Chapter 85 – Just to Disgust You
There's a saying that gets passed around in Hollywood: Never overestimate a studio's moral standards.
Especially when two films are going head-to-head at the box office. In the name of market share, nothing is off-limits—dirty tricks are just part of the game.
"Our people received word," Jeff said grimly, "that a few media outlets plan to stir up negative publicity around Get Out's ending tomorrow. They're trying to sway the mainstream audience into boycotting the film."
So it had finally come.
Wayne wasn't surprised. He'd known from the start that the other side wouldn't back down so easily. Hearing Jeff's report only confirmed that their opponents had run out of options—smearing the movie was all they had left.
"Universal's getting directly involved?" Wayne asked, frowning. That was an important detail. Usually, industry giants avoided such underhanded competition out of mutual understanding.
"No," Jeff replied. "From what I've heard, it's mainly being orchestrated by Pat Kingsley—Tom Cruise's agent. Though I wouldn't rule out Universal giving a discreet nudge behind the scenes."
Truthfully, Jeff wasn't too concerned about such tactics. In Hollywood, every hit movie is a survivor—one that's clawed its way through sabotage and rivalries. If your film made money, someone else's lost. It was that simple.
And these kinds of backdoor tricks? They rarely changed the outcome. Warner Bros. wasn't exactly defenseless either.
"Jeff, do you think it'll have a major impact?" Wayne asked, leaning forward slightly with a serious expression.
He wasn't an expert in all this. His focus had always been on filmmaking. When it came to the rest, he could only rely on fragments of industry gossip he remembered from his past life.
"Honestly? No," Jeff replied. "We already know it's coming, so the damage will be limited. Don't underestimate Warner's PR machine.
What they'll likely do is spin the controversial ending into a public talking point, trying to stir discomfort among mainstream viewers. After all, let's face it—minorities don't make up the majority of ticket sales."
Jeff's tone was calm. This wasn't the first time he'd seen this playbook. In the grand scheme of competitive smear campaigns, this one didn't even scratch the surface.
After a short pause, Jeff looked Wayne in the eye and added, "But I'm more worried about you. You're still young, and I don't want these gossip rags getting into your head. No one in this industry is universally loved. Some tabloid might slap you with the label 'White on the outside, black on the inside'—or worse.
Don't let it rattle you. Stick to the promo schedule. Let the studio handle the rest."
"No problem," Wayne replied, tapping lightly on the table. "Can we confirm this smear is coming from Far and Away's team? What's even the point? They must know cheap shots like this don't solve the problem."
"All they need is one chance," Jeff said with a shrug and a smile. "Even if it's a long shot, they'll take it. No one wants to admit defeat while there's still room to throw a punch.
Even if it just causes a bit of trouble for us—that's a win for them."
Wayne nodded. That was true. A smear campaign cost next to nothing. Even if it failed, there was no real loss. In their position, he might've done the same.
"Alright, then I'll head back and rest," Wayne said as he stood up. "Everything on my end's good to go—I'll leave the rest to you guys."
Leaving the Warner building, Wayne returned to his estate. Once home, he headed straight to the third-floor balcony and settled into his favorite lounge chair. Sipping a cup of black tea, he gazed out over the view, letting his mind finally unwind.
From this small incident alone, it was clear that the other side was running out of options. At the root of it, Far and Away had simply flopped at the box office. Had it performed anywhere close to Get Out, Universal Pictures likely would've stepped in themselves.
But now that they knew the film had bombed, there was no way they'd continue throwing good money after bad. The return on investment just wasn't there.
---
"Boss."
Nina came up to the third floor. Seeing Wayne deep in thought, she gently called out to him. Only when he looked her way did she continue.
"I got a call from your accountant—Old Howard, not his son."
"What's going on?" Wayne asked.
"It's about your taxes. I mentioned it to you back in April, remember? You were too busy then and told me to leave it to Howard."
Nina couldn't help but think her boss had a ridiculously big heart. This was a matter that most people would stress over—and yet he couldn't care less.
Wayne suddenly remembered—April 15 was tax day in North America. Nina had said something about it back then.
"What? We didn't set aside enough?" he asked.
"No, there's enough." Nina checked her laptop, then looked up at him. "Howard implemented several tax-saving strategies, but even then, you're still looking at over a million in taxes. He's recommending you set up a charitable foundation—if only for tax purposes."
"Alright, leave it for now," Wayne waved dismissively. "Remind me once I'm not drowning in work."
He turned back toward the window. Not long after Nina left, he heard the door creak open again.
"Nina, what now—"
But it wasn't Nina. Instead, in walked the Black Pearl—Halle Berry—dressed in a sheer, skintight leather bodysuit and matching black stilettos that perfectly emphasized her curves.
She wore a lacy eye mask, with cat ears on her head. Most striking of all was the leather collar around her neck, attached to a leash she held in her own hand.
After quietly shutting the door, Halle slowly crawled toward Wayne on all fours—like a cat.
Wayne leaned back comfortably on his balcony chair, watching her "performance" with amusement.
"Halle, if I remember right, you weren't really into these kinds of games, were you?" He folded his arms, tilting his head as she crawled up beside him.
He could see her body shudder slightly—clearly a mix of shame and nerves. It was broad daylight, after all. Anyone could walk in.
"No... I just wasn't used to it before. But now, I'm starting to like it." Halle sat by his feet, looking up seductively and licking her lips.
"I even came up with something new tonight. Can you tell what's different?"
Wayne grinned, clearly intrigued.
---
The "game" lasted until nightfall. Feeling thoroughly refreshed, Wayne reclined in his chair while Halle Berry, clearly exhausted, lay draped across his chest, fatigue written all over her face.
"Halle," he said calmly. "If you want something, just ask. No one humiliates themselves like this just to have fun. You did a good job. What do you want in return?"
Halle, enduring the discomfort from earlier, raised her head with a faint smile.
"Your film just hit #1 at the box office—this was my gift to celebrate. Did you like it?"
She knew she had to speed things up. In a few more weeks, once the hype died down, she could be kicked out of the estate—and walk away with nothing.
"Get to the point, Halle," Wayne said, sipping his now-cold tea and glancing at the woman in his arms.
"You remember... back in my apartment, you said that if I behaved well, you'd give me a role in your next project—a chance to start over…"
Wayne slapped his forehead lightly—so that's what this was about.
Now that the film was released and her "mission" nearly complete, she was worried he'd pretend none of it ever happened.
He understood her fear well. That feeling of not having control over your own fate—he'd experienced it himself once. And only now, after two back-to-back hits, did he finally have some agency in this industry.
He couldn't blame her for trying, even if the method was... unconventional.
In Hollywood, this sort of effort wasn't rare. It was part of the game.
It suddenly clicked: Halle Berry had no rich parents, no influential Hollywood sugar daddies. In fact, thanks to her past missteps, there wasn't a single industry insider willing to vouch for her anymore.
A woman like her—with looks, talent, and nothing else—was facing a one-way exit from Hollywood. Of course she'd resort to desperate means.
And all she had left to offer… was her body and her pride.
"I keep my word. You don't need to worry." Wayne gently patted her back. "Whatever Warner promised you, that's their business. But my promise? I'll see it through.
Just don't get greedy. Stay here, quietly, as my girlfriend until this project wraps."
Halle heard what she needed to hear. She resisted the urge to smile too wide and gazed at him tenderly.
"Darling, you know how much I care. I'd be happy to be your girlfriend forev—"
"Halle." Wayne cut her off with a sigh. The earlier game had put him in a good mood. He didn't want to ruin it so soon.
"I said, don't play those games. Got it?"
"I got it! I was just expressing my feelings. You know I mean it."
Wayne exhaled, releasing her from his embrace as he sat up and lit a cigarette.
He didn't believe a word she said—not because he was cynical, but because he wasn't stupid.
"Get some rest. We've got an early interview tomorrow—and you're coming with me."
---
After that full-body "unwind," Wayne slept like a log. The next morning, he woke to see Halle curled up beside him, her face peaceful in sleep.
His only regret?
He forgot to record the performance last night.
"Well," he muttered, brushing his teeth. "Plenty of time for a re-shoot."
As a future world-class director, it only made sense to film some "private masterpieces" now and then. Locked away in a safe, they'd be priceless relics of youth one day.