“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.

He raised an eyebrow.

"You think that just because you submitted some garbage script behind my back, I'd grit my teeth and polish it for you out of some sense of husbandly duty?

"You're wrong.

"Libby's script is the mainstream genre. I've already taken it on. I don't have time for yours.

"If you still won't back down after all this, then all I can do is wish you luck."

"So Mr. Stephens thinks I'm forcing you to help me with edits?"

I gritted my teeth.

"Aren't you?"

"Rest assured."

The fist I had pressed against the desk trembled faintly.

"I won't trouble Mr. Stephens to fix a single word for me. And until the results come out, I won't bother Mr. Stephens at all!"

He said nothing.

He only sighed and shook his head.

He left me with a look of pity.

Then turned and walked away.

My heart was pounding.

Until the phone rang.

It was my brother.

"Sis, I read your script. It felt really real to me. But I've got my college admissions exams on the day of the competition, so I can't make it. Wishing you a triumph in advance!"

"You always know just what to say."

I laughed.

"By the way, I couldn't get your brother-in-law's autograph for you, so you…"

"It's fine, Sis. Mom and Dad went back home. I… I don't want it anymore."

I let out a soft breath of relief.

"Okay."

On the day of the competition.

I sat in an unremarkable seat in the venue.

At the very front, the presumed winners were already lined up in a row.

Those were the writers the organizers considered most likely to have their scripts chosen.

And Libby Fox was among them.

Brendan Stephens sat beside her.

One of them sat rigid and upright, knees pressed together, nervous.

The other lounged with his legs crossed, waiting at ease for the announcement that would crown the assistant he'd backed.

Brendan's gaze drifted to me out of the corner of his eye.

He gave a mocking little smile and looked away.

"The writer awarded the adaptation rights this time is…"

Libby drew in a deep breath.

Her eyes were full of anticipation.

Brendan, meanwhile, looked indifferent.

The people he favored.

Everyone in the industry would give him face.

Libby's name had already been quietly cleared with the right people.

The winning script appeared on the big screen.

My head snapped up.

And so did Libby's and Brendan's in the front row.

Staring at the screen in disbelief.