Chapter 361

"I want this novel adapted into a movie within three months."

Nathaniel Blackwood's voice was sharp, leaving no room for negotiation.

"Money isn't an issue. Spare no expense. I want it to be the biggest blockbuster in the world."

The Blackwood family owned Universal Entertainment, a powerhouse in the global film industry.

Their roster included A-list celebrities, and their productions dominated box offices worldwide.

Nathaniel trusted Oliver Prescott with this task.

"You didn’t even need to ask. I had the same thought after reading it." Oliver's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"The real-life adaptation, the depth of the characters, the intense conflicts—it’s perfect for the screen. But..." He hesitated.

"The plot is a bit predictable. It might work better as a high-budget drama series. Turning it into an award-winning film? That won’t be easy."

"If it were easy, I wouldn’t have come to you." Nathaniel’s tone was final.

"I want this film to premiere globally in three months. Make it happen."

Oliver wanted to scream.

"Nathaniel, you can’t just snap your fingers and expect miracles. The story isn’t even finished yet. Casting? Rights? Have you considered any of that?"

"I don’t care." Nathaniel’s voice was ice.

"Three months. Or you’ll regret it."

"Nathaniel, be reasonable—"

Click.

The line went dead.

Oliver stood frozen, resisting the urge to tear his hair out.

Making a movie was one thing.

Making a global phenomenon in three months? Impossible.

Just then, the emergency light above the operating room flickered off.

The doctor stepped out, wiping his brow.

"She’s stable."

Oliver rushed forward. "How is she?"

"Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it. Half a bottle of ToxiClean should have killed her instantly. But she fought like hell to survive."

The doctor exhaled heavily.

"Most suicide cases don’t have that kind of willpower. Hers was the strongest I’ve ever seen. She wanted to live."

Oliver’s stomach twisted.

"So she really drank half a bottle?"

Cassandra Whitmore hadn’t just sold herself to Victor Holloway’s men out of desperation.

She had done it knowing she wouldn’t survive.

She had traded her body, her dignity—for what? A measly 150 grand?

What kind of hell had she been through to resort to that?

Oliver’s curiosity burned.

And that was dangerous.

"ToxiClean is lethal in drops, let alone half a bottle. We pumped her stomach, but the damage is done." The doctor shook his head.

"Whoever she is, she’s got a spine of steel."

Oliver nodded absently.

"Diet restrictions?"

"No spicy food. No alcohol. And definitely no stress."

"Understood."

The doctor left, and Oliver approached Cassandra’s room.

His hand hovered over the doorknob.

Then he stopped.

This wasn’t his problem. He’d done enough.

Any more, and he’d be playing with fire.

Walk away, Oliver.

Before it’s too late.