DOS Ch-249 & 250

Emily still found it hard to believe how dramatically her life had changed since meeting Troy. What had begun as a casual friendship with a global superstar had snowballed into something far greater, so much so that even she sometimes struggled to recognize her own life.

In just the past year, she and Rob had filmed two back-to-back [Twilight] movies, each earning five million dollars. It was a staggering figure for actors their age, almost surreal. Yet, the films hadn’t even premiered, and there was no guarantee they would succeed. What made it more astonishing was that Troy had invested nearly a hundred million dollars of his own money into the franchise. On the surface, that sounded reckless.

But not when you considered his actual net worth. Emily could only dream of that kind of financial freedom. Even with her own career on the rise, there was no assurance that such earnings would continue. The movie business was fickle, and everyone knew it. It is always advised to save up when your payday is big.

“What’re you thinking?” Rob asked, lounging beside her in the plush leather seat of the limo. The car hummed beneath them as it neared the premiere venue.

“Nothing, just stuff,” she replied, brushing him off with a casual wave.

Rob gave her a crooked grin. “Wanna know what I’m thinking? We signed up for a piece of crap, which was entirely my fault, by the way. And now we can’t even talk trash about it.”

Emily chuckled. “Don’t say that. They’ll sue you for millions if they caught that.”

“I don’t get how you do it,” he said, shaking his head. “You never have a problem saying good things about the movie. I feel like a sellout every time I open my mouth.”

She smirked. “I was in [John Tucker Must Die]. That movie made [Twilight] look like Shakespeare. You get used to it. I like to think of myself as a professional liar by now.”

Before the conversation could go further, the limo came to a smooth stop at the entrance of the red carpet. In an instant, the door was opened by a valet, and Rob stepped out, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. The moment he emerged, camera shutters clicked in a frenzy, capturing every angle.

He turned and reached a hand back to help Emily out. She followed, her silver gown catching the light in shimmering waves. If Rob alone was eye-catching, the two of them together were magnetic. The photographers responded accordingly, their flashes nearly blinding.

The [Twilight] marketing team had made the most of their on-screen chemistry, crafting a narrative that extended into their public appearances. What began as a few tabloid stories had spiraled into full-scale magazine spreads, orchestrated interviews, and breathless speculation. For months now, Emily and Rob had been billed as Hollywood’s hottest young couple.

The studio’s PR company had even concocted a semi-fictional origin story for their relationship, claiming that Troy had introduced them in a carefully orchestrated meet-cute. While not entirely untrue, the tale had certainly been embellished for maximum media appeal.

A barrage of questions came flying from all directions as they stepped onto the carpet. Microphones jutted forward, voices shouting their names, demanding comments about the movie, their “relationship,” their clothes. Emily tuned it all out.

Her focus was elsewhere.

Across the sea of reporters and flashes, at the far end of the red carpet, stood the man who had changed everything. Troy Armitage. He was giving a solo interview to a reporter, standing effortlessly composed in a navy suit, his hair slicked back, his expression poised.

Emily found her gaze drawn to him, the chaos around her fading into background noise.

Emily quickly nudged Rob with her elbow, subtly urging him to follow her. They slipped away from the crush of reporters and photographers, weaving their way toward Troy, who was still speaking to the reporter at the edge of the carpet.

“What is your favorite movie released in the last five years that you wish you could have been a part of?” the female reporter asked him, holding her mic with practiced ease.

“Oh, that’s simple: Alfonso Cuarón’s [Children of Men],” Troy replied without hesitation. “That’s my favorite movie of the last two years, hands down.”

“No way!” Emily interjected before she could stop herself, her voice animated. “Mine as well. I cry every time they get that baby out of the warzone.”

Troy turned, recognizing the voice. His face softened into a quiet smile as he stepped forward and pulled Emily into a warm, friendly hug. He then gave Rob a quick embrace, too.

Looking back at the reporter, Troy said, “I think you should interview the stars of the night now. Not me.”

With a nod to both Emily and Rob, he added, “See you two inside,” before walking off into the venue, disappearing through the glass doors framed by gold lights.

The reporter stared after him, dreamy-eyed. “Wow. I still can’t believe I just interviewed Troy Armitage. Can you pinch me?”

Emily didn’t miss a beat. She reached out and pinched the woman hard on the forearm.

“Ouch!” The reporter flinched, rubbing her arm with mock offense. Then she composed herself and turned back to the camera. “We are here tonight with Emma Stone and Robert Pattinson, the stars of the teenage phenomenon [Twilight]. Teenagers and kids across the country are lining up to buy advance tickets, and it’s already tracking to open as a blockbuster. How do you two feel about that?”

“It is certainly unexpected,” Rob answered, slipping easily into interview mode. “When we signed up for it, I thought it was just going to be a small indie film. That’s what it looked like at the time. But then the book sales exploded overnight, and before I knew it, I was working on one of the most anticipated movies of the year.”

The reporter smiled, satisfied with the soundbite, and shifted her tone slightly.

“Both of you got your careers launched by the biggest superstar in the world. What is he like in person?”

“He’s unreal,” Emily answered without hesitation. “My first film with Troy was [Brick], and we shot it on a barebones budget. My scenes were wrapped in less than a week. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure anyone would notice me in the final cut—but Troy did. He saw something in me. And in a place like Hollywood, where people are usually just thinking about themselves, he’s one of the most generous people I’ve met. He helped me when I was unemployed and looking for work. He offered me [Echoes of You] without me even asking. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Her eyes briefly flicked toward Rob, and he picked up the thread from there.

“What surprised me the most about Troy is his maturity,” Rob said with a thoughtful expression. “He might be younger than most people in the room, but as a producer, he’s sharper than anyone I’ve worked with. You’ll regret underestimating him. As a friend, he’s fun and relaxed. But when he’s the producer, he knows how to draw the line. He becomes your employer, nothing more. And I really admire how he’s able to separate business from personal life like that.”

Emily then noticed her other castmates from [Twilight] approaching behind them—Ashley Greene and Nikki Reed, both dressed elegantly, flanked by handlers and photographers. Not wanting to hog the spotlight during their red carpet moment, Emily gave Rob a small nod, subtly signaling that they should move along. He understood and followed her lead, just like he always does.

(Break)

“This film is awful,” Scarlett whispered in my ear once the credits began rolling. Her tone was low and incredulous. “Not the film per se, but definitely the story. Which self-respecting girl would want to see it?”

I grinned, amused by her bluntness. “According to surveys done by most trade experts, this film is expected to make at least a hundred million dollars domestically. Probably more.”

Much more, if my future knowledge were even slightly reliable.

Scarlett narrowed her eyes slightly. “Seriously? Who wants to see a century-old vampire romance a teenager? It’s so problematic.”

“I know,” I said, nodding in agreement. “That’s why I didn’t star in it. That’s also why I asked for my name to be removed from the main credits as a producer. I’m only listed as the executive producer.”

The title of executive producer was often a vague one, usually referring to someone who funded the project but wasn’t involved in the day-to-day creative process. That was true in my case. I had put up the money, but beyond that, I’d mostly stayed out of it. My dad and Tobias were the credited producers on the film—both of them had actually done the work. Dad may have joined the production late, yet he had done more work than I.

Scarlett shook her head with visible disappointment. “Well, I’m just glad it’s over.”

I raised an eyebrow. “This is only the first part, Scar. We’ve already shot the second one, and if these two perform well, we’re locked in for at least two more.”

Her face twisted into an expression of horror. “I’m not coming to any of their premieres,” she declared flatly.

That made me laugh. “What about New Zealand? Coming with me? Our two months are over, and honestly, I don’t want them to be.”

She paused, weighing her words carefully. The silence stretched, and I found myself growing more anxious with each second that passed.

“One of my films has its premiere in less than a month,” she finally said.

“Of course. I meant after that,” I assured her quickly.

She nodded slowly. “I’ve wrapped filming on all my other projects. And I have wanted to visit New Zealand for a long time. This could be a vacation of sorts for me.”

I smiled. “Just a vacation?”

She gave me a teasing look. “What else do you want me to call it?”

I hesitated, then offered, “I can get you a role in [Avatar]. There’s a part for a badass female human pilot. You’d be perfect for it.”

I was confident I could talk Fox and Cameron into making that adjustment. It would be great for publicity too, Scarlett and I promoting the film together would generate a lot of buzz. But I had a feeling how this conversation would end.

Scarlett didn’t even blink before shaking her head. “No. If it were a lead role, or even a significant supporting one, I’d think about it. But I’ve read the script. That pilot isn’t even in the top four characters when it comes to screen time.”

I couldn’t argue with that. After my character, the most screen time in [Avatar] belonged to Zoë Kravitz, Sigourney Weaver, and Stephen Lang, who played Neytiri, Grace, and Quaritch, respectively.

“So you’d rather do nothing than take a smaller role in what could be the biggest movie ever made?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Only you think it will be the biggest movie ever. No one else does.”

“Then they’re stupid,” I said flatly.

Scarlett rolled her eyes, but thankfully didn’t push the conversation further. Around us, the lights brightened and the audience began standing, offering a full-on standing ovation to [Twilight], of all films.

I tried not to visibly cringe.

That’s the thing about premiere audiences. You can never really trust them.

After another hour of cast and crew interviews, the post-screening buzz migrated to the premiere afterparty, a swanky affair with mood lighting, champagne towers, and the usual overflow of Hollywood egos.

That’s where I ran into a man I’d been meaning to talk to for a while.

“Brad,” I greeted him with a casual hug. “How’re you doing?”

“Not as good as I was two months ago,” he replied dryly. “All thanks to you.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “What exactly are you insinuating?”

Brad Grey, the CEO of Paramount, gave a tired sigh and then muttered, “Nothing. You couldn’t have possibly known that half our board was in bed with Jeffrey Epstein. Literally.”

I let out a sharp laugh but sobered quickly. “Even if I had known, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.”

He looked resigned. “Yeah, I figured. Doesn’t change the fact that our stock’s down thirty-five percent since that story broke. Sumner Redstone is breathing down my neck. If I don’t reverse this spiral soon, he’ll either replace me or sell the company to one of our competitors. Honestly, I’m not sure which option is worse.”

Sumner Redstone was the de facto owner of Viacom, Paramount’s parent company. He also owned CBS, and while the two had been separate around this time in the original timeline, the butterfly effect had kept them under one roof here. In any case, it made sense that he’d be livid about the scandal implicating Paramount’s board.

“He’s really serious about selling?” I asked, a bit more curious than I meant to sound.

“Why? Planning to buy us out?” Brad asked with a wry smile.

I didn’t answer right away.

His expression changed instantly. “Wait. Didn’t you just buy Marvel Comics and Netflix? Now Paramount?”

My acquisition of both Marvel and Netflix had been front-page news just weeks ago. The deals had turned both companies private, pulling them off the NYSE. I might take one of them public again someday, but for now, I was perfectly content to keep full control over them.

I shook my head. “Of course not. I’m just curious. All my funds are tied up at the moment. I couldn’t afford a company the size of Viacom even if I wanted to without selling everything I own.”

Brad studied me for a second too long, eyes narrowing just slightly.

Then he nodded.

The truth was, I’d been looking to buy a major studio for quite some time. Of the Big Six, Paramount was the cheapest in terms of valuation. If I wanted to scale Netflix into something even larger than what it became in the original timeline, I needed a rich library of movies and TV shows—something that would keep subscribers hooked long-term.

Netflix had succeeded originally because of its massive early investment in content. But if I owned a studio with a well-established catalog, that kind of spending could be cut down significantly.

And with how turbulent the markets had been over the last few months, I knew that 2008–09 would be the sweet spot for such a move. Wait too long, and the window would close.

Still, I couldn’t share any of this with Brad. If word got out before I had the necessary capital lined up, Paramount’s price would spike. That’s what I would do if someone came sniffing around a company I owned.

So instead, I kept the conversation casual. “I hope my role in the Epstein case won’t affect how you market [Twilight]?” I asked cautiously.

“Of course not,” Brad said, waving off the concern. “Have you not seen the marketing campaign we’ve been running for the last few months? Emma Stone and Robert Pattinson are teen royalty right now. We’ve had them appear on MTV, VH1, and all the other major youth channels. Print media’s also hyping them up as the next big couple—Brad and Angelina for the younger crowd.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. The kind of publicity Paramount had pushed out for [Twilight] was relentless, but effective. Personally, I hated it. If Warner had tried anything remotely similar for [Harry Potter], I would have walked away without hesitation.

But Emily and Rob hadn’t complained, not even when I asked Emily directly. So I let Paramount run their playbook. As long as the movie made money, I wasn’t going to interfere.

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, I drifted away from Brad and sought out Tobias—my former assistant, now the credited producer of [Twilight].

“Man, I’ve gotta say, you’ve done a fantastic job with this film,” I greeted him with a solid, familiar hug.

And I meant it. The story still had its flaws, but this version of the film was leaps ahead of what I remembered. Bella wasn’t reduced to a jittery, blank slate. Edward had more emotional range and was less brooding. And the film didn’t look like it had been soaked in blue dye. The casting was strong, the direction confident, and the overall polish far exceeded my expectations.

“Thanks, Troy,” Tobias said, beaming. “We’re doing great right now. [Breaking Bad], our first serialized TV project, just premiered last month on AMC, and the critical response has been incredible. Now [Twilight] is tracking to become a global phenomenon, if the early forecasts are right. And best of all, the writers’ strike is officially over. So we can resume work on both of them and [17 Again], the one you picked out for Jaime.”

The Writers’ Guild of America had been on strike for the past three months and had only just returned to work. As a result, the first season of [Breaking Bad] remained unfinished—only seven episodes had been written so far. Similarly, pre-production on both [Eclipse] and [17 Again] had stalled during the strike.

“So you’re mostly free right now,” I said, noting the timing.

“For about a month, yeah,” Tobias replied. “After that, we’ll begin filming [17 Again].”

I nodded in understanding. “Cool. I’ve got a new task for you. Remember when I asked you to collect manuscripts of unpublished YA novels from major publishers?”

“Yeah,” he said, perking up. His eyes lit with interest. “You found something good?”

“I did,” I confirmed. “I want you to acquire the adaptation rights to two series—[The Hunger Games] and [The Maze Runner]. They’re still unpublished, so the authors should be more flexible with their terms. If they hesitate about selling the entire series, offer them a share of the profits in addition to an upfront buyout.”

“Just like we did with [Twilight],” he said with a knowing smile.

“Exactly,” I replied.

Just when I thought my day was finally winding down, and I could return to Scarlett—maybe even enjoy a relaxing soak in the hot tub with her—I spotted someone I hadn’t expected to see at all.

“Alfonso?” I said, surprised. “It’s such a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

Alfonso Cuarón, one of my all-time favorite directors, stood before me. He had directed two of the six [Harry Potter] films so far, and other cinematic gems like [Y Tu Mamá También] and my personal favorite, [Children of Men]. I’d attended that last premiere in person, partly out of admiration for the film, but also because I’d wanted to tell him in person how much I adored tht film. We had ended up talking in detail about the craft behind it. The level of precision and passion Alfonso poured into his work had made me an even bigger fan. It was a tragedy that [Children of Men] had underperformed at the box office and was largely snubbed by major award shows, including the Oscars.

“I invited him,” my dad said, stepping up beside me. “Alfonso was already in the States, and I wanted to talk to him about returning as director for [Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows].”

My eyes widened at that. I hadn’t known Rian wasn’t coming back.

“Rian wanted to take a break,” Dad said, answering my unspoken question. “He’s stepping away from [Harry Potter] and big-budget projects for a while.”

Dad turned to Alfonso. “So what do you say? Now that you’re done with [Children of Men], would you consider coming back?”

Alfonso looked uncomfortable, shifting slightly. “I would love to, truly. But I’m working on another personal project right now, something I’ve been wanting to make for a long time. It’s important to me that I stay focused on that. Why not ask Chris? He always said he wanted to return one day when I was directing [Prisoner of Azkaban].”

“I asked him before you,” Dad admitted. “But that won’t work out either. Chris has signed on with Fox to direct another franchise: [Percy Jackson].”

That was one terrible movie adaptation. I hadn’t even realized that Chris Columbus had directed it. After the brilliant work he did on [Harry Potter], how could he mess up so badly with [Percy Jackson]? It felt like they’d taken the basic premise of the book and tossed everything else out the window. As a long-time fan of the series, I was deeply disappointed by the mess that was the first movie. If Chris could helm something like that, I wasn’t eager to hand him the reins for the climax of the series I cared about so much.

“Can’t you shoot that film after [Deathly Hallows]?” Dad asked Alfonso, his tone bordering on pleading. “I’d really appreciate it if you came back for this one, Alfonso.”

Alfonso looked torn, clearly wrestling with the decision. I decided to step in and help tip the scale.

“What movie are you working on?” I asked. “Do you have producers attached?”

“I was working on a film called [A Boy and His Shoe],” Alfonso replied. “It was set in Mexico, and I was developing it with my son, Jonas. But we ran out of funding. The producers didn’t believe in the project, and no one in Hollywood wanted to back a film set in Mexico, so we shelved it. Right now, Jonas and I are writing a new script—a space-based movie. We’re still working through the story, but it should be done in a few weeks.”

“What if I produced it?” I offered without hesitation. “You’d have full creative control over the script, direction, everything. We’ll make sure you get the budget needed for top-tier VFX. And Dad can co-produce it with me if he wants.”

I nodded toward my father. He shot me an unreadable look—stone-faced, unreadable, the way only he could manage in public. I knew he’d have plenty to say about this later.

“Without even knowing what the film’s about?” Alfonso asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I trust you,” I said simply. “After seeing [Children of Men], I know you’re a visionary. You don’t just make films for the sake of it. You create art. I’ll approve the budget after I read the completed script, but otherwise, yes—I’ll greenlight it.”

Then I leaned in slightly and added, “But on one condition. You have to direct [Deathly Hallows]. That’s non-negotiable. I’d even act in your new film if you have a role for me.”

Alfonso chuckled. “That’s a big promise.”

Of course it was.

My star power was at an all-time high. The back-to-back success of [Disturbia], [Superbad], [The Night Of], and [Half-Blood Prince] had ensured that every major studio wanted a piece of me. Film producers, TV executives, even international distributors—they were all lining up.

HBO had recently offered me a record-breaking $2.5 million per episode for any mini-series I wanted to headline. In film, the highest upfront salary I’d been offered was $40 million. Any project I signed onto became a magnet for talent, funding, and press.

So yes, promising to star in Alfonso’s next film wasn’t a casual offer. It was a golden ticket for him to greenlight his film on all levels.

Even if I was producing the film, I’d still need distributors. But the moment word got out that I was starring in it, they’d be lining up. That was the whole point. I wasn’t just attaching my name to Alfonso’s space film out of generosity—I knew exactly what project he was developing.

It was [Gravity].

And I knew the only male role in that story was an experienced astronaut—someone far older than I was. There was no way I could play that part. Offering to play a part without knowing the script would make Alfonso believe in me. It was a calculated move.

“It is big,” I agreed. “So what do you say?”

Alfonso thought it over for a moment, then nodded. “I think I can work with that. I’ll need a written assurance from you about you producing the space film, but otherwise, yes. I’ll direct [Deathly Hallows].”

“Perfect,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Before you begin pre-production for that, I think you should come with me to New Zealand. James Cameron is shooting [Avatar] directly in 3D. You should see how he’s doing it. Maybe you could use the same tech for [Harry Potter]?”

“He’s shooting in 3D?” Alfonso asked, surprised.

“Yup,” I nodded. “The test footage he’s shot with the 3D cameras looks incredible. What do you think, Dad? Wanna tag along?”

Dad considered it for a beat before nodding. “Wouldn’t hurt to see what Cameron’s doing. Worst case, we don’t use it. But if it works, it could be game-changing.”

(Break)

I shifted in the wheelchair the production team had provided. While I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go full method anytime soon, not after what I did for the [The Dark Knight], I was bored out of my mind here in New Zealand.

I’d flown in just two days after the [Twilight] premiere. Live-action shooting for [Avatar] was still a week away, but the costume department needed me early for fittings. Scarlett wouldn’t be joining me for a few more weeks—she was tied up with promotional events for her new film. That left me here, alone, with absolutely nothing to do.

So I improvised.

I asked the crew to deliver the exact wheelchair I’d be using for the role. And since the day it arrived, I’d stopped walking altogether. I used it everywhere went with the sole exception of the bathroom. That was just to keep my legs moving a little, even if barely.

The experience was eye-opening. The novelty wore off in hours. My arms, unaccustomed to this kind of exertion, became the only part of my body getting a real workout. Stairs turned into the enemy, and honestly? I got a little lazy. If something was in another room, I called Benji instead of wheeling myself to it.

In just a few days, I gained a whole new respect for people who live like this permanently. People in wheelchairs who still move forward with their lives, carrying the same burdens as everyone else, often more, and doing it with quiet strength. It was humbling.

After a week of that suffering, I was finally here, on set, in full costume, ready to shoot my first live-action scene for [Avatar].

“Action!”

“Grace Augustine is a legend,” Joel said, his face lit with boyish enthusiasm as he pushed his glasses up. In character as Dr. Norm Spellman, he delivered the line with an eager energy that made it feel completely natural. “She’s the head of the Avatar Program. She wrote the book, I mean literally the book, on Pandoran botany.”

Beside him, Dileep, playing Dr. Max Patel, glanced my way with a smirk. “That’s because she likes plants better than people.”

I wheeled myself slowly beside them, maintaining my character’s reserved presence. Watching Joel and Dileep, I couldn’t help but admire the ease with which they fell into their roles. There was something about seasoned character actors; they were the backbone of scenes like this. Lead actors might get the press and prestige, but character actors were the real deal who had to nail it every time. A few bad takes from a lead might be forgiven. But supporting roles? They were replaceable. Always.

“Here she is, Cinderella back from the ball,” Dileep muttered under his breath, just as Sigourney Weaver stepped into frame.

Then, turning to Joel and me, he said more formally, “Grace, I’d like you to meet Norm Spellman and Jake Sully.”

“Norm,” Sigourney said as she removed her glasses. A trail of smoke drifted upward from the cigarette she’d been holding, curling around her head as she looked Joel up and down. “I’ve heard good things. How’s your Na’vi?”

And just like that, she and Joel slipped into a rapid exchange in the Na’vi language. I looked away, feigning disinterest, but really, I was just acting bored. My character didn’t understand a single word of the strange language.

“Grace,” Dileep interjected before the conversation went on too long. “This is Jake Sully.”

“Ma’am,” I said from my chair, offering a polite handshake. She didn’t even take a step toward me.

“Yeah, yeah, I know who you are,” she snapped. “And I don’t need a kid like you. I need your father, the PhD who trained for five years for this mission.”

“He’s dead,” I said coldly. “Your people made sure of that, didn’t they?”

Dileep placed a hand on my shoulder. “It was an accident, Jake.”

I shook him off. “Look, I know I’m an inconvenience to everyone here. But I’m not here to waste your time. I’m here because my father loved this project. He talked about it all the time when he called home. I just don’t want his work to go to waste just because I’m bitter.”

Sigourney stared at me for a second longer than necessary, clearly debating whether to push back. But instead of arguing, she switched gears.

“How much lab training have you had?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“I dissected a frog once in Biology,” I said, trying to sound helpful.

She narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “You see?” she barked, turning toward Dileep. “They’re trying to screw us. Sending kids for this mission.”

Then she spun on her heel and marched out.

“This is such bullshit!” she shouted some more complaints as she stormed off the soundstage, cursing the military’s decision to assign me to the program.

Dileep sighed. “Here. Tomorrow. 0800. Try to sound out the big words.”

“That won’t make me twenty years older,” I muttered, the irritation creeping into my voice.

Dileep just exhaled and walked away without another word, like everyone else seemed to be doing today.

“Cut!” Jim called out abruptly. “Great job, everyone.”

Then his eyes settled on me.

“Troy, I’m not entirely satisfied with your take. Can you be a little more… vulnerable? I need more anger, but not bratty anger. Not a teenager throwing a fit. It has to feel justified, as if the military really wronged him.”

I nodded silently, already turning the note over in my head. A lot had changed in this version of [Avatar]. Originally, it was a straightforward film, where characters mostly served the plot. But I’d suggested some tweaks to Jim while he was reworking the script to accommodate a younger Jake Sully. To his credit, he had actually implemented many of them. Lines were more thought out, and character motivations were clearer. Jake’s resentment toward the science team, for example, now had personal weight: his father had died in a training accident, something that gave the role a pulse it previously lacked.

Even Jake and Neytiri’s dynamic had evolved. The rewritten scenes gave their relationship more space to breathe, more humanity.

“Okay, let’s go again,” I said, giving Jim a thumbs-up.

Jim turned, this time towards one of the cameramen. “I don’t know what you smoked before you came here today, but the angle on that shot was completely fucked up. Listen carefully before you roll. Understand?”

The cameraman gave a terse nod. The Director of Photography quickly stepped in to adjust the setup as Jim re-explained the shot.

I’d noticed something peculiar about Jim Cameron—he never yelled at me. Even when I messed up, even when the scene clearly wasn’t working, he always kept his tone level and professional. That wasn’t the case with others. His temper could light up a room if someone dropped the ball.

I figured it had to do with my position. Either financially or professionally. It sounded ugly, even a little unfair, but what could I do? Ask him to yell at me like everyone else? That would only make things worse.

I wasn’t a producer here, which meant I couldn’t shape how things ran on set. And undermining Jim in front of the crew would only add friction we couldn’t afford. Best to leave that one alone. Things were clearly working out, so why stir the pot needlessly?

More than anything, I was excited about Scarlett’s visit here tomorrow. If only I had known what her presence would mean for me…