop-off. “This house has three bathrooms. Three. And yet every morning, it’s like we only have one.”
They thunder down the stairs like a herd of elephants. I follow more slowly, thumbs moving over my phone.
I’ll see what I can do. But I need more notice next time.
In the kitchen, Tyson’s already got the cereal box out, Blythe watching him pour with the intensity of a customs inspector. “You’re doing it wrong,” she informs him. “Mom says the milk goes after.”
“Mom says a lot of things.” But he’s gentle when he passes her the box, careful not to spill. For all their bickering, they look out for each other.
My phone buzzes one last time and I don’t even bother checking what perfunctory bullshit answer he’s given me.
The morning sun slants through my kitchen window, catching on the prism I hung there last summer. Tiny rainbows dance across the breakfast dishes, across my daughter’s worried face.
I’ll have to reschedule the audiobook recording. Again. Call in favors at the studio. Again.
“Hey,” I say, making Blythe look up. “Want to hear my commercial voice?”
Her eyes light up. “The fancy one?”
I clear my throat, channeling my inner movie trailer narrator. “In a world where one little girl needs to get ready for school... in the next ten minutes... or we’ll be late... again...”
She giggles, and just like that, the morning feels manageable.
The sound boothat Westbrook Studios feels different from my home setup. More austere. Professional. The kind of place where people make real money with their voices, not just piece together a living between school pickups and custody battles.
“Page seventy-four,” Callum says through my headphones. His director’s voice is carefully neutral, which means we’re already behind schedule. “From ‘His fingers traced...’”
I clear my throat, settling into character. Diana Stanhope, shipping heiress, about to have her world rocked by a mysterious stranger on her father’s yacht. The copy in front of me is marked with my notes: breathy here, pause there, build tension.
“His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, igniting sparks beneath her sun-kissed skin.” My voice drops an octave, honey-warm and promising. “She knew she shouldn’t trust him, this dark-eyed stranger who’d appeared on her father’s yacht like a storm on the horizon. But as his lips found the pulse point at her throat?—”
I falter, just for a moment. The last time someone kissed my neck was three years ago, back when Evan and I still pretended we could fix things.
“Cut,” Callum sighs. “Lost the energy there, Golda. Let’s take it from ‘she knew.’”
In the booth, I roll my shoulders, shake out the tension.
“She knew she shouldn’t trust him?—”
My phone vibrates against the music stand. The school’s phone number.
“Cut.” Callum doesn’t sigh this time, but his silence speaks volumes.
