Cameron walked over to the window, the city lights illuminating her face.
In that moment, her eyes changed completely.
She knew she couldn't go straight to Ron Meyer; that would just be knocking on the front door.
She wanted to jump in through the window.
She needed a major player, a big shot who could assemble the right group, someone neither side could refuse.
A face flashed through her mind—
It was a face carved from granite, full of wrinkles, with eyes as sharp as an eagle's.
At a cafe in Cannes, this was the man that Link had "coincidentally" run into, an encounter that had broken Harvey Weinstein's media blockade.
—Clint Eastwood.
That name, in Hollywood, meant a rule-breaker.
He was a director, producer, and actor, and he never bowed to the talent agencies.
He was a living legend of Tinseltown.
The relationship between Link and him wasn't just a simple favor; it was a bond of mutual respect. Eastwood admired Link's guts to tear down the old order.
Would he respect me, too?
Cameron stood up, looking out at the sprawling Los Angeles cityscape.
Her eyes grew firmer with every passing second.
She picked up the phone, her hand trembling slightly, yet dialing with absolute steadiness.
The phone rang three times before a calm male voice answered: "Hello, this is Mr. Eastwood's assistant."
"Hello, my name is Cameron Diaz, Link's partner at Pangu Pictures. I'd like to speak with Mr. Eastwood."
"He's not in Los Angeles. If you have a message, I can pass it along..."
"I know he's busy," she interrupted, her voice calm but firm, "I only need three minutes. If he thinks I'm wasting his time, I'll hang up immediately."
The assistant hesitated.
"Miss Diaz, Mr. Eastwood gets dozens of calls like this every day..."
Cameron was silent for two seconds.
"But those people," she said softly, "aren't Link's girlfriend."
The air froze for three seconds.
Then, she heard a click on the other end.
The call was being transferred.
Her heart felt like it was going to burst through her chest.
A few seconds later, a low, weathered voice came through.
"Miss Diaz?"
She stiffened. That voice was instantly recognizable.
"Mr. Eastwood, I... I am Link's partner."
"He's mentioned you," the voice was steady and powerful. "The leading lady from The Mask, right?"
"Yes."
"I hear you're a producer now."
"...I am."
"So, what do you want from me?"
Cameron took a deep breath: "I have a project, a story about freedom and hope. A man wrongly convicted of murdering his wife, locked in prison, who spends twenty years digging a path to freedom."
Silence on the line.
"The film doesn't have a female lead, no action scenes, and no major stars," she continued. "But it will be a classic. Link believes it, and so do I."
"Right now, no one will listen to me because I'm just an actress, a producer with no track record."
She paused, her tone becoming even more resolute.
"I'm not here to ask for your help. I just want to tell you—this movie is worth three minutes of your time, for you to hear me out."
The other end was quiet for a full thirty seconds.
Then, the low voice finally spoke:
"The movie's title?"
"The Shawshank Redemption."
Another few seconds of silence.
"What do you need?"
Cameron was on the verge of tears: "I need an actor who can play 'Red.' A man with wisdom, with a history, who can make the audience believe he's been in prison for forty years."
"Do you have someone in mind?"
"Morgan Freeman."
A low chuckle came through the phone: "Good taste. Morgan's a friend of mine, he's in San Francisco. I'll make a call, but convincing him... that's on you."
"Thank you, Mr. Eastwood."
"Don't thank me," his voice was flat. "I'm just giving you a shot. Whether you can grab it is your business."
He paused, then added: "Link a good kid. The people he believes in usually aren't bad. Don't disappoint him."
The call ended.
Cameron held the receiver, and a tear finally slipped down her cheek.
It wasn't relief or gratitude.
It was... the first time she truly felt she was a step closer to that world... a step closer to him.
---
Cameron was so excited she barely slept that night. The next morning, she grabbed her luggage and headed straight to the airport.
No one knew where she was going, and no one asked.
It was as if it were just a quick business trip for a small-time actress.
Soon, she landed in San Francisco.
The meeting place was a small café near Fisherman's Wharf. The wind blew in from the ocean, carrying a salty tang.
Cameron wore a black sweater, her smile as bright as ever, but her perfect makeup couldn't hide the dark circles under her eyes.
The script, which she had practically memorized, lay open on the table.
The door opened.
Morgan Freeman walked in.
The moment his figure appeared, the air in the room seemed to drop a degree.
"Miss Diaz."
His voice was gentle, accompanied by a smile.
"Mr. Freeman." She stood up, extending her hand.
He sat down and glanced at the script: "Clint said you had a story to tell me."
"No." She shook her head and pushed the script toward him. "I didn't come here to tell a story."
"Then what did you come for?"
"To invite you to complete a great movie with me."
She flipped to the last page and pointed to the line of text.
> "Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."
She looked at him: "That line should be delivered by you."
Morgan silently leafed through the script, from the first page to the last.
Sunlight streamed in through the window, and time seemed to stretch out.
After fifteen minutes, he closed the script.
"Miss Diaz," he said quietly, "I've played many roles. Some for the money, some for the awards."
He looked up.
"But some roles are for those people who need to hear that 'hope never dies' in the middle of the night."
He held out his hand.
"I'll take the part."
Cameron's eyes instantly welled up with tears. Laughing and crying at the same time, she squeezed his hand hard.
Morgan was surprised for a moment, then he smiled.
He raised his hand and gently patted her shoulder. His smile held a touch of warmth and a hint of admiration.
It was the first time he had met such a young, beautiful producer.
She didn't have the slickness of the old guard or the brazenness of an ambitious opportunist.
When she spoke, her eyes shone with a genuine conviction that made people instinctively want to believe her.
"You're going to do great," Morgan whispered.
---
On the flight back to Los Angeles.
Cameron looked out at the sea of clouds, pulled out her big, bulky cell phone, and dialed Link's number.
The call connected.
"Hello?"
His voice was as calm as ever.
"Link ," she choked out, laughing through her tears, "I did it."