Cameron felt like a kid who'd just gotten a brand-new toy—bursting with energy and excitement she couldn't use up fast enough.
She applied for a small office at Pangu Pictures, right next door to Link's.
She read the script three times, marking it up with three different colors of highlighters, then bought a stack of books on film production and studio workflows.
Days were spent running from meeting to meeting. Nights were spent reading until well past midnight.
She started to believe—really believe—that she could do this.
A week later, full of confidence, she set up a meeting with The Shawshank Redemption's director, Frank Darabont.
The café was softly lit, the air rich with the smell of freshly ground coffee beans.
Cameron spread out her notebook, smiled with practiced confidence, and said in a tone she'd rehearsed dozens of times:
"Frank, the script is incredible. I was completely moved by Andy's story. But from a market perspective, have you considered casting a bigger star? Someone like… Tom Hanks? His image fits the role really well, and he has serious box-office appeal."
Frank slowly set down his coffee cup and looked up at her.
There was no hostility in his gaze—just a cold, clinical distance, like a scientist peering at an amateur through a microscope.
"Ms. Diaz," he said flatly, with a trace of unmistakable irritation, "Andy Dufresne isn't a star. He's the kind of man people don't notice on a rainy day. A star can't play that."
He paused, then added, "You don't understand."
Cameron's smile froze.
"I was just—"
"If you're trying to make a movie that survives on star power alone," he interrupted, still polite but unmistakably firm, "then Warner Bros. might be a better fit for you."
With that, he stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked away without looking back.
The coffee was still steaming, but she felt like the entire room had gone cold.
The chill crept down her spine, inch by inch, and she sat there frozen in her chair.
She took a deep breath, forced a small smile, and murmured to herself, "It's fine. I get it. Directors want to protect the artistic integrity of their films."
But when she stepped outside the café, she realized she had no idea which direction she was supposed to go.
—
Over the next few days, she ran headfirst into wall after wall.
She called Kevin Costner's agent.
The response was professionally polite: "Mr. Costner's schedule is booked through next year. And frankly… a prison movie without a female lead isn't an easy sell."
She reached out to several investment firms, pitching the same speech about "human redemption" over and over again.
On the other end of the line, she got either silence—or vague brush-offs like "We'll think about it."
When the nth call ended, her hand was trembling. The receiver slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.
She bent down to pick it up and smiled faintly, as if mocking her own naïveté.
Budget sheets lay scattered across her desk.
The dense rows of numbers looked like a pitch-black ocean—deep and bottomless.
For the first time, she realized that a single day's catering budget for a film crew could equal an entire month of her income back when she was modeling.
Her frustration hit its peak.
Just as she was on the verge of breaking down, a knock sounded at her door. It was Link's assistant, Martha.
"Ms. Diaz, Mr. Link would like to invite you to sit in on a senior production meeting for Titanic."
Martha's tone was calm, but there was a hint of respect in it.
"He said this would be a good opportunity for you to observe how large-scale projects operate."
Cameron froze for a few seconds, her eyes suddenly stinging.
He was still looking out for her. Still giving her chances.
She pulled herself together immediately, grabbed her notebook, and walked into the largest conference room at Pangu Pictures.
—
The conference room was brightly lit, the atmosphere serious.
Link sat at the head of the table. On either side were department heads from visual effects, art design, engineering, and historical consulting.
On the large screen behind them was a live video feed of James Cameron.
She barely understood a single sentence they were saying.
"The hydraulic margin of error for the hull break can't exceed one-thousandth."
"The third-class wood paneling needs to be aged—duller, rougher. It has to look poor, or it won't feel real."
"The dynamic water pressure in the model cabins—we'll need to recreate it on-site."
She tried to take notes, but before long her pages were filled with abbreviations and question marks.
She forced herself to speak up. "So… could we replace some of this with scale models?"
The person across from her didn't even look up. "That is what we're discussing."
Her face flushed.
In that moment, she truly felt like an actress who'd wandered onto the wrong set.
Suddenly, Link glanced toward the door. "Regarding our historical consulting, I've invited a special guest."
Martha opened the door.
A woman walked in.
She wore a black trench coat, her dark hair in loose curls, her smile calm and self-assured.
Catherine Zeta-Jones.
"This is Ms. Jones," Link said. "Her grandfather was an engineer at Harland & Wolff. She'll serve as our historical consultant—and she'll also play a role written specifically for her."
Catherine showed no trace of nerves. She walked straight to the table and took out a stack of materials from her bag.
"Mr. Cameron," she said, looking at the screen, her voice clear and confident, "regarding the Welsh accent—research shows that in South Wales around 1912, the 'a' vowel was flatter, closer to an 'e' sound. If the actors can master this distinction, the third-class atmosphere will feel much more authentic."
As she spoke, she flipped through pages, moving seamlessly from language to food to cabin furnishings—clear logic, precise structure.
She wasn't reporting.
She was creating alongside them.
The room grew so quiet you could hear pens scratching against paper.
Even Cameron on the screen showed focused interest—and approval.
Link exchanged a look with Zeta-Jones and gave a slight nod, a faint smile touching his lips.
Cameron sat in the corner, her pen long forgotten in her hand.
Watching the easy, natural way they interacted, she suddenly understood—
They belonged to the same world.
And she didn't.
The cold feeling that rose from her chest wasn't jealousy, not romance—it was pure disorientation.
For the first time, she realized that some distances couldn't be crossed by effort alone.
When the meeting ended, Link walked over and asked softly, "So? Learn anything?"
Cameron opened her mouth, her voice barely audible.
"Yeah… a lot," she said with a forced smile.
He nodded, then turned away to discuss audition plans with Catherine.
Watching them, Cameron suddenly felt like even the air had turned cold.
—
Back in her office, the copy of The Shawshank Redemption she'd covered in highlighter was still lying open on her desk.
She stared at it for a few seconds, then reached out and gently brushed her hand across the cover.
The light in her eyes dimmed for a moment—then flared back to life.
"Alright," she whispered to herself. "Then I'll learn their language."