Elijah’s eyes flickered, a glint of memory stirring. “Did you make that twenty-two million in your account from writing scripts?” he asked, his tone a blend of curiosity and disbelief.
Elizabeth responded with a nonchalant hum, so casual it bordered on dismissive. The arrogant tone from an earlier voice message echoed in Elijah’s mind, his annoyance simmering. A company producing over-the-top dramas seemed beneath contempt; the fact that his wife was reduced to being bossed around was profoundly embarrassing. His dissatisfaction etched itself across his features.
“Let’s be clear,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension. “Have I ever been stingy with money? Why degrade yourself writing such trashy scripts?”
Fury erupted within Elizabeth. Why was his profession prestigious while hers was considered self-degradation? She flung her phone onto the sofa. “Everything I write is my hard work,” she retorted sharply. “Even if you don’t understand, you will show respect!”
The doctors in the room wished they could vanish, their silence a testament to the charged atmosphere. Elijah paused, the room holding its breath. Just when an explosion was expected, he drawled, “Writing scripts is better than being a celebrity. If you want to write, then go ahead.” His hesitation betrayed an underlying fear that she might refuse. Quickly, he offered an olive branch: “I have a friend who needs scripts; the payment will definitely surpass what these companies offer.” If Elizabeth agreed, he wouldn’t mind investing in a film company; her scripts’ quality was irrelevant. He would finance their production as casually as he would purchase a designer bag.
Before he could elaborate, his phone buzzed. Elijah hesitated before answering. The honeyed voice on the other end immediately filled the room. “Elijah, I was thinking—I need a few more scripts to keep my options open,” Sandra said sweetly.
The room froze. The call wasn’t on speaker, but her words were loud enough for everyone to hear. Elijah’s gaze flicked toward Elizabeth, unease shadowing his face. “I’ll transfer two million to you now,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m busy right now, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some rest.” Sandra didn’t press him further, signing off with an obedient “Goodnight.”
Elijah tucked his phone away and looked up to meet Elizabeth’s piercing stare. Her expression was a storm of anger and hurt, her eyes glassy with unspoken grievances. He was genuinely puzzled.
“Is this friend who needs scripts… Sandra Nash?” Elizabeth asked, her voice trembling.