Before coming to Phoenix, Laila had heard almost nothing about her father from her mother. Janet was not the kind of person to impose her own opinions on others. Even though she and her ex-husband had parted on less than pleasant terms, she still never spoke ill of Reynolds behind his back.
It was one of the things Laila had always admired about Janet.
Many divorced couples became sworn enemies, eager to paint the other as a pile of dog crap to vent their bitterness. But they forgot one thing—if your ex is dog crap, doesn't that mean you married dog crap? And if so, doesn't that make you…?
That was why smart people never badmouthed their exes in public. The best revenge was simply to live better without them. Janet wasn't that calculating—she was simply a genuinely kind and well-mannered person, a bit of a sweet fool who didn't have the habit of speaking ill of others.
In her past life, Laila hadn't had much emotional connection to her family. After her parents divorced and each remarried, she'd become "the extra" in both households, much like what so many TV dramas and novels described. If anything, she'd been closer to her neighbors than to her parents.
After all, neighbors might invite her over for dinner or sign for her deliveries from time to time. Her parents? She barely saw them, except for the occasional copy-pasted holiday greeting—and sometimes they even forgot to change the name on the message.
So when she came to this world, the absence of a father wasn't something she could accept. The deep familial warmth from her mother and grandfather here took some getting used to.
When Louise brought up her father, Laila's first reaction was a brief pause, followed by silence.
What could she say? To her, Reynolds was just a man she knew only through others' words. She had no desire to learn more. Maybe he had been talented and handsome—but betraying Janet was his greatest crime. Even if he were alive, she doubted she'd want to meet him.
Sensing her lack of response, Louise seemed to realize she shouldn't have brought up Reynolds, and she quickly changed the subject with a sigh. "So, when are you planning to release Silence?"
"Christmas next year," Laila answered without hesitation. She'd already done the math.
Louise frowned. "Two films in one year?"
"Is there a problem with that?"
"I'm just thinking—if both are released in the same year, could it affect the Oscars?" If both films were strong contenders, they might split the vote. That could cost her awards she otherwise might win.
Laila smiled. "You think far too highly of me. You're that sure I'll win?"
Louise laughed. "If it were anyone else, no. But with you, it would be negligence on my part not to think so." Since Laila's first step onto the Oscar stage, she had rarely missed. Almost every nomination ended with her walking away with a statuette.
Louise worried that if both films competed in the same year, they might hurt each other's chances and let someone else reap the benefits.
"Why not release them in separate years? Then there's no conflict."
Laila shook her head. "It's fine. The genres are different. Hollywood's never cared much for commercial blockbusters—they'll toss a few technical awards at them at most. Silence is the kind they like. We'll just focus our Oscar campaign there."
The Oscars were hardly the bastion of fairness people liked to imagine. Each year, there were far too many contenders for every juror to watch from start to finish. That was where lobbying came in—to make sure the voters knew your film was even in the running.
Laila had an advantage: her films were events. By the time they came out, everyone knew about them. Compared to films no one had even heard of, the jurors' attention naturally tilted her way.
Louise shrugged. "Alright. If you're confident, I won't object."
Despite her considerable clout in the company, when Laila made a decision, Louise never overturned it. Even if it sounded absurd, she would grit her teeth and follow through. Over the years, there had been too many examples proving that if Laila said the moon would fall tomorrow… well, you might as well get ready for the impact.
That was the same attitude everyone connected to Laila had. Whether on set or in business, if she said it, it got done.
Every film she'd made had earned at least $300 million. Who could argue with her about movies? Those who listened to her had all made a fortune.
Every brand she'd touched—Burberry, Victoria's Secret—had skyrocketed in value. Who could claim they could do better?
One by one, the examples stacked up until people saw her as almost mythical. If you thought she was wrong, it must be your thinking that was flawed.
And in truth, that wasn't entirely incorrect. Laila knew the future, and her decisions often came from an insight far ahead of her time. Those who didn't understand her couldn't see the benefit—until the results hit, and then they couldn't help but be impressed.
She found the perception amusing, but it had its benefits, so she let it stand. Still, she knew that her foresight only extended maybe another decade. And with the butterfly effect of her actions, history might accelerate—what she thought would happen in ten years could come in only a few.
If the day came when she could no longer see the future, yet everyone still believed in her "legend," she might one day make a mistake that would ruin her company and career beyond repair.
That was why she was determined to make a truly original film—to rebuild her confidence in herself. Since arriving in this world more than ten years ago, she'd relied heavily on her rebirth "cheat" to pave her way. Yes, she'd learned and grown along the way, but she still lacked one thing: a chance to prove herself.
Silence was that chance. Through this film, she would prove she had become a true Hollywood director in her own right—not just a beautiful illusion conjured by the advantages of rebirth.