The door to the trailer groaned as it swung open, and the sharp, rhythmic tap of leather loafers struck the linoleum. Charles stepped inside, his designer suit perfectly pressed, though his face bore the tight, slightly ashen look of a man who had spent the last four hours arguing with studio executives.
A faint sheen of perspiration clung to his temples despite the cool afternoon air. He paused just inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior, already bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation. He didn't speak immediately.
Instead, he moved slowly toward the small kitchenette, watching the tense, rigid line of Mia's shoulders as she stared blankly at the cracked screen of her vanity table. The silence between them felt heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of production equipment outside.
