The five-minute break is a lie. I don't move from the chair, I can't. I just drape there like a discarded costume, my skin humming with the aftershocks of what she’s done. I watch Diane through the blur of my own sweat. She moves with a cold, terrifying efficiency, adjusting the standing lights until they are focused directly on the wall of mirrors. The glare is blinding, turning the studio into a bright, clinical cage.
"Get up, Jade," she says. It isn't an invitation. It is a cue, a cue to get to work. "The third act is about the eyes. A great actress doesn't just feel, she witnesses herself feeling. She detaches. She watches her own corruption like a hawk."
I push myself off the chair, my legs feeling like they are made of cooling wax. I walk toward the mirrors, every step a struggle a
