Slumdog Millionaire had officially started shooting.
The second Joy's new movie kicked into gear, it was like the entire industry snapped its head around. Every blogger, gossip site, and studio exec had their eyes glued to the set. One leaked photo, one tiny rumor, and boom: instant clicks, headlines, chaos.
Why? Simple. Everyone wanted the scoop on what the "miracle director" was cooking up next.
The reactions were all over the map, but the loudest take by far was:
"With that many A-listers in the mix, she still picked Henry Cavill again? Henry's gotta be Joy Grant's secret boy-toy, right?"
"Judging by the title, this thing's gonna be grimy as hell… slums and all. Did Joy suddenly decide to go full indie grit?"
"Choosing an Asian lead? Bold… but bad call. American audiences aren't there yet. This movie's box office is gonna tank."
"An Asian protagonist? Really? That's niche as hell."
"Joy's going too woke. If you wanna stay on top in Hollywood, you cast white leads. Everybody knows that."
"Okay, but Maggie Q is pretty famous…"
"Famous my ass. If Joy hadn't cast her, I wouldn't even know who she is."
Bottom line: a lot of people were side-eyeing the whole concept. An Asian girl from the slums chasing the American Dream? Too specific. Too "minority." Too risky. Americans love rags-to-riches stories… as long as the rags and riches belong to somebody who looks like them.
In Hollywood history, minority-led films that actually crushed at the box office were rare. You had your Will Smiths, your Denzel Washingtons (Black superstars who'd earned "honorary mainstream" status). Everything else? Either awards bait or small indie darlings that nobody outside the festival circuit watched.
Casting an Asian lead in a big studio movie with real commercial ambitions? Basically unheard of.
Was Joy trying to pull off another miracle?
A lot of people thought she was nuts for even trying. Challenging mainstream America's comfort zone like that? Career suicide.
But Joy knew something they didn't: the financial crisis was coming.
In her past life, Slumdog Millionaire (an Indian-kid-led movie) became a global phenomenon and swept the Oscars during the exact same economic meltdown. If a movie about a kid from the Mumbai slums could do it… why not one about an Asian girl in America?
She was betting everything on that storm.
On set, Maggie Q (dressed in cheap, worn-out clothes) was nailing a scene walking through the "slum" set, buying fruit from a rundown produce stand. She moved like she'd lived this life forever. Word was she'd gone full method: a month ago she basically stopped talking to people off-set and even wrote a real suicide note for the character, keeping herself on the edge the whole time.
Henry (watching from the sidelines) leaned over to Joy and whispered, "Joy… she's gorgeous. Like, I know you won't get mad, but I honestly think she's hotter than you."
The dude was painfully blunt.
Joy rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. "Thanks, Henry. Real smooth way to compliment someone—by dragging me."
Henry just grinned like a golden retriever. "Come on, admit it—she's stunning!"
"Cool, I'm recording that and sending it straight to Emma."
Henry immediately shut his mouth and pretended to be very interested in his script.
Joy had to admit, though—Maggie had that rare mix of sharp Asian features and Western appeal that made Hollywood finally notice her. It's why she landed Nikita.
Joy called a break, grabbed a bottle of water, and was halfway through chugging it when she spotted Hughes walking up.
Because Joy was gunning hard for Oscars and every major award with this one, she'd brought Hughes on as producer. Their past collabs had always been magic (and money). Win-win.
Hughes saw her coming and immediately dropped the half-smoked cigar he'd been puffing on.
Joy shook her head. "Seriously, dude, you gotta quit smoking. Your lungs are probably charcoal at this point."
"Been charcoal for years," he said, already reaching for another.
She snatched it out of his hand. "Do you wanna see sixty or not?"
He smirked (that polished, arrogant smirk that somehow still looked classy). "Honestly? Don't really care." Then his voice softened. "But Joy…"
He rarely used her real name. She turned. "What?"
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world: "You might as well tell me the rest. Besides the drugs—what else did you do behind my back that you never told me about?"
After the short video scandal, he'd clearly figured out she'd kept a lot buried. He didn't care how wild it was; he just wanted to know so he could clean it up before it exploded again.
His tone wasn't teasing. It was dead serious—like she owed him full disclosure.
Joy looked at him like he was a stranger. "Hughes, you saved my ass this time, and I'm grateful. I'll pay that debt someday. But please drop the condescending attitude."
He actually laughed, like the idea was hilarious. "You think you can ever pay it back? Come on."
"I'm serious." Her voice was ice. "And you're not my guardian. You don't get a play-by-play of my life—not when we were together, and definitely not now."
His eyes narrowed, unreadable.
"You want me to confess every secret just because you asked? On what planet do you get to demand that?"
He took a slow drag, blew the smoke out, said nothing.
"I don't report to you," she said quietly.
He still didn't speak.
Joy's voice dropped even lower, almost calm. "You're so damn full of yourself, Hughes."
He tilted his head. "Full of myself?"
"Yeah. How long are you gonna keep acting like you own me?"
He gave a short, surprised laugh. "First time you've ever called me that."
"Because I was blind before. The last few years opened my eyes. Our breakup wasn't just my fault—yours too."
His face went cold. "Opened your eyes?"
"I'm never telling you the things I did—right or wrong. You don't have the right to know."
He repeated, deadpan: "I don't have the right?"
"Nope."
He stared at her, expression blank.
"You surprised?" she asked.
"No."
Now it was her turn to be surprised. "No?"
He didn't answer. Just looked out at nothing, face unreadable.
Joy took a slow breath. "You're always making decisions for me, drawing a circle and expecting me to jump in it. Even just now—you didn't ask if I wanted to tell you. You told me to. You assumed I would. But why the hell would I?"
He smoked harder, a bitter smirk curling his lips. "So that's what you call arrogant?"
"I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. If you ever need anything, name it—I'll be there. But I'm drawing a line. We're done blurring it."
He stared straight ahead. "A line."
"Yep. I'm not sharing my private life with someone who's never respected my boundaries or my choices."
In her previous life she'd finally figured it out: the problem wasn't just her. Hughes always decided what was best for her without ever asking what she wanted. She used to go along with it. Not anymore.
"Respect?" he finally said, the word dripping with sarcasm.
She didn't answer. He probably still didn't get it.
Like two minutes ago—he thought she should just volunteer her darkest secrets because he asked. Not once did he consider she might say no.
"That's it, then," he said after a long silence.
He turned to leave.
"See you," she said.
He walked off without another word.
Joy watched him go, no clue what was going through his head. He'd barely spoken the whole time.
Hughes drove back from set, crossing the bridge as the sun bled out over the horizon. From up high he could see the motionless cable cars below, frozen since the city shut the line down.
He pulled over on the riverbank, got out, and walked to the edge. Kicked a pebble into the water.
Hands in his suit pockets, he stood there as the sky turned from orange to purple to black, city lights flickering on one by one.
He never moved. Just stared at the golden ripples on the river.
Like a man completely detached from the glittering chaos of L.A.
After a long, long time, the corner of his mouth twisted into a mocking smirk.
"Respect?" he muttered to the night.
And that was all he said.