`New York. Manhattan. The top-floor suite of the Waldorf Astoria.
Link had just set his luggage down when his phone rang. Bender.
"Link ! News from CAA—Ron's making moves on Harvey! He's trying to hijack our distribution!"
Link walked to the window, watching the traffic stream below. His voice stayed steady. "Slow down. Explain."
"He's trying to hand the film to Miramax! He's betting we won't even make it to release!" Bender was practically yelling.
Link went quiet for a few seconds, eyes fixed on a distant point of light.
"Harvey's a businessman," he said evenly. "He only backs the horse most likely to win. Get Lubezki to L.A. as soon as possible. We focus on our own work."
He hung up.
Only then did the calm drain from his face, replaced by a trace of exhaustion he couldn't quite hide. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and downed a third of it in one go.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
The assistant ushered in two people: Alan, an agent with a perfectly practiced smile and sharp eyes—and Jennifer Connelly herself.
She wore a simple white dress. Her black hair fell like a waterfall, beautiful in a way that felt almost classical, like an oil painting. But her eyes were ice-cold.
"Mr. Link ," Alan said warmly, extending a hand. "I've heard a lot about you. Jennifer's been very impressed by your recent… activity."
Link shook his hand, but his gaze stayed on Connelly.
"Ms. Connelly."
She didn't respond. Arms crossed, she looked at him the way you'd inspect a product—cool, appraising, distant.
Alan laughed awkwardly, trying to smooth things over. "Haha, Jennifer, she's just—Mr. Link , we're really here today to clear up a bit of a misunderstanding—"
"There is no misunderstanding," Link cut in.
He looked straight at Connelly and said calmly, "I used your name, Ms. Connelly. I treated it as a weapon to pressure another company. And it worked."
Alan's smile froze.
For the first time, a ripple passed through Connelly's icy eyes. She hadn't expected him to admit it so bluntly.
"And?" she finally said, her voice even colder than her expression. "You played me like an idiot. What—do you want me to congratulate you?"
"No," Link shook his head. "I just want you to know—being used by me isn't entirely a bad thing."
As he spoke, he picked up a document from the table and slid it toward her.
Connelly glanced at the cover. A Beautiful Mind.
She didn't touch it. Instead, she sneered. "So after you're done using me, you think you can brush me off with some random script that came out of nowhere? Mr. Link , do you really think actresses in Hollywood are as stupid as you imagine?"
Her counterattack was sharp. Direct.
Alan was sweating now, hurriedly reaching for the document. "Jennifer, let's not—maybe we should—"
She slapped his hand away, her voice turning even colder.
"When I was seventeen, I did Once Upon a Time in America. They called me a prodigy. And after that? One director after another put me in front of the camera as decoration. Or they'd tell me straight to my face at auditions, 'You're too pretty to play a real role.'"
She stared at Link, eyes like knives. "Every one of you says you 'appreciate' actresses, but all you really want is to consume us. I've had enough."
The air in the room snapped tight.
Alan opened his mouth, wanting to intervene—but didn't dare.
Link, however, suddenly smiled.
He didn't argue. He opened the script and quietly read aloud:
"'I see them. They're right there!' her husband screamed hysterically. But only she knew—those people had never existed."
He looked up at Connelly, his voice slow and firm.
"You say you've been treated like a pretty prop? Alicia isn't one. She has to be calm. She has to be resilient. She has to face a madman's world for an entire lifetime without breaking—because if she falls apart, he dies."
For the first time, Connelly's gaze wavered.
Her hand moved as if to push the script away—but when her fingers touched the cover, they stopped. Almost unconsciously, she traced the title with her fingertips.
Once again, he gently slid the script closer to her.
"I admit it—I used you. So now, I'm putting an Oscar in front of you as my apology."
Connelly's fingers brushed the cover again. Then she quietly repeated a line, barely above a whisper:
"'I see them. They're right there.'"
Her voice was almost inaudible, but there was a faint tremor in it.
Link watched her, saying nothing.
The silence between them carried more weight than any argument.
Light fell across the side of her face—still cold, but now layered with something complicated she couldn't quite hide.
"Mr. Link," she said at last. Her voice was still cool, but the very end of it shook just slightly.
"If I say yes… you'd better mean every word."