Divorcing the Arrogant Movie Star

“I'll bring in the best director and producer I know to polish your script together. As for funding, I'll cover it. Write freely.”

My feet, already turning to leave, froze mid-step.

I looked back.

Under the warm yellow glow of the desk lamp, Libby's face was lit with delight.

I clenched my fists.

I turned and walked toward my own study.

I gave the door a push.

It didn't budge.

The door was locked.

“Your study. Let Libby use it for a while.”

Brendan appeared behind me.

Libby trailed beside him, hugging her script.

She smiled and waved at me.

“Ebony!”

My hand was still gripping the doorknob.

“Why?”

“Libby's first script matters a great deal to her. She needs a perfect environment to create in.

“There's no better spot than your study. She can even look at the ocean while she writes.”

I spoke.

“But I need to write too.”

“That rural-themed vanity project of yours?”

I went rigid. “Brendan, that's my life's work.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Ebony.”

Brendan pushed open the door to my study.

“Nobody wants to watch a bunch of small-town nobodies and their petty little lives.

“Libby's urban piece, once it's done, has limitless potential.”

“Do ordinary people not deserve to be seen?”

“Ebony.”

Brendan frowned and turned his head. “Libby graduated from film school. Do you honestly think you understand scripts better than we do?”

The hand gripping the hem of my shirt trembled faintly.

He let out a soft laugh.

The door closed in my face.

A moment later, the sound of them discussing the script drifted through it.

Along with Libby's soft, gentle laughter.

I went back to the bedroom.

I opened that notebook from ten years ago.

I sat on the bed.

I drew in a deep breath.

I opened the script I'd sealed away long ago.

Even if no one would help me read it.

Even if no one would ever buy my script.

At the very least, I wanted to know how far from the finish line I fell.

A week later.

Brendan came to find me on his own.

“You entered the screenplay competition?”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know there are veteran artists from overseas on the judging panel this time?”

“I know.”

“You know, and you still go out and embarrass yourself?”

I looked up from my screenwriting manual.

Brendan looked down at me.

“I read your script. Nothing but rural-style whining from start to finish.

“No one wants to see what happens to a pack of country folk about to be left behind by the times.”

“They're not just country folk. They represent an entire era. They're witnesses to nearly a century of rural change.”

Brendan laughed.

“When it all comes down to it, Ebony, you just had your eye on that twenty-million-dollar adaptation fee, didn't you?”

I went rigid.

Brendan seemed to see right through me, and he let out a soft laugh.

“It's true. Once a script gets selected this time, there's a guaranteed twenty-million-dollar adaptation fee.

“But entering doesn't mean you'll win it.

“And on top of that, the results will be livestreamed. Even the losing entries will have their names posted publicly, along with the reasons they were rejected.

“Ebony, when that happens, everyone's going to see every criticism of your script.”

I clenched my fists.

“Even if it's criticism, I'll accept it.”

“I'm not letting you enter for your own good.”

“Thank you, Brendan.”

I gritted my teeth. “I don't need it.”

He looked at me.

As if he were looking at a lunatic.

He let out a soft laugh, edged with a hint of mockery.

“Suit yourself. But I'm telling you now.

“Your script has zero adaptation value. I won't fix a single word for you.”

I went rigid.