Chapter 66: Your Goal Is to Become the Universe's No.1 Pretty Face
The long caravan of production trucks finally returned to Los Angeles just before sunset. Aside from Luke and John, who were delivering the film reels to the Warner Bros. vault, the rest of the crew dispersed and went home.
Wayne was about to do the same when Naomi Watts appeared by his car, gently knocking on the window.
"Something wrong, Naomi?"
Wayne rolled down the window and looked at her, a bit puzzled.
Naomi stared at the man who'd once been so close to her—now feeling more distant with every passing day. Even while filming in the suburbs, he hadn't once reached out to her. Her heart ached with frustration.
"The film's wrapped... want to come over for a drink?"
Seeing that he was about to give his usual excuse about avoiding paparazzi, Naomi quickly added,
"Don't you want to see your old apartment again? I even brought back some of those custom 'costumes' you liked."
Wayne stared at the blonde beauty, then nodded slightly and opened the door for her.
"Nina, give Sergei the directions. We're heading to my old apartment."
Naomi smiled in quiet triumph as she got in. She knew this man was emotionally detached—no woman could truly get into his heart. But still, he had a sentimental streak. And she could always count on that.
---
They stopped in front of his old building. Wayne stepped out, watching the familiar structure that had once been his home.
It felt like he had left just yesterday. He could walk through the place with his eyes closed. Every corner, every creak of the hallway floors—it was all etched into memory.
Inside, Naomi opened the door. Wayne followed and quickly realized something: the space was tiny. Sitting down on the old sofa, he felt almost claustrophobic.
"Not used to it anymore, huh?" Naomi brought over a mug of strong black coffee and sat beside him. "Took me a few days too. Everything felt so... small. Kinda ironic, isn't it?"
Wayne took a long sip, then locked eyes with her sky-blue gaze.
He reached out and gently tilted her chin up, like he'd done a hundred times before.
"Sweetheart, you look incredible tonight."
Then he pulled her into a deep kiss.
Wayne had never had a "real" girlfriend growing up, but he'd had his share of American-style relationships. And Naomi Watts was the one who came closest to feeling like a genuine partner—personality, chemistry, and everything in between.
But Halle Berry? She was a completely different story.
She was the kind of woman who would risk it all for a tangible shot at success. She could change her attitude on a dime, and as long as there was something to gain, she wouldn't hesitate to go all-in—no matter how outrageous it looked from the outside.
Take the recent publicity campaign, for example. Even knowing that Wayne's promises might have been nothing more than tactics to keep her invested—even knowing he might turn around and deny everything—she still gave it her all.
Because for her, opportunity was worth the gamble.
Naomi was just like those women who eventually become Oscar winners—ruthless and all-in. You couldn't blame her for thinking too far ahead; women who reach that level of stardom never get there by playing nice.
In that old apartment, Wayne felt like he'd been transported back a few months in time. Caught in a strange, nostalgic haze, he carried the blonde beauty out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom.
After pulling the blanket over them, he lit a cigarette, the habit coming as naturally as breathing.
"Alright, Naomi. Talk to me." He exhaled a plume of smoke. "You didn't just invite me here for a quick fling. I'm not stupid."
Just like she understood him, Wayne had a near-perfect read on Naomi's personality. She wasn't the type to act without purpose.
"Remember when you finished your first film?" Naomi sat up beside him, propped on the headboard. "You gave me so much advice back then. Now that this film is done, you're going to be busy with post-production. I wanted to talk to you while you still had time. I need direction, Wayne."
Wayne studied her carefully. "Naomi, you're already on the right path. Trust me—after this movie drops, you won't be in the same league anymore. Scripts will flood your inbox, and casting directors will line up to see you. You'll have options."
"That's not what I mean," Naomi interrupted, taking the cigarette from his mouth, taking a deep drag, then placing it back. "I'm talking about career direction. I need help choosing my path. It matters."
"Direction, huh..." Wayne thought for a moment and raised a hand to count off his fingers.
"First: choose a commercial film next—one where the studio is willing to give you a leading role. Stay away from art-house or indie projects for now.
Second: don't avoid playing the pretty face. A 'trophy beauty' in a blockbuster isn't a bad thing—it's a major selling point that drives ticket sales. And not just anyone can pull it off convincingly.
Third—and this is the most important—keep leveling up your core strengths. That means acting classes, refining your skills, working on your physical presence. Even investing in your looks if needed. Keep upgrading, nonstop."
"I get the part about commercial films—they pay well, unlike you, you cheapskate." Naomi rolled her eyes. For Get Out, she'd only been paid $150,000 as the female lead.
"But why should I keep playing the eye candy? Are you saying my acting still isn't good enough?"
"No, in terms of performance, you're already solid," Wayne replied coolly, ignoring her jab. "But I'm specifically talking about commercial films. For those, your acting is more than adequate."
"Don't waste what God gave you, Naomi. You've got a real shot at becoming the face of Hollywood in the '90s. And you know what? Those women who represent an entire era—none of them were known for deep, award-winning performances. They were the unforgettable, ultra-marketable bombshells in blockbusters."
"I get it... but—"
"No buts." Wayne cut her off immediately.
"Your path is clear. Look at Julia Roberts. She's the one you should aim to surpass. Sure, Meryl Streep wins awards—but when was the last time a big-budget blockbuster offered her $20 million for a role? Years from now, when people talk about this era, do you think they'll say Meryl Streep defined Hollywood?"
"Nope. It'll be Julia Roberts. And if you want to chase awards and Oscars, that can come later—after you're A-list. Then you'll have the money and room to take creative risks."
He stopped talking. What he'd just shared wasn't something he'd say to just anyone. He only said it because Naomi had truly been there for him, and because... well, he had a soft spot for her.
Coming from someone with knowledge from 30 years into the future—plus a deep understanding of Hollywood's current dynamics—this was the most pragmatic and effective roadmap she could ever receive.
If she followed it, even her lowest achievement would be becoming a consistent commercial lead. In Wayne's past life, it wasn't her early dramatic roles that put her on the map—it was King Kong and that infamous "airplane" scene.
"Sleep on it. You've got this. And thanks, Wayne."
Naomi softly kissed him and turned off the bedside lamp.
---
The next morning, Wayne was up early. He reminded Naomi about the wrap party that night, then headed back to the estate.
This wasn't his first rodeo—he knew that while the cast and crew got some well-deserved rest, his own work was far from over. As director and co-producer, the real grind was just beginning. Still, being able to plan post-production from home was already a kind of luxury.
At 5 p.m., Sergei pulled up outside Halle Berry's apartment. She emerged dressed to kill, exuding sex appeal and confidence.
"I don't get it," she said, checking her makeup in a compact mirror. "Why host the party at a bar?"
"Maybe because we're still nobodies and can't afford a fancy hotel ballroom?" Wayne shrugged. He wasn't much of a party person anyway—he'd go, sip a drink, and spend most of the time observing from the sidelines.
"You've packed, right? We're not staying long. The real plan for tonight is moving you in."
"Everything's ready," Halle said, tucking away her makeup kit. "Just a few outfits. Should we alert the Warner-assigned reporters?"
"No need. Just stick to the script—we'll play our parts."
---
The car pulled up to Hard Rock Bar. As soon as Wayne stepped inside, he was greeted by the booming duang duang of bass-heavy music. No surprise—any party with a strong Black presence always came with high-energy beats.
The main lounge was brightly lit, the usual booths torn out to make space for two massive tables piled high with snacks and drinks. Two dance floors flanked the tables, and the earlier-arrived guests were already dancing like there was no tomorrow.
Beyond that, the seating area offered a quieter zone—Wayne's preferred destination.
"Nina, Sergei, go have fun. Don't worry about me—maybe you'll have a night to remember."
He waved them off, grabbed two beers from the table, and found a corner seat where he could watch the chaos unfold.
"We're just gonna sit here all night?" Halle asked, a little disappointed. She'd thought this was going to be some wild couple's night out.
Wayne took a deep swig and burped. "You're free to go dance. Don't wait on me—I'll come get you when it's time to leave."
Just then, Will Smith appeared, dancing his way through the crowd like a man possessed, followed by two Black girls grooving just as hard. No matter how random their moves looked, they still hit every beat like naturals.
Wayne chuckled to himself.
When it came to music, rhythm, and energy... yeah, maybe they really were built different.