Chapter 2: The Contract Review
The stale office air felt charged, like the calm before a thunderstorm. It was Friday, three days after Dee had turned the photo face down. Three days of catching her scent—that clean, green fig and vetiver—in hallways she’d just left, of finding spreadsheets on his chair with neatly highlighted clauses only she would have flagged. Three days of trying to remember how to breathe normally.
Simon had summoned them with a barked text. Now. My office. Bring coffee.
Matt arrived first, two cups of black in hand. Simon was already pacing, a landline receiver clamped between his shoulder and ear, gesturing violently at nothing. “No, the back-end is not negotiable, it’s what separates us from the animals at UTA. Call me when you’ve remembered that.” He slammed the phone down.
“Tough morning?” Matt offered a cup.
“Every morning is a trench war,” Simon grunted, taking the coffee but not drinking it. He looked rumpled, a older lion whose territory was being subtly redrawn. His eyes, sharp and calculating, darted to the door as it opened.
Dee walked in, a sleek tablet in one hand, a physical folder under her arm. “The ‘Whisper Creek’ sequel agreement,” she said, her voice cool and professional. “As requested.”
“You printed it? What is this, 2005?” Simon sipped his coffee, made a face.
“Some of us process ink-on-paper better,” she said, a ghost of that sharp smile touching her lips as she glanced at Matt. A callback. I’m not my father. She spread the pages across the conference table, carefully moving aside a petrified sandwich crust.
The meeting plunged into the gritty minutiae of box office escalators, merchandising splits, and exclusive windows. Simon dominated, pacing, pontificating, his voice a familiar drone. Matt listened, nodded, argued a point about creative approval. But his focus was fractured.
Dee was a silent, potent presence at his side. She didn’t speak unless addressed, but her fingers flew over her tablet, pulling up precedent clauses, her knowledge quiet and terrifyingly complete. She was the architecture beneath Simon’s bluster. Matt could feel the faint warmth radiating from her, could see the careful concentration in her profile as she tracked her father’s circling.
“Clause 17b, Matt,” Simon barked, pointing a stubby finger at the document. “The morality clause. Standard, but the studio wants it tightened. Post-#MeToo language. Look it over.”
Matt leaned forward, scanning the dense legalese. The words swam. “I see it.”
“Do you?” Simon’s phone rang, a shrill emergency bleat. He scowled, checking the screen. “Shit. It’s the head of studio legal. I have to take this. Dee, walk him through the new sub-clauses. Make sure he understands what he’s signing away.” He stabbed a button. “Jerry! Talk to me.” He turned his back, walking to the grimy window, his voice dropping into a conciliatory growl.
Silence settled, thick and intimate. Matt could hear the low rumble of Simon’s negotiation and the soft, almost imperceptible sound of Dee’s breathing.
“It’s page nine,” she said softly. Her hand, with its neat, unpolished nails, reached across and flipped through the pages. She stopped. Frowned. “That’s odd. Page nine is missing.”
“What?”
“It’s not here. I collated this myself. It must have… stuck to another page.” Her expression was pure, guileless focus. She began shuffling papers with a quiet urgency. “The new language is critical. It basically says they can bury the film and sue you for costs if you so much as jaywalk while this is in production.”
“Helpful,” Matt mumbled, leaning in to help search. Their heads bent close over the table, a world away from Simon’s muted phone conversation.
“Here,” she whispered.
She was holding a sheet, but not out for him to take. It was between them, flat on the table. She pointed to a block of text. “See? Right here.”
He had to lean in further, his shoulder brushing hers. The scent of her was overwhelming now, up close. Not just perfume. Coffee. Shampoo. The warmth of her skin. He tried to read, but the letters were a jumble.
“Where?” he breathed, his voice low.
Her finger, slender and certain, traced a line. Then it stopped. She didn’t move it. He shifted, trying to follow, and his temple was suddenly an inch from her cheek. He could feel her breath, warm and steady, against his ear.
“The line about ‘actions bringing the production into public disrepute,’” she whispered, her lips almost touching his skin. Her voice was a low vibration, meant only for him. “It’s vague. Dangerously vague. My father will tell you to sign it. He wants the deal closed. But you should push back. Strike 'public disrepute.' Replace it with ‘convicted of a felony.’ It’s cleaner. Safer for you.”
He froze. She wasn’t just finding a page. She was giving him intelligence. Going around her father’s judgment. For him.
He turned his head, just slightly. Their eyes met, sideways, from a distance of centimeters. Her hazel gaze was unwavering, intense. A silent challenge. I’m on your side. Do you see?
The phone call behind them ended. A chair squeaked.
Dee pulled back smoothly, sliding the missing page into the center of the table as if it had been there all along. “Found it. It was under the appendix.”
Simon lumbered over, blotting out the sun. “Good. You get it? They screw you with the vague stuff, Matthew. Always.”
Matt leaned back, the ghost of her whisper still burning on his ear. He picked up his pen, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at the clause. He looked at Simon’s impatient, trusting face. He looked at Dee, who had resumed her neutral, efficient posture, awaiting instruction.
“Actually, Simon,” Matt said, his voice surprisingly steady. He tapped the paper. “This ‘public disrepute’ line. It’s a landmine. I want it struck. Felony conviction or nothing.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed, flicking from Matt to the page, then to his daughter. A slow, calculating silence filled the room. He didn’t ask how Matt had suddenly become a contract savant. He just stared, the paternal agent visibly re-calibrating, sensing a shift in the bedrock he’d built his kingdom upon.
“That,” Simon said slowly, his voice a low gravel, “is a very specific change to request out of the blue.”
Dee picked up her tablet, swiping calmly to another document, her face a mask of professional detachment. But in the reflective surface of the dark screen, Matt saw it—the faint, triumphant curve at the corner of her mouth.