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It’s a quiet routine. I undress, step into the shower, and slip into a pair of boxer briefs before going to bed. I don’t sleep, though. There’s too much work to be done to worry about rest. In the time it took me to enter and leave the bathroom, my phone’s blown up with at least fifty different notifications. Emails, phone calls, text messages.
I lean my head back against the headboard and sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. My eyes are killing me, and the migraine I feel brewing is only going to make the pressure in my skull worse.
This would be so much easier with a personal assistant.
A moment of calm washes over me as thoughts of Eden cross my mind.
Her resumé was sparse. Pathetic, even. What the other candidates have, she lacks in references and years on the job. It’s true that she has a degree, but it’s not like I need a bioscience major to fetch me coffee and pick up my dry cleaning.
Internships don’t pay. And I need…
I wonder what she was going to say. What does she need? A steady paycheck is a given. Maybe she’s saving up for something? Couldn’t her father help her out?
I haven’t thought about Thomas in a very long time. It’s not like I hate the guy, though I probably can’t say the same for him. We haven’t spoken a word to each other since our fight. While I continued to climb through the ranks of Tinseltown, Thomas was left in my dust. We’ve drifted apart, and I see no point in trying to mend things now.
He just said that you weren’t going to come around anymore and that we shouldn’t speak to you.
Quite frankly, that’s fine by me. The less Eden knows about what happened, the better. There’s no need to tell her the truth and drag her into Thomas’ mess.
My phone rings. It’s well after two in the morning, so I’m understandably snappy when I answer. “What do you want?”
“Apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Stride,” Renee says calmly. “But we have a bit of an emergency on our hands.”
“This can’t wait until morning?”
“No, sir.”
I bite my tongue. Renee is the head of Star Rider Studios’ financial department. She’s phenomenal at what she does, so when she says there’s an emergency, I know it’s something grave.
“Are you going to keep me waiting?”
“Shansen Group is threatening to pull out of their investment deal,” she informs me quietly. “They’re not pleased with the way the script paints their government.”
My headache is in full force now. I saw this coming. Many of Hollywood’s biggest films rely on foreign investments, but it’s not as straightforward as it used to be. I don’t know when it happened, but every aspect of creative expression has become inextricably entwined with politics. From the messages our films are supposed to carry to the diversity of our casts to the brands that get cameos from scene to scene —it all comes down to who pays what and how much.
Art isn’t free to be art anymore.
“Juliet After Romeois based on true events,” I argue. “I’m not going to rewrite the script just because they don’t like their own history.”
“We’d lose thirty million, Mr. Stride.”
“Did you include the fifteen that Hartley pledged?”
“Yes, sir. We’d be severely under budget if we lost the Shansen Group. It could set the studio’s entire pipeline back by a year if we delay the film again.”
There’s no point in losing my temper. Anger doesn’t serve me, not when I have a hundred little fires to put out on the daily. Instead of getting upset over things I can’t control, I think on my feet.
“That’s fine,” I say. “Tell Shansen Group we understand their reservations, but we refuse to make changes to keep the integrity of the film. We’re in talks with Red Dragon Investments, anyway.”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s not true.”
“I know. I’m calling their bluff.” I fight back a yawn. “Draft an email. Word it nicely. I’ll approve it when I get to the office tomorrow.”
“Very clever, sir. I’ll do just that.”
“Good night, Renee.”
“Good night, Mr. Stride.”
