“So, how’s the play coming along?”

“Oh, you do not want to know, love,” Emma declared, sighing in frustration. “Honestly, I’m starting to regret ever auditioning in the first place.”

“Really? A few weeks ago, you were so excited to work with Hans Goldman, you were bouncing around the room with joy,” the voice of her lover Richard reminded her on the other end of the line.

“Well, a lot’s happened since then, all of it bad,” the beautiful brunette insisted, pacing anxiously about the living room in her bare feet. “We had another accident today on set.”

“God, another one? Was it serious?”

“Sophie broke her leg when part of the stage collapsed beneath her, so she’s out for the duration. That’s the fifth bad accident we’ve had since production started, and honestly, I’m starting to get a little scared. I know Goldman is supposed to be this big-time professional film director, but it really doesn’t seem like it with all this chaos happening behind the scenes. It’s almost like someone mentioned the name of the Scottish Play!”

Richard was silent for a moment. “Are you going to be all right there?” he said finally. “This conference runs until Friday, but I can be on a plane and back tomorrow if you need me.”

“No, it’s all right. There’s not much you can do to stop some random accidents in the theatre, and you shouldn’t have to undermine your own career for my sake,” insisted the actress, privately flattered that he’d even consider it. “I can survive without you for three days.”

“Fair enough. Still, anything happens, let me know, okay? I’ll always be here for you.”

“I know, and that means so much to me. Anyways, I should turn in. We may be out an Olivia for the time behind, but Viola still has an early rehearsal.”

“All right then. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Emma replied, ending the call with a wistful sigh. It was not uncommon for stage actresses to take a lover; they were passionate creatures by nature, and the old stereotype of the soprano who relaxed before a performance by making love still held weight… at least in her case. Even so, most of the time, they were bedding their fellow performers or the staff backstage; that she’d fallen for an accountant with zero connection to the industry had provoked a minor scandal.

Not to mention all the fans it must have disappointed, she mused, setting aside her smartphone and giving a stretch. At twenty-eight, Emma Huntington had become one of the most sought-after and critically acclaimed actresses in theatre, her work with the Royal Company of Players catapulting her to stardom in the space of a few short years. Her looks had played some part in that, much as she hated to admit it, for was a notable beauty. Soulful grey eyes, raven-black hair that reached down past her shoulders, generous red lips, pale, aquiline features, perfect breasts, coltish legs… yes, she’d been blessed in that regard, and was self-aware enough to know that such a combination opened doors that would otherwise remain closed to her. Yet Emma was a truly talented actress, and if anything, her beauty only made her work all the harder at honing her craft. Too many other performers coasted on their good looks or industry nepotism or a stirring performance on the casting couch, whereas she intended to be a star even after her looks had faded and gone grey. And Richard’s such a good guy he’ll probably be with me even then…

Sighing, Emma padded into their shared bedroom, clad in nothing but one of her lover’s borrowed shirts, the garment descending down to mid-thigh. A few days more, and she would see him again, and hopefully be able to give him some better news. God, I hope we can get this production back on track, and without anyone else getting hurt.

And then from out of the shadows, a gloved hand shot out, clamping over her mouth as unyielding as steel. “Mmmpppggghh!” the soprano let out a muffled, terrified scream, hands clawing away uselessly at her captor’s arm. With a grunt, her assailant tossed her onto the bed, and Emma caught a glimpse of a figure in a black leather trenchcoat, identity shrouded by black ski mask, leather gloves and fedora before her attention fixed on the gleaming steel blade in his free hand. “MMMPPPGGGHHH!”

The knife moved, sending first button on her shirt went flying across the room, and Emma shivered as the cold night air caressed the silken skin of her neck and collarbone. Again and again, the knife cut away her buttons, the motions swift and efficient, until the garment had come undone completely, leaving her naked glory helplessly exposed to her assailant’s gaze. “You are beautiful,” a man’s soft whisper sounded in the dark, and behind his stifling hand, Emma let out a frightened moan as the flat of the blade slid beneath the shirt and lifted it away, cold steel lazily tracing circles upon her wide pink nipples. “It would be a shame to ruin such… perfection. But I will if you try and fight back. Do you understand?”

Emma gave the tiniest nod in answer, any thought of playing the defiant captive smothered by terror. The hand lifted off her mouth, and before she could even consider drawing breath to scream, a wad of balled-up silk cloth was thrust into her mouth, filling it up completely. From a satchel hung at his side, the intruder brought forth a roll of white microfoam tape, and the actress did not resist as it was wrapped around her head, sealing her lips and trapping her long dark hair beneath. She was rolled onto her stomach and the ropes followed, swiftly binding her arms behind her at the wrists and elbows, with more cinched tight at her knees and ankles. “I had not imagined that Hans would be so determined as to carry on with his play, even after all the accidents I arranged,” the masked figure gloated, Emma’s heart pounding a new fearful tempo at the confession. “But I doubt even he would manage if his leading lady mysteriously vanished one evening.”

“MMMPPPGGGHH!” Emma screamed, flexing helplessly against her bonds in a blind panic. White cloth, impregnated with some sickly chemical reek, pressed over her mouth and nose, her struggles fading with every breath. “Mmmmpppggghhh…”

“Fear not, my dear, for I could no more kill you than I could destroy an antique painting,” the intruder assured her, the words barely registering in her drug-clouded mind. “You’ll be freed in a few days, once I know the play will never be released. Until then? Let’s see what sort of games I can play with you…”