"How dare they talk about you like that!" Demi was livid as she scrolled through the flood of online comments. Of everyone, she understood best just how hard her boss had worked. She couldn't speak for other directors, but she had seen firsthand the effort Laila poured into everything. The only other director she'd ever observed up close was Laila's father—Reynolds, founder of Phoenix Pictures—and that comparison only made Laila's dedication all the more remarkable.
Reynolds was a free spirit, indulgent in cigarettes and alcohol, and his filming schedule was dictated entirely by his whims. Some years, he might shoot a film a week; other times, he wouldn't film anything for a whole year. But those were B-movies, slapped together with little care for scripts or props, and never once had she seen him sit in the company office and work the way Laila did.
Compared to Reynolds, Laila was practically a saint.
She worked so hard, so tirelessly, how could people throw such ridiculous accusations and deny everything she had achieved?
Why couldn't she be called a "living legend"?
Why couldn't someone in their twenties win an Oscar for Best Director?
So what if her box office records hadn't surpassed the top two of all time? Had no one noticed that at least half of the top ten spots were occupied by films she directed?
What enraged Demi the most wasn't just the outsiders—it was the fans.
The very people who had once claimed to love her were now turning against her, spitting out insults, throwing blame, casting doubt.
Why do something so cruel?
Did they not understand the kind of pain their words could inflict?
Demi couldn't even imagine what it would be like if those comments had been aimed at her. She wasn't sure she'd be able to handle it without breaking.
"Boss, don't be sad. There has to be a way to undo all this damage," she said, trying to comfort her as best she could.
But Laila just smiled at her. "Thanks. I'm fine."
Yes, the things being said online were vicious.
If she were still the same Laila who had grown up surrounded by the unconditional love of her family, she might not have been able to bear it.
But this Laila was different. In her previous life, she had seen far worse. Honestly, this level of backlash didn't affect her all that much.
American insults were fairly repetitive anyway. They didn't have the creative variety of the East.
Their words lacked sting by comparison.
It wasn't exactly the right moment to feel pride in her Eastern roots, but still—she found herself thinking: Thank God I'm being cursed out by Americans.
If it were Eastern netizens doing the attacking, she might have taken some real damage.
In fact, given how quickly everything had spread online, it wasn't just Americans who had caught wind of the situation.
Plenty of people from the East were beginning to take notice as well.
"Boss, Roy is already working on it," Demi added. "I trust he'll find a way to fix this."
She didn't believe Laila when she said she was fine.
Even the toughest man would be devastated in the face of such public condemnation, let alone a woman, a mother of a young child.
Even someone as capable as Laila couldn't possibly withstand this level of hatred unscathed.
In Demi's mind, Laila was just trying to stay strong in front of others.
That's what strong women often did—they acted like breaking down meant losing everything.
Demi only wished her boss would lean on her more and delegate more. At least then she might be able to believe, just a little, that Laila was truly okay.
But Laila simply shook her head and said gently, "I'm fine. Go ahead and get back to work."
Demi had no choice but to obey. She cast one last worried glance before leaving the room.
She didn't want to go.
Part of her believed Laila needed a moment alone to cry and let it all out.
What she didn't realize was that the boss she imagined crying quietly in solitude… was sitting at her desk, her ice-blue eyes colder than ever.
At that moment, Laila wasn't sad.
She was furious.
And who wouldn't be?
To have both your past and your future achievements wiped away in a single stroke—anyone would want to scream.
Her hands were clasped tightly on the desk, her eyes locked on the open article displayed on her screen.
Despite the author's attempts to conceal their identity by adjusting their tone and vocabulary, she still recognized certain linguistic quirks. Subtle word choices, sentence rhythms—small details most people wouldn't notice—but Laila noticed them all.
Her literary foundation was solid—after all, she had written those acclaimed screenplays herself. She had a keen sensitivity to words.
And once she'd read enough, she could pick up on the patterns, the fingerprints of a specific writer.
She had read plenty of Cooper's articles before.
She knew his style inside and out.
That was why she was now certain—he was the one who had written this.
That man had always been a master of manipulation, especially when it came to misleading writing.
He had a way of dressing up baseless claims to make them sound like an undeniable truth. His skill in emotionally charged language was undeniable.
He had tried before—used his pen like a weapon to smear her name—but each time, she'd defeated him with box office numbers and critical acclaim.
This time, though, he'd taken a different approach.
And even Laila had to admit: he had found a weak spot, an explosive angle of attack.
One that, at least for now, she couldn't easily counter.
If she allowed the situation to spiral further out of control, she really would have to bow out of every major film award from now on.
She didn't know how much of this scheme came from Faaris, nor what kind of deal had been struck between him and Cooper.
But based on how fast the story had spread, how widespread the push was, it was obvious Cooper had spent serious money.
And with Faaris involved, she didn't have to guess where that money had come from.
She had suspected all along that this chaos had started because of Dawud's bankruptcy and disappearance.
That's when Faaris had snapped and started lashing out—and clearly, she hadn't been wrong. He had made his move, and it was a nasty one.
"Looks like… he can't be allowed to stay any longer."
Leaning back into the soft leather of her chair, Laila echoed the exact words once spoken by her grandfather, Oswald.
You kept a dog to be your companion, your emotional support, a friend, even a sounding board.
But if one day that dog went mad and turned on you, bit you so viciously it nearly cost you your life—
What reason was there to keep it around?
But before that, she needed to first clean up the mess this smear campaign had left behind.
The only question was: how?
Even Laila—as calm and capable as she was—found herself momentarily at a loss.
If she used Moran Media's platforms to clear her name, she'd only give her enemies more "proof" that she used her outlets to generate fake hype.
That would only strengthen their narrative.
But if she didn't use her own media empire, she'd have to partner with other outlets.
And no matter which ones she picked, even long-standing allies, they would still be used as weapons against her in the public court.
So, any plan that involved media intervention had to be scrapped entirely.
Meanwhile, the public furor surrounding her continued to escalate in waves.
The discussion had moved beyond the issue of gender discrimination—
Now, people were questioning whether she even deserved to be called "great."