Santa Monica. An Italian restaurant called George's.
It wasn't a big place, and the lighting was a little dim.
Cameron wasn't wearing a red dress—just a simple white blouse. Her blonde hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her face clean and makeup-free. She sat there quietly, poking at the tiramisu on her plate with a fork.
Link was tired too, leaning back in his chair, slowly sipping a cup of black coffee.
"That doorstop," she suddenly said, lifting her head. Her eyes shimmered in the candlelight. "Was it really an Oscar statuette?"
"Yeah."
"Why?" She leaned forward slightly, curiosity written all over her face. "That's an Oscar. Something everyone in Hollywood would kill for."
Link set his coffee down.
"Because it's only good as a doorstop," he said seriously, looking at her. "It can block people you don't want to see—but it can't block the road you choose to walk. That road, you have to build yourself."
Cameron didn't say anything.
She just looked at him for a long time. Then she smiled—a genuine, heartfelt smile, her eyes curving like crescents.
"I get it now."
After dinner, they stepped out of the restaurant. The night air was a little chilly.
Link was just about to head for the car when, from a nearby alley, there was a sharp click—a sudden flash exploded, blinding them for a second.
A paparazzo in a baseball cap bolted, camera slung over his shoulder.
Startled, Cameron instinctively ducked behind Link.
Link frowned. He didn't chase him. Instead, he pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and walked over.
The paparazzo froze, tense and wary.
Link held out the cash.
"Nice shot," he said calmly. "But the film is better. Name your price."
The paparazzo blinked. He looked at the money, then at Link, his expression shifting. He rattled off a number.
Link didn't haggle. He pulled out a few more bills and pressed them into the man's hand.
"The camera too. All of it."
The paparazzo's eyes lit up instantly. Without a word, he handed over the camera and the film, grabbed the cash, and disappeared down the alley in seconds.
Link weighed the camera in his hand, then casually tossed it into a nearby trash can.
"Let's go," he said to Cameron, who was still a little dazed.
The drive back to her apartment was quiet.
Cameron stared out the window the whole time. Just before they arrived, she spoke softly.
"About earlier… thank you."
"Of course."
The car stopped. She unbuckled her seatbelt but didn't get out right away.
She turned to him, lips parting like she wanted to say something—then thought better of it. Instead, she leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek.
Barely there. Like a feather.
Then she pushed the door open, jumped out, and ran into her apartment building without looking back.
Link sat there, touched his cheek, and smiled.
---
The next day, on the set of The Mask.
Same bank set. Today they were shooting Tina's first close-up scene with the transformed "Mask."
Jim Carrey was wound up like he'd mainlined pure caffeine. The moment the director called "Action," he turned into a green, manic tornado—charging straight at Cameron, dropping to one knee, and pulling out from behind his back a bouquet—
No. Not a bouquet.
An entire bush of roses.
This wasn't in the script.
Chuck Russell's brow furrowed. He was just about to yell "Cut."
Cameron didn't panic.
She looked at Jim Carrey's exaggerated green face and burst out laughing. Ignoring the script, she casually plucked a rose from the bush, brought it to her nose, sniffed it, and said in a teasing, curious tone:
"Wow, sir. Looks like your gardener's been working overtime lately."
Jim Carrey froze. He hadn't expected the blonde to catch his pitch.
His eyes spun, and he sprang upright, twisting his body into the shape of a question mark.
"No, my dear!" he sang out theatrically. "This isn't the gardener's doing—it's love, fertilized to perfection!"
"Cut!" Chuck Russell finally called it—not because he was mad, but because he was laughing too hard. He stood up from behind the monitors, pointed at the two of them, and couldn't get a word out.
The entire crew cracked up.
In the corner, Link leaned against the wall, watching the playback on the monitor, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
When filming wrapped, Jim Carrey removed his makeup, changed back into a T-shirt, and—for the first time—walked straight over to Link.
He sized him up from head to toe, his expression strange.
"Hey, boss," he said, his voice raspy.
"What did you do to your leading lady?"
He paused, then broke into a crooked grin.
"You broke her."
Then—
"But… I like it."