Several months had passed, and all of Hollywood was talking about Pulp Fiction.
That "crazy movie" that countless investors had rejected was now sitting at over $180 million at the North American box office, with global grosses pushing $300 million.
Band was going all-out on the home video release, practically living on the phone with Miramax.
The post-production editing room for The Mask stayed lit around the clock. Pangu Light & Magic's VFX team was so busy they didn't even get Christmas off.
And Quentin spent his days holed up in a hotel room, pounding away at a new script.
"Once this one's done," he'd said, "the whole world will forget Pulp Fiction."
Pangu Pictures was starting to show up on the front pages of every industry trade magazine.
But Link had no time to enjoy it.
His desk was buried in paperwork—on one side, faxes from the Rosarito Beach construction site in Mexico, all about foundation issues and water tank engineering; on the other, casting reports and budget increase requests for A Beautiful Mind.
Phones rang, fax machines whined, and knocks at the door came nonstop. He felt like five assembly lines were pulling him in different directions at once.
Just then, the office door opened.
Cameron Diaz walked in, wearing a bright yellow dress. She was like a ray of California sunshine, instantly injecting some life into an office that reeked of caffeine and nicotine.
"Looks like our producer's about to drown in paperwork," she said with a smile, setting a packed salad down on his desk.
Link looked up, rubbed his throbbing temples, and only then did a genuine smile appear.
"Another five minutes and you might've had to identify the body."
He opened the salad and speared a piece of lettuce with his fork. Cameron naturally moved behind him and started massaging his tense shoulders.
"James Cameron bugging you for money again?"
"He wants to install a circulation system at the bottom of the tank that can simulate North Atlantic currents," Link said with a wry smile. "I'm half-convinced his next step is building a real iceberg."
Cameron laughed. "That does sound… very on brand for him."
As they talked, the tension in the office eased for once.
But when Link glanced back at the red numbers on the paperwork, a quiet anxiety crept back in.
Titanic was behind schedule. A Beautiful Mind's bills were still climbing.
He knew he couldn't afford to lose focus.
Just then—
Beep, beep, beep.
The phone on his desk rang.
Link glanced at the caller ID.
Frank Darabont.
He hit the speaker button.
"Link , it's me," Frank said, his voice tight with worry. "Things have changed."
"Talk to me."
"Stephen King's agent… their attitude's gotten weird lately."
Frank lowered his voice. "They know Harvey's asking around about Shawshank. That fat bastard's been spreading word that if Pangu doesn't move forward, Miramax is willing to pay a 'symbolic fee' and buy the film rights outright."
Link frowned slightly. "Harvey?"
"Yeah. And the agent's clearly tempted," Frank said with a bitter chuckle. "King himself doesn't care about this stuff, but his agent sure does. He called to hint that if Pangu doesn't officially greenlight the project next month, they might pull the rights."
The room went quiet for a few seconds.
Link's fingers tapped softly on the desk.
"So it's either we start now, or we get pried out?"
"Pretty much," Frank sighed. "Link , I know you're swamped, but this one… we might really have to move it up."
Link was silent for a moment.
"I understand. I'll have someone take over tomorrow."
He hung up.
The office fell into a brief stillness.
Cameron looked at him, concern on her face.
"What happened?"
"The rights to Shawshank are being targeted," Link said, leaning back in his chair. "King's agent is pushing us to greenlight."
"So what are you going to do?"
Link looked at her and suddenly smiled.
"I want you to take it."
Cameron froze. "Me?"
Link opened a drawer and pulled out the thick script—The Shawshank Redemption.
"I can't personally follow this project anymore," he said, handing it to her. "Pangu needs a producer. Someone I trust."
Cameron hesitated, looking down at the cover, then back up at him, a little flustered.
"Me? But I'm just—"
"You need to believe in yourself," Link cut in. "I've seen how you handle things on set, how you communicate with actors. You've got great instincts. And most importantly, you know what you're doing."
His voice was calm, but there was a firmness to it that left no room for argument.
"I'll have Martha and Legal support you. You'll handle pre-production, reach out to directors, shortlist actors, and keep the budget under control. Make sure the project moves forward smoothly."
Cameron was quiet for a few seconds, then nodded. "I understand."
Link looked at her seriously. "Cameron, this isn't a vanity title, and it's not a favor. This is your project. You make the calls. You take responsibility."
In that moment, Cameron felt her heart skip.
This meant more to her than any sweet talk ever could. It meant he didn't just see her looks or her body—he saw her potential.
"Leave it to me," she said, her voice soft but full of resolve.
Holding the script, she turned and walked toward the door.
At the doorway, she paused and looked back at him.
"Link ."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
Her voice was quiet, her eyes bright.
Then she pushed the door open and walked off down the hall, her steps noticeably lighter.
Link watched her go, leaned back in his chair, and let out a slow breath.
The sunlight outside was perfect—but he knew one thing for sure.
From here on out, the weight on his shoulders would only get heavier.
But at least now, he wasn't fighting alone anymore.