The Critic's Mistress and My Hot Mic

Julia's POV

"Cut the feed!" Greg screamed through my earpiece. "Julia, what are you doing? Cut it!"

"I'm adjusting the levels," I said calmly.

"The hell you are! You're overriding the system!"

I shoved the red live broadcast fader to the absolute top. The plastic slider hit the upper limit with a sharp clack. My thumb slammed down on the master override button, locking the audio output.

The sweeping orchestral score of Marcus's film vanished.

"Wait until the show ends, and I'll take you up to the penthouse suite." Marcus's voice boomed through the four massive line-array speakers, echoing across five thousand seats.

"Julia's such a block of wood, she won't notice a thing."

Tessa's giggle vibrated the floorboards. "You're terrible."

"You love it," Marcus answered. "Just unbutton the top one."

"Not here," she whispered.

"Why not? They're all watching my movie. We own this place tonight."

"Jesus Christ!" Greg yelled on the main channel. "Kill the mics! Someone break into that booth!"

The theater plunged into dead silence. The kind of quiet that sucked the oxygen out of the room. A woman in the third row dropped her phone. It clattered against the concrete floor.

Then, the explosion.

"Oh my god!" someone shrieked from the balcony.

Thousands of voices erupted. Flashbulbs strobed like a lightning storm against the pitch-black stage.

On the giant monitor, the camera caught Marcus. He clawed at his chest, frantically patting down his bespoke suit. He was hunting for the wireless lavalier mic clipped to his lapel. Tessa stumbled backward, covering her face with her hands, tripping over her strappy sandals.

"Open the door!" A security guard pounded his fist against the steel frame of the control booth.

"I need a master key!" another guard shouted. "She jammed the electronic lock!"

I spun around and threw the manual deadbolt. The metal cylinder engaged with a heavy thud.

"Julia, you're fired!" Greg shrieked in my ear. "Do you hear me? You are done in this town! I'll make sure you never touch a soundboard again!"

"Save your breath, Greg," I said. "I quit."

I ripped the earpiece off and dropped it onto the console.

Down on the stage, Marcus stopped clawing at his suit. He finally realized where the broadcast was coming from. He tilted his head back and stared straight up at the second-floor control booth. He couldn't see through the one-way glass, but his eyes locked onto my exact position.

His face drained of color, turning a sickly, ashen gray. His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking under his skin. He pointed a shaking finger at the glass.

"Turn it off!" Marcus screamed, his voice carrying faintly through the thick window.

I leaned against the console. Three months ago, he stood in the editing bay, pointing at the exit just like that. "Pack your things," he had told me. "You don't understand camera language. Tessa does." He replaced me with a twenty-two-year-old who barely knew how to turn on a monitor. He despised the technical side of the industry, calling it grunt work.

Now, that grunt work was broadcasting his infidelity in Dolby Digital surround sound.

I smiled at the glass.

The crowd below surged toward the aisles.

"Marcus, is it true?" a reporter screamed, shoving a digital recorder toward the stage. "Are you having an affair with your assistant?"

"Get back!" a bodyguard yelled, shoving the press line away from the stairs.

"Tessa, look over here! Did you sleep with him for the associate producer credit?" a photographer demanded.

"No comment! Back away!" Marcus yelled, grabbing Tessa's arm and dragging her toward the wings.

"Is the marriage over, Marcus?" another voice called out.

"Security, clear the aisles!" David, the host, bellowed into a handheld microphone.

"Don't touch my camera!" a journalist snapped.

Amidst the chaos, one person remained perfectly still.

Evan sat in the center of the front row. The top film critic and Marcus's most vocal rival didn't jump out of his seat. He didn't pull out his phone to record the disaster. He just leaned back against the red velvet upholstery.

He tilted his chin up, tracking Marcus's gaze right to the control booth. Evan raised his champagne flute, angling it directly at the glass. He offered a silent toast. A sharp, knowing smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

He knew exactly who was behind the glass.

I didn't have time to react. I turned back to the mixing desk.

"She's not answering!" a voice yelled from the hallway.

"Get the fire axe!" Greg commanded.

I grabbed the primary backup drive from the port. I yanked the USB cable out, shoved the silver metal square into my jacket pocket, and zipped it shut. I had the raw audio file. The undeniable proof.

I scooped up my canvas backpack and slung it over one shoulder.

Crash.

The reinforced glass on the booth door cracked. A security guard's flashlight smashed against the pane a second time. Spiderweb fractures spread across the window.

"Break it down!" Greg yelled. "She's locking us out!"

"Stand back, I'm kicking the knob," the guard replied.

I sprinted toward the emergency exit at the rear of the booth. I shoved the crash bar. The heavy door swung open, leading to the metal fire escape.

Cold night air hit my face. Rain lashed against the iron stairs. I took the steps two at a time, my sneakers slipping against the wet grating. The blare of sirens echoed in the distance, mixing with the muffled roar of the crowd inside the theater.

"She's going down the back!" someone yelled from above.

I ignored them. I hit the bottom landing, pushed open the rusted alley gate, and stepped onto the wet pavement. Water soaked through my thin jacket instantly.

I walked fast, keeping my head down, merging into the shadows of the brick wall.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. The screen lit up the dark corner of the street.

A new text message from Marcus.

"You think ruining me gets you paid? I own all the copyrights you hold."