Weinstock’s voice trembled with rage. “You’re crazy.”
“No, Mr. Weinstock,” María replied coldly. “I am sane. You are the crazy ones—if you think your three-ring circus is the only stage in the world.”
She stepped closer.
“You want me to beg, to accept your crumbs, to smile and thank you for the opportunity?”
She leaned forward, eyes blazing.
“But I do not beg. I do not thank people for what I do not need. And I certainly do not accept insults from a man whose greatest achievement is deciding who kneels the fastest.”
Weinstock’s face turned red. He stood abruptly. “Out! Get out!”
“With pleasure,” María answered. “I do not plan to remain where the air smells of desperation and mediocrity.”
She turned to leave. Then she stopped.
She looked at Marilyn. The blonde actress was watching her with tears in her eyes. María approached, leaned down, and whispered something in her ear. No one else heard it. But Marilyn nodded slowly. A tear rolled down her cheek.
