"Martin, you know what? The Miranda brand just got listed in Vogue's 2008 annual 'Most Stunning Fashion Gifts'—and they even called me the brightest pearl among businesswomen!"
Inside her luxurious Beverly Hills home, Miranda practically leapt into Martin's arms the moment she stepped through the door, brimming with excitement.
"Look at this."
She pulled a magazine out of her handbag.
It was the latest issue of Vogue, with Miranda herself gracing the cover.
She wore a pale blue, perfectly tailored business suit that hugged every curve; her hair was swept up, revealing her long, elegant neck and the delicate lines of her collarbones—undeniably sensual.
"How's the shoot? Honestly, I love what they wrote even more—wow, 'the brightest pearl'… are they talking about me?"
Martin kissed the side of her neck and chuckled. "Darling, you deserve it."
He began flipping through the pages.
The truth was, Martin hadn't invested too much personal effort into the "Miranda" label—just the occasional bit of promotion in his own circles and connecting her with one or two incredibly influential allies.
But Martin's network was top-tier.
When those lofty elites—politicians, aristocrats, A-list celebrities—started talking about and buying "Miranda," the layers beneath them naturally followed suit.
Because, as the saying goes, "When it's good at the top, it works all the way down."
So Miranda's brand caught fire, and so did Miranda herself. No surprise there.
Martin scanned the glowing praise printed in the magazine and couldn't help but smile.
Time really flies. The little girl I once knew is now a bona fide powerhouse.
...
"I declare filming for Joker officially wrapped!"
"Thank you all for your hard work. Tonight, there's a party—bring your girlfriends, friends, or whatever. Drinks are on me, so go wild!"
"Woo-hoo!"
The announcement sent cheers through the crew.
Later that evening.
Beverly Hills.
The Langford Grand Hotel.
Top floor.
A lavish party was in full swing.
Considered one of the best five-star hotels in Beverly Hills—eclipsing even brands like Hilton or the Waldorf—Langford had been built in 1887 by the wealthy Clouse brothers from Armenia.
With over seventy luxury boutiques, it was a paradise for high-end shoppers. It also boasted a history museum, an in-house theater, and a reputation for meticulous service.
Chris Pratt was experiencing that famed service firsthand.
Leaving the restroom with a satisfied grin, he adjusted his hair in the mirror—only to make Daniel jump.
"What the fuck? When did you get in there?" Daniel blurted.
Chris smirked, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "A while ago. The bathrooms here are amazing."
And off he went.
Amazing bathrooms?
Daniel was puzzled, until the mystery solved itself a moment later.
The same stall Chris had just vacated swung open, and out stepped a young, pretty hotel maid. She ignored him completely, went to the sink, cupped water in her hands, and drank.
She wiped her mouth, and left—leaving Daniel standing there in awkward silence.
He emerged into the party, scanning the crowd for Chris to ask how he'd managed to charm a hotel maid—only to see Chris now flirting with a petite model.
Damn, is this guy some kind of sex-crazed stallion?
Abandoning the idea of "learning" from Chris, Daniel grabbed a glass of Canadian ice wine and wandered to the poolside, watching bikini-clad women splash and play.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
He turned to see a striking young white woman, also holding a drink, sipping as she gazed at the pool.
She looked barely out of her teens—still with a trace of baby fat in her cheeks—but undeniably gorgeous.
"Who are you? A model? An actress? Are you even old enough to drink?"
She shot him a look. "Are you a cop?"
"Uh… no."
"Gonna report me?"
"Of course not."
"Then why the hell are you asking?"
"Alright, alright, I'll drop it."
"My name's Kristen Stewart," she said suddenly. "You can call me Kris. I'm an actress."
Another Chris.
Daniel cursed inwardly. But compared to the other Chris, this one was much easier on the eyes. He raised his glass. "I'm Daniel—you can call me Daniel, I'm an actor too."
"So… I don't remember seeing you on the Joker set. You crash the party? How'd you get in?"
"Easy. I just found someone from the crew and pretended to be their boyfriend. But I'm not here to party—I'm here to find Martin."
"You know Martin?"
Daniel blinked, suddenly losing a bit of interest in anything else.
...
Russian News Agency: "On October 20th, Russia's Permanent Mission to the UN reported that U.S. Republican presidential candidate John McCain had recently sent them a formal request for financial support for his campaign. Russia reiterated its stance that it will not fund foreign political activities…"
The Washington Post: "Regarding the McCain campaign's letter to Russia's UN mission, spokesman Brian Rogers responded on the 20th that they have no idea how such a misdirected request occurred, but insisted the campaign would never solicit funds from prohibited sources…"
Associated Press: "With just two weeks to go before the U.S. presidential election, Democratic candidate Barack Obama's lead over Republican opponent John McCain continues to grow. According to the latest Gallup poll released on the 20th, Obama leads 52% to 41%, a margin of eleven points."