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The brunch was held on a private rooftop in the Hills, all glass railings, panoramic views, and servers gliding around like ghosts with champagne trays. The kind of place that screamed power moves wrapped in linen shirts and expensive smiles.
But I didn't flinch.
I was already a couple conversations in, holding my own as Ryan introduced me around. I'd learned early that in rooms like this, it wasn't about forcing anything. You listened more than you talked. Made eye contact. Kept your presence calm but felt.
Ryan had me tight at his side, like he was proud. "This is YN, a director I've been mentoring. Big vision, sharp pen, crazy work ethic."
They all smiled, nodded politely, until they realized I wasn't just here for show. A few of them leaned in after that. They started asking questions. About my script. My short film that just got picked up for a festival run. The themes I liked to explore—identity, power, softness as survival.
Then Ryan motioned across the space. "Yo, Mike!"
Michael B. Jordan, crisp in a cream blazer and loafers, walked over. That man was even smoother in person.
Ryan dapped him. "This is YN, the one I was telling you about."
Michael gave me that classic movie star smile. "You the new one causing trouble in the writers' rooms?"
I grinned. "Only the rooms that need it."
He laughed. "I like that. Keep shaking things up."
We chopped it up for a few, then Ryan kept moving us around. More handshakes, more names. Then I saw her—
Sanaa Lathan.
She stood by the bar, laughing with someone. Radiant, sharp, that undeniable kind of fine that made your soul blink twice. I nudged Ryan. "Yo... that's Sanaa."
He smirked. "You wanna meet her?"
"Please," I said, way too fast.
He led me over, introduced us, and I kept it respectful. Sanaa extended her hand and smiled warmly.
"I've seen your short," she said. "The one with the mother and daughter?"
My heart damn near stopped. "You saw that?"
"It was beautiful. Honest. You've got a gift."
"Thank you," I said, almost forgetting how to breathe. "I'm tryna follow in your footsteps."
She smiled, sipping her mimosa.
And I thought to myself—if I wasn't already stuck on Nia...
But I was.
I felt her before I saw her. Off near the balcony, talking to a producer. Flowing pants, soft blouse, big curls, gold hoops. Nia Long. She moved like the air bent around her.
