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“Look, it’s not like I’m a writer or anything,” Emma said. “If you don’t want me to read it, will you at least take a walk or something? You need a break.”

Jo thought of that day back in February, when Emma swore to always remind her that she could do this.

“I can’t share the file with anyone,” Jo said, “but you could read it on my computer?”

Emma beamed. “Works for me.”

Jo scrolled to the beginning of the scene in her script. She brought her laptop to Emma on the couch and practically dropped it in her lap. She knew she was tipping her hand in terms of nerves, but she couldn’t help it.

“I need a refill,” she said, grabbing her tumbler and heading toward the door.

“I can get it—” Emma started.

“No, you read. It’s fine. I’ll just—”

Jo did a loop of the hallways, did another for good measure, before heading to the kitchen for more cold brew. This was why she didn’t share her writing before she was done with it—her skinfelt like there were bugs crawling all over it. She was a good writer, she knew she was a good writer, obviously, had Emmys to prove it, but it still felt as if she’d cracked her chest open and Emma was rooting around inside right now.

It was almost fifteen minutes later by the time Jo finally returned to her office. Emma was still on the couch, refocused on her own tablet, Jo’s computer on the table in front of her rather than her lap. She looked up when Jo entered and gave her a small smile.

She hated it. She thought it was awful. This was fine. Jo would just go fling herself off the nearest building. This one, she realized, was the nearest. She should turn and head to the elevators.

“Boss,” Emma said gently.

It was all Jo could do not to tell her it was okay, she didn’t have to say anything, they could pretend this had never happened. She grabbed her laptop and took it to her desk.

“I’m really excited you’re writing Agent Silver,” Emma said.

Jo’s eyes snapped to Emma’s. That wasn’t what she expected.

“You’re an amazing writer,” Emma said. “Your stories are great.”

“But?” Jo offered.

“But this isn’t your story.”

Jo scoffed. Emma put both hands out in a “give me a minute” gesture.

“Hear me out,” she said. “In a lot of the Silver movies—too many, really—the women are background characters even when they’re main characters, you know what I mean?”

Jo inclined her head in agreement.

“In a lot of the movies, Silver’s kind of an asshole. But, like, an asshole who is written by a dude who doesn’t think he’s writing an asshole character.”

Normally that would garner at least a chuckle, but Jo still feltlike she was sitting on a bed of nails. Any wrong move and she’d be impaled.

“You’re not an asshole, and your Silver isn’t going to be, either,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t make him a dick just because other people are afraid you’re going to make him too nice.”

It was a nice sentiment, but—“A writer changing doesn’t mean a character changes,” Jo said. “Especially when the actor is the same.”

“You’re a writer, Jo,” Emma laughed, not meanly. “Use your imagination. You really don’t think Silver has any hidden depths?”

A light bulb went on in Jo’s head. She let out her breath.

Hollywood decided people’s reputations for them. It was the same for Jo as it was for Agent Silver. Just because people thought they knew everything about her didn’t mean they did. Emma was right—of course there was more to the character than had been shown in previous movies.

“Okay,” Jo said. “I think I can do this.”

“I know you can, boss.”