James Cameron's final sentence made the room explode.
Robert Shaye's expression changed three times in one second, like a busted traffic light. He pointed at Cameron, his hand visibly shaking.
"Y-you… you're blackmailing us!"
"No." Cameron crossed his arms, his voice sharp and icy. "This is a basic requirement for art."
Link felt a steady pulse start up in his temples.
Shaye immediately turned his fire on him.
"Link ! Are you hearing this? Build a ship that can actually sink? He's lost his mind! If you want to go crazy with him, use your own money!"
His voice was loud enough to knock dust off the studio ceiling.
Link didn't respond. He walked over to the water cooler and poured himself a cup.
The moment the paper cup hit the dispenser tray, it felt like someone hit pause on the room.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Each drop sounded like a countdown.
He took a slow sip before turning around.
"Mr. Shaye," he said calmly, not raising his voice, "don't get worked up yet. We're not talking about costs. We're talking about business."
"Business?" Shaye let out a bitter laugh. "Throwing a hundred million dollars into the ocean just to hear a splash? That's business now?"
"Absolutely."
Link stepped closer—close enough that Shaye could smell the clean soap on his shirt. He raised one finger.
"First question. From the day we start building the ship to the day it sinks, do you think the global media will swarm us like rabid dogs and give us a full year of free publicity?"
Shaye froze. His eyebrows twitched.
Seeing he'd landed the point, Link raised a second finger.
"Second, we hire an independent film crew to document the entire process and turn it into a documentary. Do you really think HBO or Discovery wouldn't fight for exclusive broadcast rights?"
Shaye's mouth fell slightly open. His breathing quickened.
Link smiled and raised a third finger, lightly tapping it against Shaye's chest.
"Finally—even after the ship sinks, it's not scrap metal."
He lowered his voice. "How much do you think Disney or Universal would pay to buy it and put it in one of their theme parks?"
The entire soundstage went dead silent. You could hear your own heartbeat.
Robert Shaye's mind was racing.
Media exposure. Documentary rights. Theme park licensing. Even… movie merchandise.
This wasn't an investment.
It was a money-printing machine.
Link watched the expression on Shaye's face and knew he'd fully taken the bait. He pressed his hand firmly onto Shaye's shoulder, forcing the man—who'd been on the verge of jumping up—back into his chair.
Leaning in, locking eyes with him, Link said slowly and clearly:
"So, Mr. Shaye, we're not building a ship."
"We're building a gold mine that lays golden eggs."
Shaye stayed silent for a few seconds, then let out a long breath. His whole body relaxed.
He looked like a man already seeing future box office numbers floating in the air.
Link straightened up and turned to Cameron.
"James, you get your ship."
Cameron looked at him, his expression changing. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if he were thinking:
This kid can really sell it. Next time I go over budget, I'm dragging him in to do the talking.
Link immediately followed up. "But the original Titanic design blueprints you mentioned—where are they?"
Cameron hesitated.
"I've heard… there's only one complete original set."
"That's right!" Band cut in, like he'd been waiting for his cue, holding up a small notebook. "Those blueprints are priceless. There's only one fully complete original in the world, and it's stored in an archive in Belfast, Northern Ireland."
He paused, looking a little awkward.
"The problem is, the archivist there is a stubborn old guy. Treats those drawings like national treasures. No loans. No licensing. Ever."
Robert Shaye leaned back in his chair and let out a cold chuckle.
"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about. We can fight each other over tens of millions in budget, but some doors are locked by God himself. You, me, and him—" he pointed at Cameron, "—none of us are kicking that door open."
James Cameron's face darkened again. The creative fire that had just been lit looked like it'd been doused with a bucket of ice water.
Link said nothing. He simply took the notebook from Band and looked at the name written there.
Arthur Finch.
Instead of feeling discouraged, he felt steadier than ever.
The more something isn't for sale, the less money matters.
At that point, it's about persuasion—not cash.
Throwing money around only proves you don't understand what the other person is protecting.
"Link ," Shaye said, leaning in again, his tone tired, "take my advice. Don't waste your time. Hire a few naval engineers, recreate the plans from photos, and call it a day. No one's going to pull out a magnifying glass and compare them."
"I will."
Cameron cut in coldly.
"If I can't even convince myself, how am I supposed to convince the audience?"
Link let out a quiet sigh.
"Enough."
He closed the notebook and looked at Band.
"Book me a flight to Belfast. The earliest one available."
"You're going yourself?" Band stared.
"Yeah." Link smiled as he grabbed his coat. "I'm going to have a conversation with Mr. Finch—about history."