The damage-control interview was Narelle's idea. She'd arranged for it to take place in the reception room at Sanchez Group headquarters.

I sat in front of the camera and watched the reporter lob her first question.

"Director Cox, there's been widespread speculation about the copyright ownership of Director Tanner's award-winning documentary. What's your take on that?"

I thought about it for three seconds.

Narelle stood behind the camera, her gaze locked on me.

"I personally shot that footage. That's a fact no one can change."

Her eyelid twitched.

"But I signed the licensing agreement myself, and within the scope of that contract, Oscar Tanner's use of the material is legal."

She exhaled.

"Then why does the public feel the stylistic signatures are so consistent between your work and his?"

"Because a director's style is always connected to the source material. There's nothing strange about that."

After the interview wrapped, she walked over and looked at me, her expression unreadable.

"What did you mean by that last line?"

"Exactly what I said."

"Blake, are you threatening me?"

I leaned back in my chair and looked at her.

Three years ago, she'd stood behind Old Mr. Sanchez, eyes bright and shining, and told me I was the most talented person she'd ever met.

I wanted to know now whether she'd meant that for even a single second.

"Narelle, what do I have to threaten you with? I've got nothing left. What leverage could I possibly use?"

The color drained from her face for an instant, but she pulled herself together just as fast.

"Stop being dramatic. Oscar won the award. That's good for the Sanchez family, good for you, good for me. You ride that wave, and the road ahead only gets smoother."

I studied her for a moment.

"Narelle, do you actually believe what you're saying?"

She went silent for two seconds, then turned and walked away.

The copyright controversy online kept fermenting for close to two weeks.

Screenshots from my interview got clipped and remixed into every version imaginable, circulating widely across the industry.

Some people said I was a live-in son-in-law the Sanchezes had wrapped around their finger. Others said my spine had gone soft a long time ago. Others said I deserved it.

Narelle called me three or four times a day. One minute she was coaxing me, the next she was berating me, and the minute after that she was telling me how hard Oscar had it, how difficult things were for him.

I picked up every call, listened until she finished, and hung up.

One day she brought Oscar to my studio.

He stood in front of the wall covered in my field notes and turned to Narelle. "Your Director Cox really is formally trained. This stuff is the real deal."

Narelle smiled. "Of course. He's always been very dedicated to his work."

I was at the counter making coffee, my back to them.

Dedicated.

Sure. Dedicated was one word for it.

I'd spent three years climbing mountains and getting drenched in freezing rain at fifteen thousand feet, and all it earned me was Narelle Sanchez telling someone he's always been very dedicated to his work.

Oscar suddenly spoke up.

"Director Cox, I've always thought that your footage combined with my distribution channels could produce something far beyond just one film. Would you be interested in talking it over?"

I turned around and set a cup of coffee in front of him.

"Mr. Tanner, your channels and my footage. That framework sounds perfectly fair."

I paused.

"But I'm not interested."

Oscar smiled faintly and didn't press.

Narelle's expression darkened.

"Blake, can you please think bigger for once?"

"My vision isn't big enough."

"You—"

"I've got footage to review. You two go ahead."

I went back into the editing room and pulled the door shut behind me.

A long time passed before I heard Narelle's voice on the other side, low and muffled.

"He's been in a strange mood lately. Just bear with him."

Then came Oscar's quiet laugh.

I shoved my earbuds in and cranked the volume all the way up.

That evening, a message came through from Old Mr. Sanchez.

"All the notarization paperwork is finalized. It can take effect whenever you're ready."

I stared at the message for a long time before typing back a single word: Okay.

Narelle must have sensed something.

She started being unusually gentle with me. She cooked my favorite dishes, cut back on how often she went out, and when she took Oscar's calls, she'd sometimes walk to another room where I couldn't see her.

One evening I came home to find her sitting in the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist, watching a pot of soup simmer with a distant look on her face.

For a moment, I saw the woman she'd been the year we got married.

Back then, she'd video-called my mother three separate times trying to learn a hometown recipe I loved. The first attempt was a disaster. She'd stood in the kitchen with her eyes rimming red, on the verge of tears from frustration.

I'd believed we would stay like that forever.

She turned, saw me, and smiled. "Ten more minutes."

I sat down at the table.

"Narelle, what's been going on with you lately?"

She turned the burner down, walked over, and sat across from me.

"Nothing. I just feel like I haven't been good enough to you recently."

"How so?"

She paused, meeting my eyes with a look that was almost earnest.

"I know the whole thing with Oscar wasn't fair to you. But don't worry. Once the buzz dies down, I'll make him give your credit back. After that, he and I won't have any contact. I promise."

I looked at her.

"Why does it have to wait until after the buzz dies down?"

She didn't have an answer.

So I finished the thought for her.

"Because if my name goes back on now, Oscar's award falls apart. Isn't that right?"

Her brow creased, but she didn't deny it.

"Blake, it's not as simple as you think."

"I know."

"Can you please stop being stubborn about this? Oscar isn't a bad person. He just—"

"Narelle."

She stopped.

I looked at her, keeping my voice level.

"I'm not being stubborn."

I stood, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door behind me.

That bowl of soup sat untouched.

The situation with Oscar unraveled from an entirely different direction.

A photographer in the industry posted under her real name on social media, complete with screenshots and audio recordings.

According to the post, Oscar had approached her privately before the competition and paid cash for a batch of her high-altitude footage. They'd signed a shadow contract deliberately designed to disguise the nature of the transaction.

The photographer later discovered her footage in his award-winning film. Her name wasn't even on the credits. That was when she decided she couldn't stay silent any longer.

Within two hours of the post going live, others dug up evidence that Oscar had pulled the same kind of stunt five years ago, stealing someone else's work. That case had been quietly settled behind closed doors.

Narelle called that night. Her voice was tight.

"Blake, did you know about this?"

"Just saw it."

"You weren't involved, were you?"

I set the phone down for a moment and took a deep breath.

"Narelle, you're really asking me that right now?"

"I'm just making sure—"

"You see that this is causing problems for him, so the first thing you do is call to ask whether I stabbed him in the back. Is that it?"

Silence on the other end. A few seconds passed.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

She was quiet even longer this time.

"Blake, I know you've been wronged. But now isn't the time to keep score. I need you to help me make this go away."

"I don't have that kind of pull."

"You know plenty of people in the industry. One word from you—"

"Do you have any idea what my reputation looks like right now?"

This time I was the one who cut her off.

"That damage-control interview you made me do for Oscar? After it aired, how many people decided I was a pushover? How many of them said I was living up to every joke about being the Sanchez family's live-in son-in-law?"

"Do you have any idea what I got in return for speaking up for him?"

"Blake..."

"I can't help. And I don't want to."

I hung up.

The phone rang again almost immediately. Narelle's name on the screen.

I didn't answer.

It rang seven times before it finally stopped.

Then a message popped up.

Blake, Oscar really didn't mean it. Help me just this once, and I'll do whatever you say from now on.

I flipped the phone facedown on the table and went out to buy a pack of cigarettes.

I didn't smoke. I bought them and threw them away.

I stood downstairs for half an hour, staring at nothing, my mind completely blank.

When I went back up, I opened Ian's contact.

"Grandpa, can we move forward with the divorce?"

His reply came fast.

"Yes. Tomorrow."