The lavishly decorated living room was in complete disarray, with packed items stacked everywhere and suitcases piled up by the door. Several workers were busy hauling things outside to a truck, shattering the peace of the mansion as if a large-scale move was underway.
Brad Pitt sat on the sofa, staring blankly ahead, his body rigid and lifeless.
A foreman rushed over and asked, "Mr. Pitt, about the moving fees..."
Hearing this, Brad's eyes finally focused. He replied, "I'll settle the payment later."
"Well..." The foreman looked uneasy. "We need upfront payment. Everything has to be settled today."
Red Penguin's domestic services department catered to the rich and famous of Hollywood and Los Angeles. Typically, celebrities and wealthy clients paid in advance. It was pocket change for them, but when they didn't prepay, it usually wasn't a problem. After all, who would expect people at this level to skip out on moving fees?
But Brad Pitt... well, the foreman had been warned by his boss's boss, the second-in-command at Red Penguin. Brad Pitt was on the verge of bankruptcy, and to avoid any future hassles, the moving fees had to be paid immediately.
This was the last load to be moved.
Brad Pitt, emotionally on edge these days, was about to lose his temper but managed to hold back. "How much?" he asked.
The foreman pulled out a tablet connected to a card reader, opened the page showing the detailed bill, and handed it to Brad. "A total of $4,580."
Brad frowned slightly at the price.
He didn't argue, though. This wasn't his first time dealing with Red Penguin, so he knew their rates were steep—at least double what regular companies charged—and the bill was clearly laid out before him.
Seeing Brad remain silent, the foreman reminded him, "Mr. Pitt, will you be paying by card or...?"
Brad pulled out a credit card and handed it to the foreman, who swiped it. After a moment, the foreman raised an eyebrow and returned the card. "Sorry, Mr. Pitt. This card didn't go through."
"That's impossible!" Brad frowned, inspecting the card. Seeing the foreman was about to press him again, he reluctantly handed over another card. "Try this one."
The foreman swiped it and raised his eyebrows even higher. Once again, he returned the card. "Sorry, this one didn't go through either."
"What?" Brad suddenly grasped the situation and stood up abruptly.
The foreman flinched, thinking Brad might lash out.
He subtly signaled the workers behind him, and they immediately stopped what they were doing and looked toward Brad.
Brad, though shocked, had no intention of attacking anyone. He quickly pulled out several more cards, but they all met the same fate—they didn't go through.
"I'll write you a check," Brad said, reaching for his checkbook.
The foreman wasn't stupid. Given the rumors circulating about Brad's financial collapse and the warning call from his boss, he shook his head. "Sorry, Mr. Pitt. We don't accept checks."
Given the situation today, it was hard to believe a check from Brad would even be valid.
He smiled politely, though his words were less kind. "Perhaps... you could pay in cash?"
Who carries that much cash around? Brad frowned. "I'll settle with Red Penguin in a few days."
"Sorry." The foreman maintained his courtesy. "Please don't put us in a difficult position."
A Hollywood star on the verge of bankruptcy—who knows when that debt would be paid back? If the company couldn't collect the money, the foreman's paycheck might be on the line.
Brad reached into his wallet but found only a small amount of cash.
The foreman noticed the watch on Brad's wrist. As someone who often worked with the rich and famous, he recognized it as a Vacheron Constantin, likely worth around $10,000 if new.
Brad Pitt's downfall had become common knowledge in Hollywood circles. The foreman had heard his bosses discussing it—an actor in freefall was worth less than a turkey with clipped wings.
"If you really don't have the money," the foreman said, his tone still deferential but with a hint of smugness, "I can cover the cost for you."
Brad stopped and looked at the foreman.
Sure enough, the foreman continued, "If I cover the expense, you'd need to provide some collateral, right?"
At that moment, Brad's anger surged uncontrollably, and he felt the urge to hit the man. But seeing several workers watching from a distance, he suppressed the rage. He wasn't Matthew Horner, a man capable of such extremes, so he swallowed his frustration.
In a seemingly defeated tone, Brad asked, "What do you want?"
The foreman gave a humble yet obnoxious smile and pointed at the watch on Brad's wrist.
Brad removed the watch and shoved it into the foreman's hand, his voice rising, "Now go do your job. Get moving!"
The foreman, elated with his prize, hurried off.
Sitting back on the sofa, Brad covered his face with his hands, unwilling to let others see his pain.
Recently, he had lost too much. A watch seemed insignificant in comparison.
Cloud Atlas had failed. John Carter had failed. The cost of these failures was staggering—far beyond what he could bear.
He remembered the pride he had felt when investing in those two projects. Now, the stark contrast of his situation, where no one cared, was enough to break him.
Brad Pitt believed that the fact he hadn't mentally collapsed yet was proof of his strength.
He lowered his hands, letting the darkness in his mind give way to the light, and his eyes fell again on the newspaper he had been reading.
Inception: First-weekend box office, $88.9 million. Cumulative earnings, $88.9 million. John Carter: Three weeks in theaters, cumulative earnings, $33.85 million...
His film had a bigger budget and had been in theaters longer, yet its box office in three weeks was less than half of what Inception earned in three days.
"Is the gap between me and Matthew Horner really that big?" Brad muttered to himself. "Is my eye for choosing films really that much worse than his?"
As the thought crossed his mind, he suddenly recalled that Cloud Atlas and John Carter had both been projects Matthew Horner had considered before Brad had forcibly snatched them away.
Why had Matthew's once-favored projects ended up failing?
Brad couldn't help but wonder, pondering deeply. He hadn't interfered with the production of either film; both had followed the visions of the Wachowskis and Andrew Stanton. So why did they fail?
Was the difference between a Brad Pitt-led film and a Matthew Horner-led film really that significant?
The thought left Brad questioning everything, but after more contemplation, another possibility surfaced in his mind.
Both projects had originally been eyed by Matthew Horner. Could it be that Matthew had deliberately let him take them?
Brad gasped, then dismissed the idea. Who could predict the success or failure of a film during its pre-production phase? It just wasn't possible.
Besides, Natalie Portman, the female lead in both films, had been part of the deal. There was no way she would conspire with Matthew to set herself up for failure.
Given Natalie's self-centered nature, there was no chance of that.
Brad shook his head when he heard footsteps approaching. Turning, he saw Antonio, the joint agent representing several loan funds and banks, walking briskly toward him.
Seeing the debt collector, Brad's anger flared again. "I didn't invite you here!" he snapped.
Antonio sat down calmly on the sofa opposite Brad. "Brad, you're forgetting something. As of today, this house is no longer yours."
He continued, unhurried, "We allowed you to move out today as a courtesy, a favor to an old partner."
Brad gritted his teeth. This house, along with his properties in Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago, had all been used as collateral for loans. Other properties still had some time before repayment was due, but his L.A. house was collateral for the loan on Cloud Atlas, and the repayment period had long since passed. The lenders had already granted an extension...
"You can auction off the house," Brad said through clenched teeth.
Antonio wagged his finger. "Wrong. This hasn't been your house since you defaulted on the loan."
Brad didn't argue. Instead, he asked, "I just discovered my accounts have been frozen. Was that you?"
"We filed a request with the court," Antonio replied bluntly. "You owe us a lot of money. This is standard legal procedure."
"I told you, I'll find a way to repay it!" Brad fumed.
Antonio shook his head. "With what? Your shares in Plan B? They're already mortgaged! Your liquid assets are completely drained. Most of your fixed assets are used as collateral, and we've already secured the legal right to freeze the remaining ones. Even your cars don't belong to you anymore."
He wasn't pleased about chasing such a large debt either. "Other than the cash in your wallet, you have no assets left. And that's not nearly enough."
Brad's anger slowly dissipated, replaced by despair. "Are you going to take Plan B from me?"
"Your mortgage has long been overdue," Antonio said calmly. "We'll find a new owner for Plan B, either through auction or another method."
In truth, Antonio's firm hadn't wanted to see Cloud Atlas and John Carter fail. But now that they had, the priority was
to minimize the losses.
Antonio checked his watch and stood up. "All right, Brad. You've got until noon to finish moving out."
With that, he left without looking back. To lenders like him, a bankrupt celebrity was no different from a homeless person on the street.
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