Note: Thanks for the comments, so far, folks!

Here's a little one-the next chapter's a bit longer. (Thanks to sunnymadden for the note about Mildred Pierce. Mea culpa-got my noirs mixed up...)

Robert B. Smithers, Chief Executive in charge of the Creative Department of Dynasty Entertainment, always struck Diane as having more than a passing resemblance to a greying yet still in-his-prime Cary Grant. He certainly had a sense of classical debonair about him. She'd once asked him if he'd ever considered acting, himself. He'd just chuckled. That had been his only answer.

Diane sat down in his office, waiting as he read the closing pages of her script. His face was unreadable, his brow furrowed, his lips tight. At last, Smithers set down the last page, folded his hands, and leaned to her.

Diane gave a small smile, "Do you like it?"

"Well, to be honest, I'm a little bewildered by it."

Diane blinked, somehow keeping the smile. "Come again?"

"Somehow, I'd never expected you to be that violent."

"You're…referring to the climax?"

"What else, or is there something about you I need to worry about?"

Diane chuckled, "Right, well—to be honest, Robert, I can't say I'm used to writing that sort of scene. I only…well, let's say I thought it would be true to the character."

"And the genre, I take it."

Diane shrugged, "You wanted a 'crime film'."

"I did—I suppose I was expecting The Godfather from you, and not Taxi Driver."

"Well, I was somewhat inspired by Mildred Pierce, to be honest."

"Diane, I don't recall Joan Crawford unleashing an Uzi against the mob."

"Well…" Diane chuckled, "No, she didn't. But—in this case, I suppose it was a burst of final empowerment against the forces that have—"

"Yes—again, Taxi Driver. It amazes me you would like such a film."

Diane frowned, "Actually, I never saw it."

"Never?"

"Well…from what I've heard about it, I suspect I might suffer…" she shrugged with a small smile, "well—nightmares."

Smithers gave her a smirk of his own, "From the violence?"

"Well for what it's worth, Robert, I made it a point, as you've read, to allow for the actual violence to occur off screen—"

"Yes, I noticed. That's good—cable or not, we're still talking about television, after all."

"Naturally." After a pause, she asked again, "So, then…did you like it?"

"Honestly? I actually did," the man's smile grew. "Congratulations, Miss Chambers—I think we'll be seeing this on the air, by this time next year. I'll bring it to the others—I suspect you'll want to come in tomorrow. I'll tell you how it goes then—but as far as we're both concerned, this has the automatic green-light."

Diane nodded with a smile.

"Uh, that—means you have nothing to—"

"Yes, I'm aware of what it means, Robert," Diane nodded again, her smile growing. "I'm not that far removed from the…'lowbrow' end of society, if you will. In fact, as a certain writer once—"

"Diane…" Smithers held up his hand, with a polite and tired smile.

Diane blushed and chuckled. "Sorry…there I go again, huh?"

"Oh, we've learned to live with it."

"We…?"

"Never mind—I'll see you tomorrow, then?" he stood up, extending his hand. "Preferably around lunch."

Diane rose to her feet, and clasped his hand, "Tomorrow at lunch, Mr. Smithers. And thank you."

"Thank you."

Diane managed to keep her calm until she was out of the building. And then, she pressed her fists together in front of her chest, looking upward with a beam, and let out, "Yes! I did it—I DID it! Oh—"

She rushed over to the curb and hailed a taxi—all beaming and aglow.