Chapter 8: The Deal

Rishi wasn't entirely convinced.

The idea of making a movie out of a children's book no one had ever heard of? A British import from a barely known author with a strange name like J.K. Rowling? It sounded more like a hobby than a business deal. He had been in and around the entertainment industry long enough to know how brutal it could be—how many promising projects ended up forgotten on dusty shelves.

But every time he looked at Ayaan—eyes sparkling, bursting with thoughts, drawing storyboards and scribbling plot arcs—something shifted in him.

He hadn't seen Ayaan this alive in months. Not since before Clara left.

He thought about the silence that had settled over their home after she was gone, the kind that pressed against the walls. Ayaan had retreated into himself, speaking less, singing less. Even Zoey had commented on it. "He doesn't smile the same way," she'd said one day after they watched some old video of the previous Ayaan's birthday.

But this book—it lit something in him. Rishi still didn't truly understand what made it special. But it made Ayaan smile. And that was enough.

So when Mark Silver replied to the packet Rishi sent with a short but curious email—"Interesting concept if it's available, might be worth a casual look. Know anything about the rights?"—Rishi found himself in an unfamiliar position. He wasn't chasing a deal. He was chasing his son's joy.

He booked a flight to the UK.

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"You're really going?" Ayaan asked, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, sketching out a scene from Chapter 6 of Harry Potter with crayons.

"Just to ask. To see if it's even possible," Rishi said, adjusting his tie while packing a folder into his briefcase. "And because it's been a while since I've seen rain the proper way."

Ayaan put his crayon down. "You're nervous. I can tell."

Rishi paused, then sat down next to his son. "You're right. I am."

"Why?"

Rishi looked at the drawing—a rough sketch of a castle in the clouds, with tiny figures in robes flying on brooms. "Because this isn't a business move, Ayaan. It's... something else."

"Like what?"

"Like trusting your heart when your head says no."

Ayaan was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "But sometimes your heart knows before your head catches up."

Rishi blinked, taken aback. He smiled. "Who taught you that?"

"You did. You said it once about Mom."

The words hung between them, suspended in the air.

Rishi reached out and hugged his son tightly. "If I meet her," he said after a moment, voice husky, "I'll tell her thank you. For bringing you back to me."

As he walked out the door, Ayaan handed him a folded piece of paper—his hand-written note to J.K. Rowling. It simply said, 'Thank you for giving us magic when we forgot we needed it.'

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Flashback:

A few nights earlier, Ayaan had launched into an impromptu speech at the dinner table, his voice earnest.

"Dad, it's going to be huge. I mean, Star Wars is huge. Think about it: wizards, schools, hidden worlds. There's adventure, danger, love, and darkness. It's everything movies are supposed to be."

Rishi had smiled, amused but intrigued. "And how much do you think it'll make?"

"Billions," Ayaan said without flinching. "Not just money. Impact. It'll become part of how kids grow up. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel it."

It wasn't just the certainty that moved Rishi—it was the passion behind it. For a moment, he saw not a child but a visionary.

London, 1997

The office was modest—more like a literary den than a publisher's headquarters. Shelves lined the walls, most of the titles unfamiliar to me. It smelled like ink, dust, and ambition.

J.K. Rowling herself was not what Rishi expected. She looked tired, guarded, but polite—the kind of tired that didn't come from work but from holding things together too long.

She listened intently as Rishi explained his purpose. Not flashy. Not sales. Just honest.

"I read your book. But more importantly, my son read your book. And he saw something in it. He created storyboards and discussed music mood, characters, and casting. He's seven. And I haven't seen him light up like that since..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

Joanne looked away for a moment, then offered a soft smile. "It's strange hearing that. I've only heard from children through their teachers or letters. Not this. Not like this."

Rishi nodded. "He believes in it. Completely."

She folded her hands on the table. "And what exactly are you proposing?"

"An early option. For the film adaptation rights—not just for the first book, but the series. Assuming it becomes one. We both know publishing can be unpredictable. But I want to secure the rights now. U.S. theatrical, worldwide if possible."

Joanne blinked. "The whole series? However, only one book has been published so far. I don't even have an agent yet for the others."

"That's why now is the time. A modest offer, upfront. And I guarantee that if you move forward with more books, we'll renegotiate fairly. But we want to invest in the future—with full belief it's coming."

She sat back in her chair. The quiet was long. "How much are you thinking?"

Rishi slid an envelope across the table. Inside was a typed offer. £15,000 for the full series rights, pending continuation. A separate clause offering a percentage of profits if the films moved forward into production.

She read it. Not quickly. Line by line.

Then she asked, "Will your son be involved?"

"He'd like to think so. And honestly, I think he should be. He has more vision about this than half the executives I know."

She laughed—a tired but genuine laugh. And nodded.

"You have a deal."

They shook hands, not over legal language, but over a shared belief.

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The first thing Rishi did after returning home wasn't to unpack. It was to pull the envelope from his coat pocket and hand it to Ayaan.

"We got it," he said.

Ayaan opened the packet slowly. A pre-contract. Not finalised. Not guaranteed. But real.

He looked up. "You did it."

Rishi knelt, placing his hands on his son's shoulders. "We did it."

The Pitch Begins

The next few weeks were a flurry of late-night sessions. Rishi helped Ayaan refine the pitch. They wrote a treatment—simple, clear, infused with childlike wonder. They added visual references, tone notes, and mock-casting ideas. Ayaan even recorded a tape where he narrated key scenes and explained why they mattered.

They worked like dreamers with deadlines. And for once, the quiet house felt full again.

It wasn't just about a film anymore.

It was about faith.

And both father and son were starting to believe.

End of Chapter 8

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