The Hollywood Reporter article was like a lit fuse—it set all of Hollywood on fire.
The three major unions went completely silent. At Pangu Pictures, the phones rang nonstop, all from people trying to get in on that so-called "Independent Filmmaker Support Fund."
"…The chairman's schedule is completely booked… yes, we'll be sure to pass along your goodwill…"
Band hung up the phone, still feeling a little dizzy.
"That was the president of the Directors Guild—Martin Scorsese himself," he said hoarsely. "He didn't say a single word about investigations. Just said he'd like to grab a cup of coffee with you."
"A peace offering," Link chuckled. "Tell him I'm busy."
On the surface, the crisis was over. But as Link walked to the window and looked out at the clear blue sky, the tension inside him only tightened. A man like Harvey—when he went quiet, it meant the knife he was sharpening was getting even sharper.
A flicker of thought passed through his mind, and suddenly he remembered Jennifer Connelly's cold eyes the last time she left.
Right then, his brick phone rang.
An unfamiliar New York number.
Link answered. The line was quiet.
"Hello?"
"…It's me." A woman's voice—Jennifer Connelly.
The chill from last time was gone. Instead, there was something else in her voice now… a curious, almost excited intensity.
"I went to Princeton," she said, not waiting for his response. "I found an old math professor in the department and spent the whole afternoon talking about John Nash. I think I finally understand why Alicia was willing to spend her entire life protecting a world like that."
"You're in New York?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Wait for me."
—
The next day, just outside Princeton University. An old café with a sign that read Einstein.
When Link pushed the door open, he spotted her immediately.
She was sitting by the window, no makeup, her dark hair loosely pinned up with a pencil. Several thick books on mathematical theory lay open in front of her. Her face was still stunningly beautiful, but the distant, untouchable coldness she used to have was gone. Now, her eyes looked like a deep lake—quiet, profound.
Link sat down across from her, ordered a black coffee, and rubbed his slightly aching temples.
She barely lifted her eyes to acknowledge him.
Neither of them spoke.
After a long while, Jennifer finally broke the silence. Her voice was soft, but the weight of her words was heavy.
"I asked the professor if he'd ever met Alicia in person."
She looked up, staring straight at Link.
"He said he saw her once, at a dinner party. Professor Nash suddenly fell into one of his episodes and started talking to thin air. Everyone was uncomfortable. Everyone except Mrs. Nash. She calmly walked over, took his hand, and whispered a few words in his ear. And just like that, he quieted down."
She paused, her gaze sharp as a scalpel, as if trying to cut through his façade.
"Link , your script is very good. So good it made me think you actually knew them."
"But now, I'm starting to doubt that."
Link stopped stirring his coffee.
"In your script, Alicia feels more like a rational, unwavering guardian. Like a lighthouse. A monument." She shook her head slightly. "But the professor told me the Alicia he saw didn't have a sense of duty in her eyes—only… love."
Her voice wasn't loud, but every word hit home.
"You wrote her like a saint. But you seem to have forgotten that before anything else, she was a woman."
Link fell silent.
He had only written from memories of another life, transcribing them onto the page. Jennifer, on the other hand, had truly stepped into the character, digging into her heart and understanding her from the inside out. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of shame.
"So?" He set down his coffee cup and looked at her, a little uneasy.
"So I want to know," Jennifer leaned forward. For the first time, there was undisguised aggression in those deep eyes, "you—a man who used me as a weapon—do you really understand what it means to protect someone?"
Link looked at her, at the storm churning in that lake of a gaze.
He knew any explanation would sound hollow.
He smiled, a bit self-mocking.
"I don't," he admitted honestly.
That answer caught Jennifer off guard.
"All I know," Link said, meeting her eyes, his voice low and sincere, "is that I wrote a character I thought was great. But today, you made me realize she might be even greater than I imagined."
"I don't know how to write that kind of love. But I know that you might be able to act it."
He slid the script—still smelling faintly of fresh ink—across the table.
"I need a partner, Jennifer. Someone who can see what I can't."
Jennifer looked at him for a long, long time.
The sharpness in her eyes slowly faded, replaced by something far more complicated.
Then she smiled.
That smile was like afternoon sunlight spilling into an old library—warm, thoughtful, and wise.
"Leave the script," she said. "My agent will contact you."
Link smiled back.
He knew he'd passed this audition.
"Welcome aboard, Alicia."
He stood up, leaving the script behind.
"This is our Oscar. For you—and for me."
He paused, looking at the light rekindled in her eyes, and added softly:
"But before we protect him, we need to find… the genius worth protecting for a lifetime."
read my story : belamy20
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