Page 2 of Flipping the Script
David finally spoke up, his tablet glowing with what Quinn now recognized as crisis management statistics. "The publicity angle here is significant. Two successful women in entertainment, supporting each other professionally during challenging times. The optics are incredibly positive."
Optics. As if her life was a political campaign instead of... well, actually, in Hollywood, the distinction was often academic.
Quinn retrieved her pen with movements that felt mechanical. "And if I'm not comfortable with this casting choice?"
The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold as a sound effect for funeral scenes.
Margaret's expression shifted slightly, revealing just enough steel beneath the polish to remind Quinn exactly who held the power here. "Well, obviously, we respect your artistic vision completely. But given the current climate and the need to move quickly on this project, we really feel this is our best path forward."
Translation: take it or leave it. And leaving it meant watching her final chance at a produced screenplay disappear along with any possibility of a sustainable writing career.
Harrison cleared his throat. "There's also the matter of the timeline. Awards season consideration requires us to begin production immediately, which means we need everyone on board by the end of the week."
End of the week. Four days to decide between professional suicide and professional compromise that felt remarkably similar to professional suicide.
Quinn flipped through her notebook's pages of carefully researched alternatives, each actor profile annotated with notes about their respect for source material and collaborative approach to character development. "I had prepared several other casting suggestions?—"
"I'm sure you did," Margaret interrupted smoothly. "And I'm sure they're all excellent. But Solen's attachment is non-negotiable at this point. The contracts are signed, the scheduling is locked, and frankly, the buzz around this pairing has already generated significant industry interest."
Buzz. Industry interest. More corporate terminology for "we've already made our decision and your opinion is a charming but irrelevant formality."
Through the glass walls, Quinn watched assistants scurry past with tablets and coffee cups, probably managing the careers of writers who hadn't painted themselves into impossible corners. Writers whose scripts got produced with the actors they'd actually chosen. Writers who didn't have to sit in sterile conference rooms while executives explained why their artistic vision needed to be sacrificed for someone else's commercial strategy.
The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, or maybe she was just noticing them more as her stress level climbed toward the stratosphere. Her carefully constructed professional demeanor felt like a mask that was slipping, revealing the desperation she'd worked so hard to hide.
Priya leaned forward with practiced concern. "We understand this might feel overwhelming. That's why we're bringing in some additional support to help navigate the... complexities."
Additional support. In Hollywood, that usually meant either lawyers or therapists, and Quinn wasn't sure which option terrified her more.
"What kind of support?" The question emerged before she could stop it.
David consulted his tablet with the efficiency of someone reading prepared talking points. "Crisis management specialists. Image consultants. We want to make sure both you and Solen have every resource necessary to make this project a success."
Image consultants. As if her image was the problem instead of the fact that they were asking her to trust her artistic baby to someone who treated scripts like rough drafts of potential inspiration.
Margaret stood, signaling that the meeting was approaching its conclusion whether Quinn was ready or not. "Obviously, we don't expect an immediate answer to such a significant decision. Why don't you take some time to consider our proposal?"
Consider. Another euphemism, this one meaning "figure out how to say yes gracefully because no isn't actually an option."
The executives began gathering their materials with the coordinated efficiency of people who'd delivered similar ultimatums before. Quinn's script remained on the table between them, its pages filled with dialogue she'd crafted specifically for performers who understood the weight of words.
"How much time?" she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
"Let's schedule a follow-up for Friday," Harrison suggested, consulting his phone. "That gives you the rest of the week to process everything and ask any questions that might come up."
Three days. Seventy-two hours to decide between professional death and professional compromise that might amount to the same thing.
As the executives filed toward the door, Quinn caught fragments of their lowered conversation: "bring in Iris Delacroix," and "image rehabilitation," and "strategicpartnership." The words floated past her like pieces of a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve.
Margaret paused at the door, her expression softening just enough to seem almost genuine. "Quinn, I know this feels complicated. But sometimes the best opportunities come disguised as challenges. Solen is talented, she's committed, and she genuinely cares about telling authentic stories. This could be exactly what both of your careers need."
Both of your careers. The phrasing suggested a partnership that went beyond simple actor-writer collaboration, though Quinn couldn't quite grasp what that might entail.
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Quinn alone in the conference room's artificial silence. Through the glass walls, she watched the executives disperse like actors leaving a stage after delivering their lines. The script sat before her, its pages filled with words that suddenly felt less permanent than they had an hour ago.
Her notebook lay open to a page titled "Ideal Cast," filled with names of actors who understood that dialogue was meant to be spoken as written, not used as inspiration for spontaneous creativity. All those careful annotations and research notes felt suddenly naive, like preparation for a test whose subject had been changed without warning.
Quinn closed the notebook and pressed her palms flat against its leather cover. Two years of work. Countless late nights in her apartment, crafting scenes that balanced humor and heartache in precisely measured doses. Character arcs that built toward revelations she'd planned like an architect designing a cathedral. All of it now dependent on the cooperation of someone whose artistic philosophy seemed fundamentally incompatible with the concept of following directions.
