Chapter 67: Moving Day
Will Smith was clearly having the time of his life—he might've even taken something for a little extra fun.
"Hey, bro! Come on, man! Don't just sit there. Work's done—time to party!"
"No thanks," Wayne shook his head, waving off the invitation. "That stuff's not for me. You go have fun. I'm fine just watching."
He didn't even glance at the two girls clinging to Will. They weren't his type at all. Honestly, he never understood why so many Black men were obsessed with exaggerated curves. The girls Will brought? Ridiculously wide hips and bottoms, with flat noses and overly thick lips. Just... not his thing.
"Suit yourself." Will threw an arm around each of the women and plopped down across from him, still bouncing to the beat. "But I came over to say thanks. You gave me my first lead role. A Black lead, at that. I've been in the industry long enough to know how rare that is. So, thank you, Director Garfield. I really mean it. If there's ever a next time, I hope we can work together again. You might be a boring guy—but you're a good one."
Wayne clinked bottles with him, took a long drink. "You earned it, Will. You've got real talent. I believe you'll go further with acting than you ever did in music."
"You think so? Too bad there just aren't that many roles for 'us.'"
He wasn't wrong. Hollywood didn't exactly overflow with opportunities for Black actors. Lead roles? Even fewer. It was a viciously competitive space. Despite the façade of unity, everyone knew the industry was cutthroat—especially within minority communities. It would take something like Black Lives Matter before things would improve, and even then, only marginally.
Still, there were exceptions. In every demographic, there were always those few individuals that seemed touched by divine luck. Right now, that person was Denzel Washington—rising to fame one role at a time, building a legacy through sheer acting prowess.
But after Denzel?
The next big thing in the Black acting world was none other than Will Smith.
Will wasn't just talented—he was smart. A sharp, calculated kind of smart. Sure, some people called him "Black on the outside, white on the inside," but his biggest asset was his broad appeal. He had universal charisma, the kind that transcended race.
In the late '90s and early 2000s, he'd become one of the few bankable stars who could carry a movie on name alone. Fans would later call him King Will for a reason.
"Will, the world keeps changing," Wayne said, voice calm. "Someone's gotta be the next Hollywood megastar. Who's to say it won't be you?"
Will just laughed, arms still around the two women, and sauntered back into the dance floor.
"Hah! Looks like Hollywood's next legend is off to party. A star's life needs a little wildness! You stay here and brood in your corner, workaholic!"
He danced away with an electric energy, half-rapping a roast about Wayne as he went. Watching him disappear into the crowd, Wayne couldn't help but feel like that was the real Hollywood dream—drenched in lights, music, and madness. And he? He was just a bystander.
"You seem to think pretty highly of that guy," Halle Berry said, still watching Will. "What's so special about him? Don't tell me... to be a Hollywood star, you need Dumbo ears?"
"No, Halle. I believe in you too." Wayne turned to her, his tone suddenly theatrical. "You're going to win an Oscar someday! The great Wayne Garfield has spoken—his vision pierces through time itself!"
His overly serious delivery was so absurd it bordered on parody.
Halle rolled her eyes and took a big swig of beer. She didn't bother replying. Listening to his prophetic nonsense was far less appealing than drinking.
"Oh? Not going over to your blonde bombshell?" she asked, gesturing with her beer bottle.
Wayne followed her gaze to Naomi Watts, not far off. She and Nina were dancing wildly, letting the music carry their youthful energy.
"We're just good friends," Wayne replied flatly, eyes still glued to Naomi's long legs beneath her miniskirt.
Halle rolled her eyes again. That made it the second time in ten minutes. She couldn't figure this guy out. One moment he acted like a monk, the next like a shameless player. He could lie with a straight face, and even if no one bought it, he'd never blink. His shamelessness was Oscar-worthy.
"It's time to go, Halle."
Wayne finished the rest of his beer in one go, grabbed her hand, and pushed through the dancing crowd toward the bar's exit.
"Sergei, you been drinking?" he asked, spotting the bodyguard waiting by the door. He hadn't seen him earlier and assumed he was off partying.
"Nope. Just had something to eat." Sergei jiggled the keys. "Boss, standing in front of you is a soldier—an on-duty soldier."
"A retired U.S. soldier, at that. Let's go to Halle's place. We're helping her move."
Honestly, it felt like a joke. A sober American soldier at a party? Or maybe it was because he was Russian-American? The fact that he wasn't high was already impressive.
---
When they arrived at Halle's apartment building, she went upstairs and came back down quickly, dragging a large suitcase behind her.
"Really? A gentleman just watches while a lady lugs her own suitcase to the car?"
Wayne grinned.
"Of course not, my lady. Sergei, you heard her. Time to show off that military strength."
Sergei didn't wait for Wayne to lift a finger. He popped open the trunk, grabbed the suitcase, and casually hoisted it with one hand.
"Click-click!"
"Boss?" Sergei pointed toward the reporters shamelessly snapping photos nearby.
"Ignore them. Let's head back to the estate."
Wayne and Halle Berry both knew the deal—this was all staged. Completely intentional.
The car cruised steadily along Hollywood Boulevard, a vehicle tailing close behind. Every so often, the rearview mirror flashed with the flicker of camera bulbs.
They followed them all the way to the Garfield estate. Sergei even paused at the entrance to give them more time for photos before finally driving inside.
Once inside, Wayne didn't bother with the luggage. Instead, he gestured toward a dignified older woman and introduced her.
"This is Hela, the estate's housekeeper. If you need anything while you're staying here, just speak with her."
"Hela, this is Miss Halle Berry. Please help her choose a guest room—she'll be staying with us for a while."
Without waiting for a response, Wayne headed upstairs to the third-floor balcony. His mind had already switched back into work mode. He'd given himself just three days off—after that, it was right back to post-production. The sooner the film was finished, the better.
Luckily, the timeline was manageable. As long as the final cut was done by January, it wouldn't disrupt the promo schedule or press screenings. Compared to his first film, Wayne was much more experienced now. There was no need for special effects or extensive cutting—everything had been shot according to the storyboard, down to the frame. It would be efficient.
Just like Happy Death Day, his shots were precise and minimal. The storyboard itself had been drafted by visualizing the finished film in his head. He'd essentially filmed to match the movie already playing in his mind.
---
"Wayne! Your house is insane!"
Halle Berry's voice echoed as she stepped onto the third-floor balcony and spotted him. "Oh Jesus, you can see all of Hollywood from up here—it's gorgeous!"
"It is," he agreed with a smile. "So, do you like the room?"
She'd clearly changed clothes and taken a shower. A light, pleasant scent drifted from her as she stood beside him.
"Of course. I've never stayed in a place like this before." She turned away from the view and looked at him. "You know... this feels like a dream. When I was a little girl, I used to imagine living in a big house like this—like a princess in a castle."
Wayne didn't bother figuring out whether she was being sincere. He simply scanned her figure with calm appreciation.
"You will. Someday, you'll buy a house like this for yourself."
"That might take a very long time," Halle said with a knowing smile.
She noticed his gaze linger on her, and intentionally pushed her chest forward just a bit. By now, she had a pretty good idea of his taste—slim but curvy, especially long legs.
It wasn't the typical Western ideal—he clearly preferred elegance over bombshells. One look at Naomi Watts and herself, and the pattern was obvious.
"You thinking about doing something... else?"
She stepped closer, eyes raised to meet his, rising up slightly on tiptoe.
And it was true—she had dreamed of this. Living in a grand estate, kissed by a charming prince... just like this moment.
"Mmm... Halle." Wayne gently let go of her and flicked his gaze downward.
She understood. Slowly, she dropped to her knees.
That first night at Garfield Manor, Halle Berry didn't return to her guest room. Her excitement lingered right there on the balcony.
---
The next morning, Halle woke alone. Blinking sleepily, she grabbed her clothes and padded downstairs in slippers.
"Good morning, Miss Berry."
Hela appeared as if summoned by thought, as always.
"Morning! Where's Wayne?"
"Mr. Garfield went back to the farm. He said he'd return in two days."
Hela already knew the nature of their relationship. Nothing stayed secret in this house. But judging from the way Wayne introduced her yesterday, Hela also knew Halle wouldn't be becoming the lady of the house.
"Would you like some breakfast?"
"Absolutely. I'm starving. What's on the menu?"
"I suggest the soup dumplings. Mike prepared them specially. The fried dough sticks are good too. Mr. Garfield likes these in the mornings..."
As they walked toward the dining room, Halle paused, visibly confused.
"Wait... dumplings and fried dough? Is that... Chinese food?"
"Yes, it is. If I were you, I'd give it a try. Mr. Garfield is fond of Chinese culture, so I had Mike learn a few traditional dishes. He's the chef here."
Halle sat at the large dining table, curious about this so-called Eastern breakfast.
"Alright, I'll try a bit of everything then. Thanks, Hela."
---