That was why he'd started reading the unfiltered scripts. Ones that didn't beg for attention.
Ones like Miss H's — raw, survival and strange and a little angry, like someone had written it with one hand clenched.
Jake had known, reading it, that the writer was probably young. Female, smart, maybe too smart for her own good.
He'd backed the film without knowing her face. Just a monogram on a producer's deck. No LinkedIn, no flashy credits.
People thought he was reckless for doing it. That it was indulgent; a billionaire's boredom.
Let them think what they wanted, he didn't have time to explain his reasons to everyone.
He watched Heather from the corner of his eye.
She looked smaller now than she had when the elevator first stopped.
She hadn't said much since his confession. Just holding his coat a little tighter around her... maybe she was trying to decide if she could stand him yet.
