( The meeting and approval)
The meeting room had grown quieter with time.
Not silent.
Just calmer.
The sharp intensity of negotiations had softened into something more thoughtful as afternoon light stretched across the polished conference table in long golden reflections.
Outside the glass walls of Better Choice, Lagos continued moving endlessly beneath heat and traffic and restless ambition.
Inside, coffee had long gone cold.
Files remained scattered across the table.
Pens uncapped.
Translation notes half-written by Precious, whose fingers now moved slower from exhaustion.
Yet despite the long hours, no one seemed eager to leave.
Because the conversation had shifted away from contracts and entered something far more personal.
Storytelling.
Katherine Moreau leaned back slightly in her chair, one elegant hand resting against the armrest while she looked toward John thoughtfully.
For the first time since the meeting began, her voice carried less business and more sincerity.
"Now," she said smoothly, "let us focus on Precious' novel."
Precious straightened immediately.
Even Joseph sat up with sudden interest.
Katherine crossed one leg slowly before continuing.
"I enjoyed Bitter Sweet very much."
Her English remained accented but clear enough now that John no longer needed to translate every sentence.
Still, whenever she shifted fully into French, he naturally followed.
"It portrayed emotional relationships realistically," she continued. "Especially the female protagonist."
Precious blinked slightly, surprised by the seriousness in her tone.
Katherine's expression softened faintly as she spoke.
"She believed love was naturally suffering. Pain. Endurance. Sacrifice without reward."
John translated quietly into smoother English for clarity while Katherine continued speaking in French beside him.
"Et l'homme principal profitait complètement de cette idée."
(And the male lead completely took advantage of that belief.)
John translated calmly.
"The male protagonist used her emotional weakness selfishly."
Precious lowered her eyes briefly at hearing her work explained aloud.
Writers often forgot people truly read the pain they buried into stories.
Katherine continued thoughtfully.
"But what I appreciated most was the maturity afterward."
She tapped one manicured finger lightly against the table.
"When he married her rival, she did not become obsessed with revenge."
Joseph nodded immediately.
"That surprised me too."
Katherine agreed.
"She simply… broke quietly."
The room softened at that sentence.
Even Étienne Morel, seated silently near the far end, looked more attentive now.
Katherine glanced toward Precious again.
"Then the second male lead remained."
Her lips curved slightly.
"No grand speeches. No toxic obsession. No dramatic rescue. He simply stayed."
John translated smoothly again while listening carefully himself.
"He held her together while her life collapsed," Katherine said. "And after two years of rebuilding herself, she finally chose him willingly."
Precious swallowed softly.
Hearing someone understand the emotional structure correctly felt strangely vulnerable.
"There was no revenge," Katherine finished quietly. "No hatred. Only adult emotion. That felt refreshing."
For a moment the room stayed still.
Then John nodded subconsciously.
A small movement.
Barely noticeable.
But Joseph noticed immediately.
Because John rarely reacted physically to literary discussions unless something genuinely resonated.
Precious noticed too.
And oddly—
that silent approval affected her more than direct praise.
John finally spoke.
"The emotional pacing was disciplined."
Everyone looked toward him now.
He leaned back slightly, fingers loosely linked together.
"Most writers mistake emotional maturity for lack of intensity. Your novel avoided that."
Precious stared briefly.
Then lowered her head quickly to hide how much that compliment affected her.
Joseph smirked knowingly from the side.
Ah.
Direct praise from John Bello.
Rare enough to become historical event.
Étienne finally joined the discussion.
"In film," he said carefully in accented English, "quiet emotional stories are difficult."
He looked toward Precious kindly.
"But when done correctly… they stay longer in memory."
Katherine nodded immediately.
"That is exactly why I accepted this project."
Business slowly resumed after that.
Folders reopened.
Schedules returned.
The adaptation process began taking clearer shape.
Katherine slid several documents across the table.
"We want the clothing and visual themes to reflect emotional transition."
John translated while scanning the documents himself.
"They plan to use costume progression to show the female lead's psychological growth."
Étienne added thoughtfully:
"At the beginning she dresses beautifully but without identity. Later, after heartbreak, her style becomes simpler. Cleaner. Honest."
Precious listened carefully while taking notes.
Joseph leaned forward.
"That's actually smart."
Katherine nodded.
"Visual storytelling matters."
They discussed color palettes next.
Muted warm tones during emotional dependence.
Cooler lonely visuals during separation.
Natural earthy shades during healing.
Lighting changes.
Environmental symbolism.
Even the arrangement of furniture inside scenes.
The conversation became increasingly detailed.
Outside, evening sunlight slowly deepened orange against the city skyline.
Inside, creativity filled the room gradually replacing corporate stiffness.
Then casting discussions began.
Katherine folded her hands neatly again.
"We plan to use mostly unknown actors."
Joseph looked surprised.
"No celebrities?"
"A few," she replied. "But fresh faces create stronger immersion emotionally."
Étienne agreed immediately.
"When audiences already know actors too well, they stop seeing characters."
John nodded slightly.
Reasonable.
Katherine continued.
"We will begin rescheduling auditions next month."
She glanced briefly toward Precious.
"And I have already chosen one candidate for the female lead."
Joseph blinked.
"That fast?"
A small amused smile appeared on Katherine's lips.
"My niece."
Silence followed briefly.
Not awkward.
Just thoughtful.
Joseph exchanged one quick glance with John.
No one objected immediately.
Because ultimately talent mattered more than connections if the performance held.
Still—
John asked calmly:
"Can she act?"
Katherine's smile widened slightly.
"She believes she can."
"That is not answer."
"No," Katherine admitted honestly. "Which is why she will still audition properly."
That answer shifted the room immediately.
Even John's expression relaxed faintly.
Fairness mattered to him more than reputation.
Katherine noticed the subtle approval.
"My niece understands something important already," she added quietly. "If she fails the role, she loses it."
Étienne nodded in satisfaction beside her.
"Good."
Precious finally spoke softly.
"I would like to watch the auditions personally."
"Of course," Katherine replied immediately.
"This story belongs to you first."
That sentence settled warmly inside Precious' chest.
For years she had written quietly believing stories disappeared once handed to companies.
Now—
people respected it.
Protected it.
Discussed it carefully like something valuable.
The feeling almost overwhelmed her.
Joseph stretched tiredly in his chair afterward while glancing toward the darkening windows.
"We have been discussing heartbreak for so long I suddenly need juice."
Nobody reacted.
Joseph looked offended.
"This room does not support my emotional needs."
Even Katherine laughed softly at that.
And for the first time since the meeting began, the atmosphere no longer felt like strangers discussing business.
It felt like creators building something together carefully—
hoping not to ruin the heart of a story people already loved.
The day stretched long after the meeting ended.
Not unpleasantly.
Just heavily.
The kind of long that followed important decisions and too many thoughts left unfinished.
Sunlight filtered through the towering glass walls of Better Choice in soft afternoon gold while Lagos traffic crawled endlessly below like restless veins beneath the city.
Inside John's office, quiet finally settled.
No executives.
No presentations.
No French discussions.
No endless documents waiting for signatures.
Just John and Joseph occupying the large office in comfortable silence shaped by years of familiarity.
Joseph lounged carelessly across the couch flipping through printed reports while John stood near the windows, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other loosely holding a cup of now-cold coffee he had forgotten to drink.
The meeting with Katherine Moreau had changed things.
Bigger opportunities.
International attention.
Film rights.
And somewhere beneath all of it—
validation.
Real validation.
Not from critics.
Not from business magazines.
From people who truly understood storytelling.
Joseph finally broke the silence.
"Twinkle Twinkle has officially been approved for adaptation."
John glanced over calmly.
Joseph lifted the document dramatically.
"It will begin airing December first. Congratulations on turning one of the most emotionally damaging novels in this country into entertainment."
John's mouth shifted faintly.
Not surprise.
He had expected the announcement eventually.
If anything, the delay had been longer than anticipated.
Still—
he felt something strange move quietly through his chest.
Not excitement exactly.
Something softer.
A distant satisfaction.
The kind that arrived after building something alone for too long.
Joseph continued proudly.
"You are now becoming suffering internationally."
"How inspiring."
"You should smile more."
"I survived the meeting. That is enough expression."
Joseph snorted.
John turned back toward the window.
December first.
The thought lingered quietly.
Characters once trapped only in his mind would now exist visibly before millions.
A dangerous feeling.
Stories were easier to control on paper.
People changed things once cameras became involved.
That thought reminded him of something else immediately.
His new manuscript.
Still unfinished.
Still sitting half-written inside his laptop like accusation.
He looked over.
"Joseph."
"Hm?"
"You still haven't submitted your novel to the editors."
Joseph froze slightly.
Only slightly.
"Why are you delaying?"
Silence.
Joseph shuffled papers unnecessarily.
"I'm reviewing things."
"You've been reviewing for two months."
"Perfection takes time."
John studied him for a moment.
Too defensive.
Too casual.
But Joseph's expression remained carefully lazy.
John decided not to press.
Not yet.
Instead Joseph cleared his throat quickly.
"I spoke to Dr. Leo earlier."
Immediately John's mood darkened.
"The surgery can be scheduled four months from now," Joseph continued cautiously. "Final date depends on your next examination results."
John gave a low irritated growl beneath his breath.
Not angry exactly.
Just deeply unimpressed by the existence of surgery itself.
Joseph ignored the reaction skillfully.
"Did you eat lunch?"
The question came so quickly it almost felt rehearsed.
John looked at him flatly.
"You change topics like criminal politicians."
"Answer."
"Yes."
Joseph narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"What did you eat?"
"The cafeteria pottage."
"And?"
John's expression became offended.
"It was terrible."
Joseph immediately brightened with pride.
"Good."
"It tasted like sadness."
"Excellent."
"No pepper. No spice. No joy. It felt like prison rehabilitation food."
"That means it was healthy."
John frowned harder remembering the bland meal.
Joseph nodded with disgusting satisfaction before pulling a small bottled fruit drink from a paper bag and sliding it across the desk.
"Reward."
John stared at it.
Organic.
Low sugar.
Vitamin fortified.
Absolutely something Joseph would buy while pretending not to care.
John ignored him completely—
while still taking the drink.
Joseph noticed and smiled quietly to himself.
Living together again these past weeks had changed something subtle between them.
Or perhaps returned it.
Sometimes John felt strangely younger around him now.
Not in authority.
Never that.
But in feeling.
Joseph had slipped too naturally back into old habits—checking meals, medicine, sleep, stress, schedules.
Hovering.
Nagging.
Protecting.
And disturbingly—
John found himself allowing it more often than before.
Which made no sense considering he was technically the owner of Better Choice.
He opened the drink finally.
"One stroll," he said suddenly.
Joseph blinked.
"What?"
"I want to go out alone for a while."
Instant suspicion entered Joseph's face immediately.
"No."
John sighed.
"I need fresh air."
"You need supervision."
"I need silence."
"You are medically suspicious."
John rubbed his temple tiredly.
"I only want to walk and finish thinking through something."
Joseph stared hard at him for several seconds.
Calculating risks.
Imagining disasters.
Preparing arguments.
Then finally—
he stretched one hand out.
"Phone."
John already understood.
Without complaint he handed it over.
Joseph unlocked settings with frightening efficiency and linked their GPS locations together before returning it with deadly seriousness.
"Fine."
John took the phone back.
"But I will call every ten minutes."
"You said seconds earlier."
"I was emotional then."
"You remain emotional now."
Joseph pointed a warning finger.
"You better answer every call or I am tracking you personally."
"You say that like a government threat."
"It is."
John sighed softly and moved toward the office door before Joseph changed his mind entirely.
As the door closed behind him, Joseph remained seated quietly for a few moments.
The office suddenly felt larger without John in it.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Worry settled slowly beneath his ribs.
Not dramatic worry.
Not panic.
Just the exhausting kind that came from watching someone strong become human again.
Joseph leaned back heavily and scrubbed both hands over his face.
Then his expression slowly darkened.
He picked up the complaint file from the logo department again.
Ah.
Yes.
Perfect.
If anxiety could not be removed—
it could at least be redirected professionally.
Somewhere downstairs, several employees of Better Choice unknowingly approached the worst afternoon of their careers.