April 17, 2026

I want to go home, but I can’t. 

Today is the first day I’m working overtime - by an hour and a half, specifically. My mom is out with her friends to visit Montreal, but my dad has finally returned from his business trip. He told me to text him if I run further hours. I obliged, but I’m not sure if I can keep my word.

The director has instructed me to record the dance routine the choreographer somehow managed to make yesterday. It’s for a bunch of extras at an improvisational dance party. None of them are smiling before the cameras roll, and I can sense the distinct stench of mid-July sweat throughout despite our current month.

I’m about to shout “cut!” for the millionth time when a grey eyed dancer starts puking.

“Honey,” a strawberry blond dancer runs to her, “what is happening???”

The grey eyed dancer keeps vomiting an ungodly mix of green and gold until she chokes. Before anyone can even attempt to Heimlich her, she faints. As the resident first aid person, Rupert checks for her pulse and breathing. He shakes his head and starts clearing the woman’s digestive residue.

“Cheryl,” Rupert points to me, “call 911!”

I pull out my cell phone’s emergency dial screen. It takes about half a minute for an operator to pick up.

“911, where are you calling?” they start.

“ExtraRed PhotoLabs, London,” I reply, “on the set of Mistletoe Blue.”

“Tell me what happened,” they say.

I look at the female dancer, whose face has gone white from what little I can see of her.

“A dancer passed out after choking on vomit…” I state. “She’s not looking too good.”

“What does she look like?” the operator prompts.

I try to gauge a better look at the girl, but the director steals my phone from me.

“There’s just a bit of a kerfuffle here,” he says in a monotone fashion. “She’s gonna be fine. I don’t think we need an ambulance.”

The director then hangs up the call, faintly smiling.

“What is wrong with you?” I instinctively blurt out. “Someone could literally die on set!”

“It’s called respecting privacy,”  the director responds, smirking at Daisy and Lavender. “We don’t need the tabloids to come after us, right?”

Daisy and Lavender stare at each other, mouths agape in shock.

Every inch of me boils with repressed fury. The director’s casual disregard for human life in the name of a quality he hardly even commands makes me want to throw up like the female dancer did. My desire to return home has been replaced by a visceral hatred far worse than anything I’ve ever felt for Jared or his thugs or any similar people I’ve met in my life.

I attempt to snatch my phone back from the director, but to no avail. The female dancer’s boyfriend ultimately drives her to the hospital in the midst of our showdown.

I am not looking forward to tomorrow.

April 18, 2026

It’s my first 9-5 workday on the set of Mistletoe Blue. 

I decide to start taking notes on the director - his orders, his comments, his misconduct overall. Some of them are on my phone, whereas others are handwritten. I use whatever materials I can get to organize my thoughts into bullet points and dates, as I have heard that precise notetaking is more likely to get the authorities to take a report seriously. 

Perhaps my efforts will work. Perhaps they won’t. I certainly hope they do. After all, I might finally get the director to at least ease up on his routines enough to keep staffing healthily stable. Maybe it’ll even give Daisy and Marcus enough time to go on a happy date together that I can mention to my friends.

Of course, my plan’s success entirely relies on how many people can get on board with it. As much as Aarya and Rupert dread their working conditions, they are also rather disposable due to the nature of their roles as hard labour. I do plan on eventually getting them caught up, but only once I have a diamond solid base to build on. In the meantime, I decide to approach the actual cast of Mistletoe Blue.

I start with Lavender. Lavender’s probably been the most helpful person on set with me for the past few days despite her status as an actress, so I hope at least some of my word might sway down any caution she may possess. She’s busy cleaning the dressing room with the strawberry blond male dancer - who I now know as Francis - that hauled his girlfriend off to the hospital yesterday.

“Want some crackers?” Lavender asks me. 

“No thanks,” I reply. “I’m not that hungry.”

“You know you’re gonna be,” Lavender muses. 

I awkwardly glare at Lavender, wondering why she’s hastily decided to take on-set food when it isn’t even mealtime.

“These are Spencer’s,” Lavender explains. “They gave us a bunch of unused packages from their family’s Passover meal two weeks ago, whatever that is. They’re supposed to be eaten with other stuff, but we obviously can’t have that right now.”

“Oh,” I mutter.

“Don’t worry,” Lavender says, “they’re perfectly non-toxic!”

I take a look at one of the packages Lavender hands me. It’s labelled “Matzos” and judging by the lack of French on the labels and spellings, appears to be from America. They’re set to expire in December. I decide to take one to sneak with me just in case I get hungry.

“Anyways,” I continue my original mission, “do you ever wanna boot this director?”

Lavender looks at me confused.

“Like…go to production higher ups about him?” she asks me.

“Yeah, that,” I answer.

“You know our NDAs could get us in real trouble if we do that,” Lavender retorts, “right?”

For the first time, I’m actually frustrated with Lavender.

“Lavender,” I state, “someone almost died yesterday. There’s gotta be a line somewhere.”

“Mr. Locksmith comes from a family of lawyers and lobbyists,” Lavender explains. “There is no way we’re winning a case against him unless a miracle happens.”

“Whatever,” I reply. “Fine.”

(Wattpad version: ​​https://www.wattpad.com/1657140591-the-daisy-theory-chapter-12)

(Tumblr version: https://www.tumblr.com/talesfromasnarkylisa/827587481789693952/the-daisy-theory-chapter-12?source=share)