Because I don’t need pleasantries. I need money. I need safety.
And I need control.
Three months.That’s how long I have until the cameras roll. Until the lights go up, the makeup gets caked on, and someone yellsAction!like it’s not my entire life they’re playing dress-up with. The studio calls it a “semi-true inspired adaptation.” I call it a gamble with my soul.
I’ve signed the contracts. Mylo damn near popped an artery when I negotiated my terms. I want script rewrites—myrewrites. I want to play myself. I want veto rights over editing. I want full input on casting, set design, costumes. He agreed to almost all of it, his grin twitching like it was trying to escape his face.
“You’re a producer now,” he said, pushing a stylus toward me.
“Then I’ll produce the hell out of it,” I snapped, and signed.
I thought I’d feel powerful. In control. Instead, all I feel is tired.
Pepper watches from the couch while I pace the tiny living room, cradling a cup of caf I keep forgetting to drink. She’scoloring a starship with gold teeth and rocket claws, humming some nonsense song about burning the sky.
“You’re frowning again,” she says without looking up.
“I’m thinking.”
“Thinking is your mad face.”
I grin despite myself. “Is it now?”
She nods, solemn. “But it’s okay. You look less tired than yesterday.”
That’s a lie, but I let it slide. I walk over, lean down, and kiss her temple. The image inducer hums, faint but steady. Still working. For now.
“You know I’m doing this for you, right?” I ask her softly.
She shrugs. “You said we needed credits. So go get the credits.”
That hits harder than it should. She’s four going on forty.
I sit beside her, cross-legged on the floor. “It’s not just about money. It’s about—telling the story right. Therealstory. So no one else can twist it.”
She puts down her crayon. “About Daddy?”
I freeze.
She rarely talks about him. I thought she didn’t remember.
“Why do you say that?” I ask carefully.
Her eyes search mine, like she knows something I don’t. “I dream about him sometimes.”
My throat closes.
“He’s tall,” she says. “And his voice rumbles like thunder. And he calls me... ‘jal’ta’kar.’ What does that mean?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
I just pull her into my arms and hold her there, her tiny heartbeat a steady drum against my ribs.
Later that night, after she’s asleep, I review the script drafts on my cracked tablet. They’re… bad. Worse than I feared. The Reapers are portrayed like cartoon monsters, snarling clichéswith shoulder spikes and glowing swords. My character is a wide-eyed virgin who falls in love because the Reaper “shows her a new way to feel.” It’s grotesque.
I delete whole paragraphs. Rewrite dialogue that actually sounds like me. Insert lines that cut deeper. Truth buried in fiction. Razorblades wrapped in sugar.
When Mylo sends back notes, I send back fire. I don’t care if I piss off the studio. I’m done being polite.
