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The heavy studio doors had barely closed behind the cast as they walked off the BBC set, buzzing with post-interview adrenaline.
Michael stopped walking and turned to the group.
He crossed his arms and looked at them with a completely deadpan expression. "No, seriously," he asked. "Does the brain control you, or do you control the brain?"
The group stopped.
Yali blinked, Asha frowned in deep thought, and Emma tilted her head.
Zain stroked his chin like a philosopher. "Well," Zain began very seriously, "according to my own personal theory, my brain is a completely separate entity. It usually clocks out around 3 PM, and after that, I am just a meat machine operated by pure anxiety and iced coffee. So, it definitely controls me."
The entire group burst into laughter, the philosophical tension instantly breaking.
Just then, Evans jogged over, holding his ringing phone against his chest. "Michael, can we talk for a bit?"
"Excuse me for a second," Michael said to the cast, stepping away into a quieter corner of the hallway. "What is it?"
"I just got off the phone with Terry and the publishers," Evans said, keeping his voice low but completely unable to hide his excitement. "Michael, *The Fault in Our Stars* has sold astronomically. I mean, it is completely unprecedented."
Michael raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "How? We limited the print run."
"It just happened!" Evans practically vibrated. "Word of mouth, the celebrity posts, the reviews—it's all sold out. Every single copy. Additionally, Random House is begging for you to do a massive book signing event in New York to celebrate the second printing."
Michael shook his head immediately. "No. Tell them I refuse."
Evans blinked. "Boss, it's New York. It's the biggest market-"
"I am already jumping on a plane every single day," Michael interrupted with a tired sigh. "I am getting completely jet-lagged. If they want a book signing, tell them to conduct it in Orlando. They can come to me."
Evans quickly understood, nodding his head. "Okay, boss. Orlando it is. By the way, we have to go right now. You have a flight to catch."
Michael nodded and walked back to the group. "Alright, guys. I hate to cut this short, but I have a flight to catch. I have to leave now."
The cast collectively dropped their shoulders.
"Aww," Yali pouted, her face falling into a sad frown. "Already?"
Michael just smiled warmly at them. "Don't worry. I will be there for Season 2, too."
This instantly made everyone a little happier, Yali even letting out a small cheer.
But before anyone could say another word, Emma grabbed Michael by the his sleeve and practically dragged him down the hallway toward the main gate of the set.
When they were far enough away from the others, she stopped and turned to him.
"Why are you leaving so early?"
"I have some urgent work with new script," Michael explained softly. "I really have to go, Emma."
Emma looked at him, her blue eyes still a bit sad and disappointed.
"Why are you so sad?" Michael asked, his voice dropping into a tender register.
"I wanted to have lunch with you," Emma admitted, looking down at her shoes.
Michael let out a low chuckle.
He gently nudged her shoulder. "Don't worry. We live in the same place, remember? Once we are both back home, we can have however many lunches you want."
Emma, though still a little sad about him leaving right this second, nodded. "Fine."
"When are you coming back anyway?" Michael asked.
"Tomorrow," she replied. "Erica already booked the tickets."
Michael nodded, a playful smirk slowly forming on his lips. "Good. Because twenty-four hours without me is going to be tough on you, I know."
Emma rolled her eyes, but a bright smile broke through. "Oh, please. I'm going to sleep for fourteen of those hours. You're the one who is going to be incredibly lonely on that jet."
"I have Evans," Michael countered.
"Exactly my point," Emma giggled. "You'll be texting me before you even take off."
"Maybe," Michael conceded, taking a half-step closer.
"The car is ready, Michael!" Evans called out from the glass doors behind them.
Michael turned, gave Evans a quick nod, and then looked back at Emma.
The teasing faded, replaced by pure affection. He stepped into her space, gently placed a hand on the side of her arm, and leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.
"Take good care of yourself," Michael murmured. "You owe me a lunch."
Emma beamed, her cheeks flushed with a pretty pink color. "I'll buy you a burger, millionaire. Try not to miss me too much. Bye!"
"Bye," Michael smiled, turning and walking through the glass doors.
The heavy door of the SUV shut, sealing out the noise of the London streets.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Michael settled into his seat.
He glanced to his left.
Evans was staring directly at him with an incredibly loud, smug face.
Michael didn't even blink. "Not a word, Evans. Not a single word."
Evans instantly dropped the smug face, clearing his throat and shifting into full professional mode. "Right. So, I wanted to talk to you about the release of the sequel to A Good Girl's Guide to Murder."
"Time it accordingly," Michael instructed, his mind instantly shifting to business. "Wait until a few days after the television premiere. Let the hype from the show peak, and then drop the second book. It will double the sales."
Evans nodded, making a note on his tablet.
"Did you read the script?" Michael asked, referring to his latest secret project.
"Yeah," Evans said, his eyes widening slightly. "It's really good, Michael. Like, terrifyingly good."
"Have you registered the script with the Writer's Guild?"
"Yes, it's fully protected under your name," Evans confirmed.
"Okay," Michael leaned back, his eyes turning sharp and calculating. "Now, send the script to every major studio and streaming service in the world. Netflix, Amazon, Warner Bros, Universal. All of them."
Evans frowned in confusion. "With what asking price?"
"None," Michael said smoothly. "I will give them the script for free. But I want a massive piece of the pie. Box office gross, streaming backend, merchandise. I want equity."
Evans stared at him. "Michael, studios don't do that. They buy scripts; they don't give away chunks of their profit margins to writers. What if no one agrees?"
Michael just shrugged, completely unbothered. "Then I will just write it as a novel and release it myself. It'll become a global bestseller in a week, and then they'll come crawling back to me, begging for the film rights anyway."
Evans stared at him for three solid seconds before he completely lost it.
He started cracking up, slapping his knee in the back of the luxury car.
"Fuck, boss," Evans laughed, shaking his head in pure disbelief. "I absolutely love your thoughts of bleeding these giant companies dry."
Michael just smiled, a quiet, confident smirk.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened an app, and spent the rest of the ride peacefully watching random reels, already three steps ahead of the rest of the world.