Chapter 4 - JULIAN’S VERSION
Julian Cross came to my office that afternoon.
No lawyers.
Bad idea.
Useful.
He stood by the window while I poured coffee neither of us wanted.
I put the draft injunction language between us.
“You used this to keep me off the carpet.”
“Yes.”
Direct.
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“Your lawyer knew you were on press hold.”
“Press hold is not exile.”
“No.”
“So?”
He looked at me.
“I thought you might turn the premiere into a negotiation.”
“I wouldn't.”
“You sent a draft threatening exactly that.”
“To your lawyer.”
“Because lawyers never tell clients?”
Fair.
I sat.
“You could have called.”
“You could have.”
Good.
We were going to be irritatingly symmetrical.
Julian continued.
“We had sponsors, international buyers, cast, lenders, two guild groups and three hundred press credentials in one building. I was not putting someone who had threatened an injunction onto an uncontrolled press line.”
“Then why invite me?”
“Because it’s your movie.”
That answer hit differently after Derek.
Julian noticed.
“I never wanted you outside the building.”
“You were comfortable with a side entrance.”
“Yes.”
“Because I embarrassed you.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Julian.”
“Because you're unpredictable when you think somebody is minimizing your role.”
There.
That was personal.
“How many times have I been unpredictable?”
“Toronto.”
I knew immediately.
Two years earlier, during financing meetings at the festival, an investor described me as “the writer-producer attachment.”
I corrected him in front of six people.
Then walked out.
Meridian nearly lost the investor.
I still believed the correction was deserved.
Walking out?
Less sure.
“Anything else?”
“The reshoot meeting.”
Also true.
Director Alex wanted a new ending after test screenings.
I refused.
Julian pushed.
I told him if Meridian shot it without contractual approval, I would lock them out of my production office and litigate.
I had the approval right then.
Still escalated fast.
“Anything else?”
He hesitated.
“Your staff.”
That got my attention.
“What about them?”
“Mara has spent half the production translating your anger into things other people can actually answer.”
I stared.
He had probably been waiting two years to say that.
Unfortunately, Mara had said similar things privately.
I did not let him win by making it a revelation.
“None of that gives your security contractor permission to humiliate me.”
“No.”
Good.
“None gives you the right to remove me from publicity without telling me.”
He paused.
Then:
“That part I should have handled differently.”
Better.
Not apology yet.
“I should have called you before continuing the restriction.”
“Yes.”
“I also should not have treated your own hold as indefinite simply because it became convenient.”
There.
That was the studio’s specific failure.
Not theft.
Convenience.
One department saw NO PRESS.
Another saw legal threat.
No one wanted to become the person who accidentally put me in front of a microphone.
So the restriction stayed.
Then I asked:
“Why the sequel announcement tonight?”
“Momentum.”
“Whose word?”
“Mine.”
There.
Opening weekend projections were high.
Ethan’s availability would become harder if he booked another franchise.
Meridian wanted to start negotiations immediately.
The after-party announcement was designed to create market expectation before deals were final.
Not unusual.
Also pressure.
Once fans believed a sequel was coming, saying no became harder for every party.
Including me.
“You were trying to use the audience against me.”
Julian shook his head.
“We were trying to create demand.”
“For something whose rights are disputed.”
“Yes.”
“That is using demand against me.”
He thought.
“Partly.”
Good.
Then:
“You were using an injunction threat against us.”
“Yes.”
There.
No one got to keep clean hands by changing nouns.
I asked:
“If I had walked the carpet quietly, would you have made the sequel announcement?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
“You would have been told before the screening ended.”
I laughed.
“That's your defense?”
“No.”
Good.
Then Julian surprised me.
“Ethan’s manager knew.”
“I know.”
“Alex knew.”
I stopped.
Our director.
Alex Moreno.
“Since when?”
“Three weeks.”
“Why didn't Alex tell me?”
“Ask him.”
I did.
Alex came over that evening.
He looked as tired as everyone else.
First thing he said:
“I thought you knew.”
Of course.
“How?”
“Julian said your lawyers were negotiating the language.”
“They were negotiating rights.”
“Same movie.”
“No.”
He sat.
Alex had been offered a first-look directing discussion for the sequel.
Not a contract.
He listened.
Why?
Because he wanted it.
Simple.
He also knew I had sequel rights issues.
He assumed I was bargaining.
Which I was.
He did not know I had not seen the announcement.
“Would you direct it without me?”
I asked.
Alex looked uncomfortable.
“Define without you.”
That hurt more than yes.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Claire. That's the problem.”
There.
He continued.
“If you mean would I direct a sequel where you are completely cut out? No.”
“If Meridian has rights and gives me executive producer?”
“Maybe.”
“You'd take that?”
“I might.”
I looked away.
Alex had spent six years beside me.
I wanted loyalty to mean his career would stop where mine became uncomfortable.
That was not something we had ever agreed.
He continued.
“You fought for this movie because you wanted it to exist.”
“Yes.”
“At some point you started acting like existence meant permanent control.”
I almost threw him out.
Instead:
“Do you think that's fair?”
“Sometimes.”
Good.
He did not soften.
Then:
“And sometimes Meridian treats you like a difficult vendor because you’re easier to negotiate with if they forget you built the thing.”
Both.
That was closer.
I asked:
“Why didn't you tell me about the sequel presentation?”
“I thought it was a concept reel.”
“It was.”
“I thought you had approved the concept work.”
“I approved talks.”
“Claire.”
He rubbed his face.
“You approve half of things by not objecting until the day they matter.”
That one landed.
I wanted examples.
He had them.
Poster selection.
Music supervisor.
International title.
One reshoot schedule.
I hated meetings.
I skipped minor approvals.
Then came in hard when a decision became visible.
Sometimes because the decision was wrong.
Sometimes because I had not engaged when it was still cheap to change.
Mara had told me this too.
Apparently the world had organized a conference.
I stood.
“Okay.”
Alex looked suspicious.
“That’s it?”
“No. I’m going to hate you privately for a week.”
“Fair.”
He left.
At ten that night, I finally opened the arrival packet Mara had sent before the premiere.
Page one:
EAST PRIVATE ARRIVAL.
Page two:
NO PRESS.
Page three:
Talent carpet marked NOT SCHEDULED.
I had not been ambushed by that part.
I had ignored it.
The next attachment was the after-party run of show.
I had not opened that either.
At 10:15:
SURPRISE DEVELOPMENT REVEAL — FUTURE OF THE SUMMER HOUSE
No sequel title.
No claim of ownership.
Still enough to tell me something was planned.
I could have seen it the day before.
I didn't.
Because I had decided logistics were beneath the level where my attention mattered.
Then got furious when logistics became the stage on which everybody saw me.
The next morning, Mara came into my office with a resignation letter.
I looked at it.
“No.”
She sat.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“I failed to make you understand what was happening.”
“I failed to read.”
“You pay me to make sure important things get through.”
“Yes.”
“You were not supposed to discover the sequel announcement by standing under it.”
“No.”
“That is on me.”
“Partly.”
She looked tired.
“You’re impossible.”
“Known.”
She pushed the resignation closer.
I pushed it back.
“Tell me what you actually want.”
“I want authority to tell you something twice without being treated like I'm wasting your time.”
That hurt.
Good.
“And if I mark something CRITICAL, you open it.”
“Fine.”
“And no more ‘handle it’ on contract matters.”
I frowned.
“That's dramatic.”
“You sent me ‘handle it’ on the sequel payment.”
There.
She had the email.
Of course.
Payroll Friday. Take Meridian’s money and handle the paper.
My words.
Mara had handled it.
Now I was living inside the paper.
I took the resignation letter.
Tore it in half.
She looked at me.
“That was theatrical.”
“I'm in movies.”
She almost smiled.
Then Tessa called.
Meridian had made a formal sequel offer.
The exclusive window was active.
Clock started now.
Thirty days to negotiate.
If we refused outright, the matching-right provision remained.
The red-carpet mystery had turned into the thing everybody feared it was hiding.
May you like
Not an ownership theft.
A negotiation I had postponed until the value became impossible to ignore.
