A camera flash exploded in Link's head.
For a split second, his world went completely white, the only thing left being the chaotic sound of breathing all around him.
When his vision finally came back, all he could see were blurry green spots.
"…refusing to work with producers of questionable character…"
The reporter's voice was sharp and shrill, like fingernails scraping against glass.
Link felt Cameron beside him stiffen—the hand that had been resting on his arm went rigid in an instant.
He didn't turn to look at her. He simply raised his eyes and locked onto the man who'd asked the question.
Early thirties. Receding hairline. A press badge from the National Enquirer hanging on his chest.
The man wore a greasy smile, clearly enjoying the spectacle, and pushed his recorder forward another inch.
The surrounding reporters fell silent.
Dozens of cameras, a solid wall of black lenses, were aimed straight at him.
Link said nothing.
Instead, he reached back and tightly clasped Cameron's hand. The grip was so hard you could almost hear their knuckles grind.
Then he stepped forward.
"This question," he said, his voice low but cutting through the air like a blade, "is something you should be asking Harvey Weinstein."
The reporter froze, mouth half open. "Why?"
"Because," Link said with a faint smile, calm but icy, "in Hollywood, there are plenty of actresses who want to work with Pangu. But there seem to be even more who want to leave Miramax."
He tilted his head slightly. "I'm just curious—why do you think that is?"
No one spoke.
Everyone kept shooting. Shutter clicks fell like rain.
Link didn't stop.
Still holding Cameron's hand, he forced a path through the crowd.
The moment the car door slammed shut, the world finally went quiet.
The roar of the engine sealed the flashes outside.
Cameron leaned back in the passenger seat, her breathing a little uneven.
Link didn't look at her. He reached over and turned on the radio.
A saxophone melody flowed out, carrying a hint of old-school warmth.
"Earlier…" Cameron said at last, her voice slightly hoarse. "What you said—was it true?"
"Which part?"
"About actresses leaving Miramax."
Link glanced at her. She was staring out the window, her profile flickering in and out of the streetlights.
"There's about to be one."
He smiled faintly, his voice light but steady.
Cameron didn't reply.
She just looked at him for a moment, then gently placed her hand over the one gripping the steering wheel.
Just then—
The brick-sized cellphone in his pocket rang at the worst possible moment.
Caller ID: New York.
Link glanced at Cameron, answered the call, and put it on speaker.
She raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Link ?" Jennifer's voice came through the speaker—crisp, with restrained anger underneath.
"It's me. Go ahead."
"My agent is an idiot. That statement—I had no idea about it. I fired him."
The corner of Link's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"A smart move."
"I want to keep talking with you—about Alicia, about A Beautiful Mind," she said, her tone settling back into calm. "I just need to know—does this project still stand?"
Link was silent for a second, then glanced sideways at Cameron.
She was leaning against the window, not turning her head, her expression calm to the point of restraint.
"It stands," he said. "The day after tomorrow. Los Angeles. I'll set the location."
"Okay."
Jennifer hung up.
The car was filled once again with nothing but the saxophone.
The red light blinked twice.
Link tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and the car eased into the night.
After a moment, Cameron spoke softly. "So that was Jennifer Connelly?"
"Yeah."
"She doesn't sound as difficult as the papers make her out to be."
"She's a good actress."
"…And also a woman," she added lightly, with a hint of a smile, still not looking at him.
Link didn't respond.
Neon lights slid past the window, reflecting in her eyelashes.
She leaned back into her seat and said quietly, "Go on, then. Go sign your leading lady."
---
Two days later.
Hollywood. The Chateau Marmont. Villa No. 3.
Afternoon sunlight filtered through sheer white curtains, spilling across the carpet.
Jennifer Connelly pushed the door open and walked in.
She wore a black sweater and jeans, no makeup, her hair casually tied back—
yet she looked more beautiful and more striking than she ever did under the flashbulbs.
She didn't sit. She paced the room.
"I saw your response last night."
She stopped, looked at Link, and smiled with careful restraint. "Beautifully done. Harvey's probably losing his mind."
Link smiled back and looked up at her. "Wait until he finds out his actress is signing a contract with me. He'll probably feel like jumping off a building."
As he spoke, he slid the A Beautiful Mind script across the table. "This is the new draft. We revised it based on what we discussed last time."
Jennifer didn't reach for it. She folded her arms and studied him.
"I need a guarantee."
"Name it."
"No matter what happens out there, you won't walk away from this project."
Link met her gaze.
Neither of them blinked. The air felt frozen in place.
Then he nodded. "You have my word."
Jennifer stared at him for a full thirty seconds.
Finally, she smiled—like a glacier beginning to melt.
She picked up the pen and signed her name in one swift motion.
"My lawyer will contact Howard this afternoon."
The ink spread across the page.
Link leaned back in his chair, looking at the woman in front of him, and for the first time, he thought—
the air in this city actually tasted a little sweet.