"Who is it?" The laughter in the room abruptly stopped as Leonardo's head peeked out from the slightly ajar door. "Oh, it's you. Here to seek justice for your fiancée?" He wasn't the least bit surprised to see his friend, knowing full well that he was a devoted husband-to-be.
"I thought you'd come sooner."
Roy replied coolly, "Aren't you going to let me in?"
"Of course, come on in." Leonardo scratched his head and opened the door wider to let him enter.
The crew's accommodations were a mix of temporary prefab units and existing buildings. The actors had the best conditions—while luxurious furniture was out of the question, the rooms were at least clean and tidy, with comfortable beds, a necessity for exhausted performers.
Bar was also in the room. Flustered by the sudden entrance, she hurriedly smoothed her clothes and hair.
"Oh, I haven't introduced you yet, have I? This is Bar, my girlfriend." Leonardo placed a hand on her waist and grinned, gesturing toward Roy. "No introduction needed for this guy, right?"
"Of course. Hello, Mr. Seasonstar." Bar tensed up again.
This nervousness was different from what she felt around Laila. With the director, it was like standing before a deity, an overwhelming pressure. But with Roy, it was the flustered excitement of a fan meeting her idol—heart-pounding, giddy, and shy.
Leonardo noticed her awkwardness and burst out laughing instead of getting jealous. "Mr. Seasonstar? Just call him Roy. We're best friends."
With any other man, he might've felt a twinge of jealousy, but with this old friend, he had zero concerns. Anyone who knew Roy well understood that his eyes were only for one woman—Laila Moran. If Bar somehow managed to make him change his heart, Leonardo might just crack open a bottle of champagne to celebrate Roy's escape from his self-imposed devotion.
Roy gave Bar a nod before turning to Leonardo with a neutral expression. "Leo, I need to talk to you."
Leonardo's smile faded slightly as he studied Roy's face. "Alright, let's step outside."
Without another word, Roy turned and walked out. Sensing the tension between them, Bar shot Leonardo a worried glance.
"Don't worry, it's nothing. I'll be back soon." He reassured her with a quick kiss before following Roy outside.
For safety reasons, Roy didn't go far, stopping near the crew's storage area. Since Laila had given everyone time off, the place was temporarily deserted. Aside from a few undercover mercenaries disguised as staff eyeing them cautiously, no one else paid them any attention.
"You know why I called you out here, don't you?" Roy's tone was calm, betraying no emotion. Yet that very lack of expression sent a faint chill down Leonardo's spine.
"Is this about Laila?" He feigned nonchalance.
Roy's gaze sharpened. "I regret ever telling her about that script. If it weren't for me, she wouldn't have come to this dangerous place, suffered so much, or been hurt by an actor's lack of professionalism."
Leonardo knew full well how many production companies and individuals in Hollywood would kill to have their scripts land on Laila's desk. Just one green light from her meant a massive opportunity. Yet over the years, very few had succeeded.
When news of his collaboration with Laila had spread, jaws dropped across the industry. How had an actor managed what countless others had failed to do? Curiosity about the project led to the eventual leak of Blood Diamond through relentless media digging.
The public was baffled by Laira's choice. By all accounts, she was the kind of director who could blend blockbuster profits with arthouse prestige. Her next project was expected to follow that pattern—something commercially viable yet thematically profound.
But Blood Diamond? What was that?
Artistically, it might have depth, but where was the commercial appeal? Frankly, no one saw any. At best, breaking even would be an achievement, with any real payoff likely coming from awards season.
But did Laila even need more awards? Fresh off her Oscar sweep—Best Director, Best Picture, and more—she hardly seemed desperate for another trophy. No director had ever won back-to-back Oscars in those categories anyway.
So why Blood Diamond?
It defied logic. She had an unbroken record: every film she'd directed had grossed at least $300 million and held the box office crown for two consecutive weeks.
Did Blood Diamond look like a champion? Most responded to that question with a sarcastic chuckle. They'd bet everything they owned that it wouldn't come close to her past successes. With a reported $100 million budget, breaking even would be a struggle. Any profit would likely hinge on post-award DVD sales.
This wasn't about the film's quality—it was about harsh reality. Deep, thought-provoking movies simply didn't draw crowds like blockbusters did. No amount of directorial genius could change that fundamental disadvantage.
Laila was brilliant, no doubt, with an uncanny knack for picking winning projects. But this time, aside from her die-hard fans, almost no one believed in Blood Diamond's box office potential.
Why had she taken it on? Did she not care about shattering her legendary streak? That record alone would cement her place in cinematic history—an unprecedented, unrepeatable feat.
If outsiders could see it, Laila surely could too. Unless she was arrogant enough to believe she could spin this into another record-breaker, the only explanation was that she loved the script so much she was willing to sacrifice her perfect track record.
Leonardo had pondered this before but always brushed it aside. His focus was squarely on his own Oscar prospects. Laila's box office legacy? He'd conveniently ignored it.
Now, with Roy's words, it all came rushing back—just how much Laila had given up for this film.