When Link returned to the office that night, Cameron was already there.
She hadn't turned on the lights. She sat alone by the floor-to-ceiling window, wrapped in darkness, like a statue forgotten in a corner.
Papers were scattered across the floor—everything she'd worked on over the past few weeks for The Shawshank Redemption. All of it useless.
"I can't do this."
Her voice was hoarse, trembling, on the edge of tears.
"The director won't listen to me. The actors' agents treat me like an intern.
And I—I can't even read a damn budget report."
She stood up abruptly and slammed a stack of papers onto the desk.
"Is this what you wanted, Link ?
Give me an impossible task so I'd embarrass myself?
So you could keep laughing it up with your 'consultant lady'?"
The office was so quiet you could hear the clock ticking.
Link said nothing. He slowly unbuttoned his cuffs, then walked over and pulled her into his arms. The grip wasn't rough—but it made resistance pointless.
"You're not wrong," he said softly, his breath brushing her ear. "At your current level, this project really is beyond you."
Her body stiffened.
He let go, picked up the scattered document, and flipped to the first page.
"You're still thinking like an actor. You want stars to guarantee box office returns. But you're forgetting the core of this story—ordinary people clinging to hope in the darkest place imaginable. A movie star's glow would destroy that honesty."
He moved behind the desk, turned on the desk lamp, and pulled out a chair for her.
"A producer isn't a director's babysitter," he said, calmly sorting the papers into neat stacks. "A producer clears obstacles for the director—and turns talent into money."
His voice was steady, but every sentence hit hard.
Cameron wanted to argue. She couldn't even make a sound.
The only noise in the room was the soft rustle of paper.
After a long while, he finished organizing the last file, marked several key points with a pen, and slid it back to her. He looked up and met her eyes.
There was no mockery.
No lecturing.
Just pure focus.
That look shattered her last line of defense.
When she leaned into him, he didn't move away.
In that moment, she didn't know whether she was seeking comfort—or revenge.
The desk lamp had gone dark.
Outside the massive window, Los Angeles glowed endlessly, a sea of inverted stars. Light spilled in, casting their intertwined shadows across the carpet.
The air held the warmth of whiskey, the trace of her perfume, and a faint metallic scent of blood.
That night, there was no struggle.
No conquest.
Just two exhausted people holding each other for warmth.
Before dawn, pale light slipped through the curtains.
Link held her from behind, his chin resting in her hair, his voice tired but gentle.
"I wasn't trying to watch you fail," he said. "I just needed to know—whether you could carry the weight."
He got up, walked to the desk, picked up the reorganized Shawshank Redemption script, and placed it in her hands.
"Go. Do it again.
Forget the big-name stars. Find actors who truly believe in this story.
I want their profiles—and I want you to tell me why you chose them."
His tone was calm, absolute.
Cameron hugged the script, still warm, and looked up.
The desire in his eyes was gone. All that remained was depth, focus, expectation.
And suddenly, she understood.
Link hadn't given her an impossible task.
He'd given her a chance to transform.
Cameron didn't cry again.
She didn't argue.
She simply nodded.
"Okay."
When she walked out of the office, the sun was already up.
She didn't notice it yet—but the way she walked no longer looked like an actress.