Chapter 60: The Second Interview
William merely laughed at Katya's little maneuver.
In his eyes, she was like a young leopard baring her claws to defend her territory—still inexperienced, yet brimming with potential.
"Of course," he replied easily. "You're the most important link between us. How could an occasion like that possibly exclude you?"
His effortless agreement warmed her more than she cared to admit. The faint edge of suspicion in her gaze softened.
What she didn't know was that William had agreed so readily because the bait he was preparing to cast was designed precisely to push her closer to the throne she secretly desired—the throne of a commercial queen.
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As they stepped out of the screening hall, Courtney was already waiting by the entrance, schedule in hand—a silent reminder that time was a currency not to be wasted.
"Ladies," William said with a polite nod, "I have to handle that interview now. Thank you all for coming tonight. It means more than you know."
"No, William," Catherine spoke first, leaning forward slightly, her eyes shining with near-religious fervor. "It's I who should thank you. You granted me the opportunity to witness a sacred moment in cinematic history. Your name will endure with this film."
The unabashed flattery thickened the air.
Nicole lifted a slender brow almost imperceptibly, a faint, disdainful curve tugging at her lips. She had seen countless ambitious faces before—but Catherine's willingness to kneel so openly for advancement stirred a trace of instinctive discomfort.
Meanwhile, Mariah Carey observed Catherine with amused curiosity, as though studying an energetic specimen. As a reigning pop diva, she wasn't shocked. Hollywood was flooded with women willing to sand down their edges—willing to sacrifice dignity—for a few seconds under the spotlight.
"Thanks for the invite, William," Mariah said smoothly as she stepped forward. "Even if I didn't fully decode all that intricate camera language, I can still wish you a sweeping victory. See you around, genius."
She gave a casual wave and departed under the quiet watch of her security detail.
Catherine lingered, eyes burning with hope, like a stubborn vine reaching for sunlight. She clearly wanted a private moment.
But before she could speak, Nicole moved.
Like a territorial panther, she slipped between them without warning, naturally looping her arm through William's. Leaning close enough for Catherine to hear every word, she murmured with deliberate intimacy:
"Don't forget—I'll be waiting at home. And tonight… you're not allowed to cancel."
Then she cast Catherine a cold, victorious glance—an unspoken declaration:
As long as I'm here, you stay on the outside.
Only after asserting her claim did Nicole release him and glide into the night.
William, standing at the center of this perfumed battlefield, felt nothing.
He had neither the desire nor the patience to referee these silent wars. Compared to romantic rivalries, the door he was about to push open—the door to a new era—was infinitely more compelling.
"Time to go," he said simply, offering a brief wave to conclude the evening.
He followed Courtney through a series of quiet corridors until they arrived at a small but elegantly appointed conference room.
The heavy wooden door opened.
Inside, Miss Voss sat cross-legged on a central sofa, poised and expectant. Her team adjusted recording equipment with brisk efficiency.
The amplifier had been prepared.
Now it was time to speak into it.
Their eyes met midair.
"It's truly an honor that you agreed to this in-depth interview, Mr. Blake."
As soon as William entered, Voss rose gracefully and extended her hand—professional, poised, efficient.
William took it lightly, his smile relaxed yet measured.
"The pleasure is mine, Miss Voss. If you hadn't waved the banner for me in that previous piece, Before I Go to Sleep might have had to age in the cellar a few days longer before anyone noticed."
Voss laughed, bright and polished. "Mutual benefit, Mr. Blake. You're being far too modest."
They completed the customary exchange of commercial pleasantries. Then the camera's red light flicked on.
The interview began.
At first, Voss played it safe—congratulating him on the film's successful screening, guiding him through light reflections on the script's origins and a few amusing on-set anecdotes. The tone was cordial, almost warm.
But midway through, she peeled away the sugar coating.
"William," she said, leaning forward slightly, eyes sharpening, "my immediate impression after watching the screening was this:
Your work is fundamentally different from the formula-driven Hollywood productions we're accustomed to.
It carries an unmistakably strong personal imprint."
She paused deliberately, slowing her cadence, applying the subtle pressure only seasoned journalists know how to wield.
"As we all know, Hollywood is a meticulously calculated, highly commercialized machine.
Your bold—some might say obsessive—innovation challenges decades of studio-proven logic.
Have you considered the possibility that if this 'personal style' fails to resonate with the mainstream market, you may have to bear the consequences of that gamble?"
The air in the conference room tightened. Even the technician adjusting audio levels froze for half a second, waiting.
For most emerging directors, such a question would trigger visible sweat.
William did not rush to answer.
He lowered his gaze briefly, his fist hovering near his lips as he gave a soft, measured cough—just enough to loosen the tension in the room without acknowledging it.
"Regarding that question…"
He lifted his eyes again, calm, steady.
"I think there's a misconception embedded in it."
He folded his hands loosely in his lap.
"You're framing innovation as a gamble against the market. I don't see it that way.
Hollywood's so-called 'formula' was once someone's rebellion.
Every standard we treat as sacred today was, at one point, dismissed as reckless."
His tone remained even—not defensive, not combative.
"The real risk isn't failure. The real risk is irrelevance.
If directors reduce themselves to risk managers instead of storytellers, then yes—this industry becomes a machine.
But audiences are not machines. They evolve. Their aesthetic thresholds rise. Their tolerance for repetition decreases."
He paused just long enough for the idea to settle.
"If the mainstream rejects my style, that simply means I've arrived too early—not that I'm wrong."
A faint smile curved at the edge of his mouth.
"And history has a curious habit of catching up."
The room, moments ago taut with expectation, shifted. The tension didn't vanish—it transformed.
Voss's eyes gleamed. She had her headline.
William had not only answered the question—he had reframed the battlefield.