“Mr. Butler,” I say as I walk in and close the door. “I want to talk to you about episode 612.”

He looks up at me from behind his desk. “I thought you might.”

I have to admit, I’m taken aback by how open he’s being about this. It’s as though he does this all the time.

“You’re not denying it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Denying what?”

“You . . .” I pause, gather myself, and try again. “You stole my script.”

Malcolm laughs. “Is that really how you see it?”

“That’s not how I see it,” I say. “That’s how it is.”

“Is it, though?” He flips the script open in front of me, the pages blowing air in my face. “Point to the lines that are yours. I’ll wait.”

He knows I can’t. He’s changed them all enough that I can’t claim any of it. Except Lyla.

“The hunter. Lyla. She’s my character. She was my idea.”

“Listen, Becky,” he says with a smirk. “You’re lucky I even read your script. If you remember, I didn’t want it to begin with. But I decided to be a nice guy and help you out.” He
drops the script onto his desk. “You should be thanking me. What you wrote read like bad fanfiction. I turned it into something good. Something that actually deserves airtime.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You wouldn’t have an episode if it wasn’t
for me. You wouldn’t have Lyla.”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion.” He opens up his laptop and mutters, “This is why women aren’t cut out for this business. Too much drama.”

My hands form fists at my sides. I’m too angry to even speak. He stares up at me, and I stare right back.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “How about this?” He pulls the script toward himself, then takes a pen from his desk and starts writing on the cover page. “I’ll give you a writing credit on this episode, if you let this go.” He slides the script over to me. Under his printed name, he’s scrawled “and Becky.”

“My name,” I say through gritted teeth, “is Bex Phillips.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, I’ll have Dirk print it up like that. But do we have a deal?”

What choice do I have? He’s going to use the script no matter what I say. And it’s his word against mine. At least this way, I can take credit for Lyla. Then I think of Shrupty and add a final request.

“I won’t tell anyone you stole my script,” I say, my voice shaking. “If you give me a writing credit and let me have input in who gets cast to play Lyla.”

He laughs like I made a joke. I use all my courage to keep staring him down. Then, realizing I’m dead serious, he taps his pen on the desk and nods slowly. “You never give up, do
you?”

I turn my nose up at him. “No. I don’t.”