Chapter 4
The trade publication arrives on my desk at Apex with a coffee ring staining the corner. Someone's circled the announcement in red Sharpie: "Miller Media Group Names Callie Cooper Chief Creative Officer."
I read it twice. Then a third time, searching for the punchline.
Diana leans against my doorframe, arms crossed. "She's twenty-three. Her only production credit is a web series about influencers that got canceled after four episodes."
"Rhys is handing her the keys," I say, setting down the paper. The coffee ring bleeds into Callie's headshot, distorting her smile.
Marcus appears behind Diana, his phone already pulled up to the industry group chats. "The readers are losing their minds. Callie just fired the entire script evaluation team. Twenty years of combined experience, gone. She's replacing them with her friends from some acting class in Studio City."
I should feel vindicated. Instead, there's just a hollow ache for the company I built, watching it cannibalize itself from the inside.
"How long until it falls apart?" I ask.
Diana's smile is sharp. "I give it six months. Maybe less if she keeps making decisions like this."
Three weeks later, the trades report that Miller Media passed on *The Crossing*, an intimate drama about immigration. The script went to Paramount instead. It's already generating Oscar buzz in early screenings, projected to gross $200 million worldwide.
Callie's quoted in the article: "We're focusing on younger, fresher voices. The old guard doesn't understand our demographic."
The writer was sixty-two. A Pulitzer Prize winner.
I clip the article and file it away. Evidence accumulates like snow.
---
The call comes on a Tuesday. Alessandro Conti, my director for *Shadows in the Alley*, sounds tired in a way that has nothing to do with the seventeen-hour shooting days we've been pulling.
"Our investor pulled out," he says without preamble. "We need ten million for post-production or the film dies in rough cut."
My coffee goes cold against my palm. "Who?"
"Some shell company. Meridian Holdings. They bought out our angel investor last week, then sent the termination notice this morning."
Meridian Holdings. The name tastes familiar, corporate and bland. I pull up the business registry while Alessandro talks about contingency plans we both know won't work.
The ownership structure is buried under three layers of LLC paperwork, but I've always been good at excavation. Twenty minutes of digging reveals what I already suspected: Rhys Miller, sole proprietor.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: "Dinner. Thursday. Osteria Mozza. 8pm. Come alone, or the film stays in the vault. —R"
I stare at the message until the screen goes dark. Then I forward it to Diana with a single word: "Record everything."
Her response is immediate: "Already on it."
---
Osteria Mozza smells like truffle oil and old money. The kind of place where celebrities hide in corner booths and the sommelier knows your preferences before you sit down. Rhys chose it deliberately—we celebrated here after his first million-dollar deal, back when his success still felt like ours.
He's already seated when I arrive, wearing the navy suit I picked out for his GQ cover shoot. His smile is confident, proprietary, like I'm a problem he's already solved.
"You look beautiful," he says, standing. The gesture feels rehearsed.
I sit without responding. The recording device Diana gave me is a designer pen in my jacket pocket, already activated.
Rhys orders wine—a Barolo, the one I used to love. He's playing our greatest hits, trying to resurrect a version of me that no longer exists.
"I miss this," he says, leaning forward. His hand crosses the table, fingers brushing mine. "Miss us. The empire isn't the same without you, Gwen. Nothing is."
"You have Callie."
His jaw tightens. "That's business. You know that. She's an asset, a demographic play. You and I—we're the real thing. We built something extraordinary together."
"I built it. You took credit."
The words land like a slap. Rhys withdraws his hand, his expression hardening into something uglier, more honest.
"Fine. You want to play it that way?" He refills his wine glass, the pour too generous. "Here's the reality: I own your film now. Ten million dollars says I can shelve it forever, and there's nothing you can do about it. Or—" He pauses, letting the word hang. "You come back. Run the division you built. We'll announce it as a reconciliation, good for both our brands. Callie stays on as CCO, you stay as President of Production. Everyone wins."
"Except I'd be working for you."
"With me," he corrects. "Like old times."
I study his face in the candlelight, searching for the boy I used to know in our cramped apartment, the one who held me after my first brutal audition and promised we'd make it together. He's gone. Maybe he never existed.
"You sabotaged my funding just to blackmail me into a dinner," I say slowly, clearly. For the recording. "You're using ten million dollars and my film as leverage to force me back into a company I built, so you can save face while keeping your mistress on payroll."
Rhys's smile is cold. "I'm using smart business strategy. Something you taught me."
I stand, leaving my wine untouched. The recording pen stays in my pocket, still running.
"You'll have my answer by morning," I say.
His confidence falters. "Gwen—"
But I'm already walking away, past the truffle risotto I didn't order, past the couples who think they're building something that will last, out into the Los Angeles night where the air finally feels clean.
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