The production office is small enough that every problem in the building eventually passes through it. Two folding tables pushedtogether, three monitors, a half-dead plant that has somehow survived eight months of neglect, and the smell of stale coffee embedded so deeply into the recycled air that I suspect it's structural.
Jordan and Carla are seated on the far side of the pushed-together tables when we step into the office. Both of them have the look of people who have already discussed what they're going to say.
Jordan stands first and extends his hand. He's smiling the way people smile when they're about to ask for something and feel reasonably confident about the answer.
The assistant director closes the door behind us on his way out.
“Sit, please,” Carla says, gesturing toward the two chairs on our side of the table.
I take a seat. Bash remains standing slightly behind me with his arms loose at his sides, which is the version of him that looks relaxed but isn't.
The folder comes across the table before anyone says anything about its contents.
It's glossy, the kind of production material that costs enough money to signal confidence. I open the cover and find concept art on the first page. The composition is strong, exactly the kind of image you place at the front of a pitch because it establishes mood before the reader has a chance to evaluate anything else. Script pages sit behind it. A preliminary shooting schedule occupies the middle section, budget breakdowns fill the back, and sticky tabs mark the pages Jordan wants to reference.
“We're already in pre-production on the next one,” Jordan says, leaning forward with both forearms on the table. “It's a larger project than this. Studio backing is already confirmed, and the conversation about who we want at the center of it has been very short.” He looks at me with the confidence of someone delivering news he expects to be well received.
“You two,” Carla says. Her gaze moves between us, and I can already see the marketing portion of the conversation waiting behind her eyes.
“You’re marquee talent. We're in negotiations with two other names, but honestly, the project is built around what you bring. The reach. The credibility. The audience.” She smooths a page in the folder. “Marketing has already run preliminary projections, and the numbers are extraordinary.”
Jordan flips to the budget breakdown and slides the folder farther across the table. There are numbers in the right-hand column that most people would look at first.
I close the folder without reading them.
I make sure my face is blank and my posture is relaxed. Neither of them needs to know that I’ve known what this conversation was going to be since I walked through the door.
“The timeline works,” Jordan continues. “Six months from now, prep starting in the spring. We’d want you locked in before the premiere cycle for this one. Strike while the momentum is there.” He leans back. “So. Can we count on you for the next project?”
The question sits in the air.
I inhale through my nose before exhaling deeply. “No, thank you.”
The energy in the room changes. Jordan’s expression doesn’t collapse — he’s too professional for that — but something behind it shifts, recalibrates. Carla goes slightly still.
“We’ll pass,” Bash says from behind me with no inflection.
Jordan looks between us. “I’m sorry, is there something that needs adjusting? The terms are flexible, we haven’t even gotten to—“
“It’s not the terms,” I say.
I glance at the folder on the table before looking back at them.
“We're more selective about the teams we work with than we used to be.” My voice stays even. “We work with people who evaluate others on their competence, their professionalism, and the quality of their work. Not their designation.”
A beat passes before Bash adds. “We stand by that.”
Carla shifts in her chair. She takes a moment to compose her reaction, but not quickly enough to hide her discomfort. “Obviously, we value everyone on our productions,” she says. “Maya Collins is an extremely talented coordinator, and I want you to know that if she'd like to come back for the next project, we'd welcome her. We could double her previous rate.”
Her words settle the last of the tension I'd been carrying about how to say this. “That's not how it works,” I say. I look at her as I speak, keeping my voice even. “You already made the decision. The morning her designation became visible, you reviewed eightmonths of performance and decided she needed to be managed rather than trusted. She received an apology, and the offer is generous, but neither of those things changes the fact that the decision had already been made.” I hold her gaze for a moment before looking at Jordan.
“You're treating this like a negotiation, and it isn't. She's not a problem you solve with a higher number.”
Jordan opens his mouth.
Bash speaks before he can.
“She isn't a problem at all.”
