The script was good. Very good. So good, in fact, that I knew that I'd be a fool to not do whatever it took to get these two writers working for me. I read it over and over, realizing that the combination of the offbeat nature of the script and its mainstream appeal made it perfect for what I'd been imagining would be the best next step for Thorne Pictures. And with an up-and-comer like Jace Landau starring, it had the potential to make some serious money. Murray'd steered me in the right direction, and the only issue that remained was the question of whether or not any other producers had seen the potential in the script that I had.

I guess I was going to find out.

The meeting was for the next day at noon, and I was ready to do whatever it took to make this picture mine. I spent the morning getting my head right, going to the gym, having a large, protein-rich breakfast, and making sure that nothing interfered with the out-to-kill attitude that I knew I'd need for the bidding. I'd been to meetings like this before, and they could get brutal. When five big-shot producers all had their eyes on the same script things always seemed to feel like they were one unkind word away from escalating to an all-out bloodbath.

So, when my car pulled up to the tower in Midtown Manhattan where the meeting was set to take place, I was ready to do whatever it might take to bring these two screenwriters into the fold at Throne Pictures. Stepping out of my car, I took a sip of my coffee and looked up at the building before me. It was a towering shape of glass and angles, a black antenna at the top that reached up into the sky. I checked my watch and saw that I was right on time.

After making my way through the lobby and taking the elevator up to the fiftieth floor, I arrived at the large conference room where the meeting was being held. Strangely, though the table was laid out with notepads and pens, a spread of pastries and small sandwiches in the middle, no one else was there. I checked my watch once again, confirming that I was a few minutes early.

But before I have a chance to consider my situation too deeply, the doors opened and a small crowd filed into the room, all of them bustling around a pair of figures who I couldn't make out. I recognized the men and women in the group as other producers in the city, most from companies around my size. Once they began to peel off, I said my hellos to those of them I knew, and made my introductions to those of them who I didn't. And all the while I tried to steal a glance at the two men in the middle who were the center of all this commotion. Surely, they were the screenwriters. I had to see what they looked like, to see the look of the men who were able to write such a screenplay.

When everyone finally took their seats, I finally saw them. They were two brothers, not identical but nearly so. They both had slight frames and were dressed in fashionably tight jeans and flannel shirts, one with a face baby-smooth and the other with one of those obnoxious twirly-tip moustaches that I'd see every now and then on the hipsters who lived in Williamsburg, They both wore the same curly brown hair, though the one without a moustache's head was topped with a trilby hat. They seemed to have a strange air to them, almost effete, as they looked over the producers who were clamoring for their work, both of the men wearing haughty little smiles on their faces. Sure, they were talented, but something about them made me want to reach across the table and gave them a smack. I just didn't understand artist-types.

One of the men, the agent of the brothers, a fat man in a gray suit that strained to keep in his bulk, stood up and leaned forward onto the table, the wood creaking with his weight.

"Good morning, good afternoon, whatever this is," he said, his eyes moving from person to person. "My name is Rory James, and I'm the representative of those two fine young men you see before you."

The two men each raised a hand in a wimpish little manner.

"As you all know, the purpose of the meeting today is to determine production rights for The British Job, the screenplay in question."

My eyes moved along the table. There were some real heavy-hitters here, some of the biggest names in the New York film scene, along with some representatives of the production companies from Hollywood. But as I moved along the table, my eyes settled onto a pair of open seats.

And just at that moment, Rory seemed to notice them as well.

"Who the hell's not here?" he asked, gesturing to the seats.

He snapped a piece of paper stiff in front of his face and peered at it over his small-framed spectacles.

"'Bronzeplate'? That's Whittaker, right? Where the hell is he?"

I raised my eyebrows at this. Bronzeplate was possibly the biggest production company in the city. At least, if not there yet, well on their way. Simon Whittaker had quite the reputation, and even owned several of the studio lots in the city where most companies did their shooting. I'd used many of the studios myself, though I'd never had met Simon personally.

Before anyone could wonder for too long where he was, however, the door flung open and the shambling outline of Simon Whittaker entered the room.

"Sorry, sorry," he said in his Cockney accent. "Would it do any good to blame the traffic?"

Dry laughter sounded from around the table. I was about to turn back towards the group when I spotted another figure rush into the room behind Simon. It was a smaller figure, a woman. And as I got a better look at her my blood went cold when I realized just who it was.

It was none other than Mia Hunter.

She rushed into the room, clearly out of place, a look of frazzled concern on her face. She was dressed in an all-black business skirt outfit that outlined her curves perfectly. Her chocolate-brown hair was thick and straight, falling on both sides of her face, a face that was still just as stunning as it was all those years ago. I continued to watch her as she awkwardly found her place next to Simon; she was clearly so overwhelmed by the situation that she hadn't yet noticed me. I paid special attention to her face, taking in her full lips painted a deep red, her oak-colored eyes that flicked nervously from here to there, and the fair skin of her face, her cheeks red with anxious blush.

I couldn't believe that it was her. It'd been how many years -five, six, maybe?- since that night we broke up. Even now, I remember the last day of our relationship, especially how I felt when she broke up with me so suddenly. And as she sat across the table from me, it felt as though no time at all had passed since we'd seen each other.

I wondered if she'd ever recognize me when she finally got her bearings.

"Looks like everyone's here," said Rory, noting that all the seats were now filled.

I turned my attention back to the screenwriters and their agents, though keeping Mia in the corner of my eye. She was busily getting herself organize for the meeting, and I ascertained that she was here assisting Simon. I found myself wondering just what sort of relationship the two had; after all, Simon did have somewhat of a reputation for putting his fingers into the candy jar. Against my better instincts, I felt a tinge of possessive jealousy flash through my body at the thought of this; despite not being with Mia for over half a decade, the thought of a man like Simon putting his hands on her made me sick to my stomach.

And still, she didn't notice me.

"So, how you guys wanna do this?" asked Rory, turning his attention to the screenwriters. "You wanna start with the number we talked about?"

"Actually," said the writer in the trilby hat, his voice light and effeminate, "we were thinking that, in light of all this wonderful attention that our script is getting, we'd start with a higher figure."

"Oh?" asked Rory, clearly more than a little surprised.

"Yes," said the shaved-head man. "We're going to start things at seven hundred and fifty K."

Murmurs sounded form the table as the bidding producers talked amongst one another. I said nothing, having expected already that the bidding would likely get into the seven-figure range.

"Fuck," said Simon, not wasting a moment. "Put me down for that."

I watched with a smirk as Mia eagerly jotted down the bid. She was totally focused, and I probably could've fired a flare gun into the ceiling and she'd simply note what had happened and continue on. She was always the studious type, which why it wasn't a total shock when she decided to break up with me in favor of focusing on her studies.

That didn't make it any less painful, however.

"Eight hundred," said another producer, raising his index and middle fingers.

I decided to hold off for now, to see who was in this to win it.

"Nine hundred," said Simon.

I glanced furtively around the table; around half of the producers wore serious looks on their faces, and I knew this meant they were getting to their limits. Bronzeplate had deep pockets, so I knew that Simon could likely stay in the bidding for a good long while, and I had more than enough money to play with myself.

But still, I wanted to see who'd drop out before I threw my hat in.

"Nine-fifty," said another producer.

A silence hung in the air. Unless someone wanted to inch even closer to the line, the only place to go from here was to bring things into the seven-figure range. But as I scanned the faces of the nervous producers, I realized that no one wanted to pull the trigger. Only Simon had an expression of calm and ease on his ugly little mug, and Mia's attention was fixed on him, her hand at the ready to jot down whatever came next.

"A million," I said.

I few of the producers took in long draws of air through their nostrils as if wincing in pain. And out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Mia's gaze finally fell upon me. I kept my stare forward, instead choosing to watch as the screenwriters whispered eagerly to one another, clearly happy with the direction the bidding was going.

Mia turned back down to her notes and jotted something down. Then, I could see her freeze in place, as if making a realization. Her head slowly turned up to look at me once again, and I couldn't help but smirk as I continued to stare forward, knowing that she now had to know just who I was. She stayed frozen, staring at me, her eyes so wide that I could make out the ring of clear white around them even through my peripheral vision.

"I'm out," said one of the producers.

"Me too," said another.

"Same."

Now it was just Simon, another producer, and myself.

"One-two-five," said Simon.

Mia continued to stare at me, her mouth now slackening a little. But once she realized that Simon had bid, she snapped out of her transfixion and returned to her note-taking. I wondered just when would be the right time to make eye contact with her. It was a fun little game to play, but then again, there were serious matters at hand.

"One-point-five," I said.

Mia jotted this down, her eyes still lingering on me.

"I'm done," said the third producer.

Now it was just me and Simon. The rest of the producers at the table watched us with eager attention.

"One-six," said Simon.

"One-six.point-five," I said.

Like I said, I had money to play with, but my pockets weren't bottomless. Two million was my limit, and I'm sure that Simon didn't want to go any higher than that, either."

"One-seven," he said.

Silence hung in the air as the room waited to see if I'd take things up higher.

"One-eight," I said after some consideration.

"Nine," said Simon.

There was only one place left to go. If I bid two on this picture, then I was risking quite a bit on the chance that it'd be a winner. It was quite the gamble.

I figured now was as good a time as any to address the other matter. Flicking my eyes to Mia, I opened my mouth and began to speak.

"T-"

But before I could finish, Simon cut me off.

"Wait, wait," he said.

The attention of the table turned to him. Simon looked around from person to person, Mia watching him intently, her face a deep red.

"I've got an idea," he said, looking at me.

"Oh?" I asked.

This was intriguing.

"Yeah. First, I gotta ask everyone who isn't biddin' on this thing to get out. This is now a private meeting."

That was quite an order to dish out to the men in the room, but if anyone had that kind of sway, it was Simon. The producers all stood up and filed out, leaving the room now empty aside from myself, Mia, Simon, the screenwriters, and Rory, their agent.

"What's this all about?" asked Rory. "You putting the bidding on hold?"

"In a matter of speaking," said Simon, tapping his fingertip on the table in thought. "Mr. Throne-"

"Call me Liam," I said, flicking another glance at Mia.

"Liam," he continued, "I know we've both got our eyes on this picture, and a couple of guys like us, well, we're the type who'd drive ourselves into the poorhouse tryin' to outbid the other guy."

"True," I said.

"So, allow me to make a little proposition" he said.

"A proposition?" I asked.

Mia's glance flicked back and forth between Simon and I. The rest of the men in attendance watched carefully.

"Right. What do you say to a little, ah, joint enterprise?"

"Go on."

"Here's what I'm suggesting: we split the cost of this little picture fifty-fifty."

"Fifty-fifty?" I asked.

"That's right," said Simon. "And because you're the smaller studio, you handle the day-to-day operations. Bronzeplate'll provide whatever you need in terms of studio space and all that."

This sounded intriguing. I'd be doing the heavy lifting, sure, but I'd save a bundle of money by not having to foot the bill for most of the production budget.

"Profit's fifty-fifty, too, I'm assuming," I said.

"Naturally. Though don't be treating Bronzeplate like a damn black card. You'll be running all expenses through me."

My eyes flicked over to the screenwriters, who were watching the conversation with keen interest. And Mia was just eagerly jotting everything down. Despite the gravity of what Simon and I were discussing, I couldn't help but wonder what was going through Mia's head at that moment.

"So, assuming I was to agree to this –which I haven't, yet- how would you be keeping tabs on things?"

Simon looked around in thought, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Well, how about this: my lovely little assistant here, Miss Mia Hunter, would work with you. She'd be attached at the hip, we could say. Not only would she be your personal assistant, she'd be my eyes and ears during production."

Mia looked up at me with what was likely the most surprised expression I'd ever seen on someone's face. He couldn't have known our history, but the suggestion was so absurd that I couldn't help but wonder if Simon did and this was his way of messing with me in some manner.

"Hmm," I said, thinking it over. "We'd have to sit down before anything official and get all of this in writing."

"Naturally," he said.

I gave Mia a knowing look, letting her know that I knew exactly what we'd be getting into. Though I realized that I should've been focused on nothing but business concerns, I couldn't help but be intrigued by the idea of working with Mia after being apart from her for so long. I was very curious as to what path in life she'd taken to have ended up standing here before me so many years after we'd last seen one another.

"Well, how about a handshake for now," and something more substantial later."

"Couldn't ask for anything more," said Simon, extending his hairy, meaty palm.

I took it and gave it a firm shake, suppressing my urge to smirk as I wondered just what the hell I was getting myself into.