Chapter 90 – The Party
Night had just fallen, and the entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills was already surrounded by a crowd of reporters. A silver extended Rolls-Royce Phantom slowly pulled up to the main entrance, where the hotel's doorman jogged over and respectfully opened the door.
Wayne stepped out, hand-in-hand with Halle Berry, and walked toward the hotel lobby under the glare of countless flashing cameras.
Behind the media barricades, a few scattered fans were still calling out, mostly shouting Halle's name. Clearly, the promotional campaign had done wonders for her. Even though she hadn't yet filmed her next movie, she was already gaining notable public recognition.
Just as the two reached the hotel's doorway, they suddenly heard someone loudly calling out from behind. Turning around, Wayne and Halle saw Naomi Watts stepping out of a car, immediately drawing an excited reaction from the onlooking crowd.
Get Out was still screening in theaters, but the cast and crew had wrapped up their promotional tour and returned to Los Angeles by Tuesday.
Thanks to her stunning appearance and on-screen presence, Naomi had become a fan favorite during the campaign—each city they visited brought waves of enthusiastic followers.
At long last, she had broken through. Her popularity had soared, and she had officially entered the ranks of recognized actresses.
Seeing Wayne and Halle ahead of her, Naomi quickened her pace to catch up.
"Wayne, I'm coming with you!" she said cheerfully, sparing Halle only the briefest glance—treating her as though she didn't exist.
---
The celebration was a Warner Bros.-hosted party to mark the incredible success of Get Out. Though the movie was still in theaters, the studio had chosen to get a head start on celebrating.
Everyone in attendance knew exactly who the guest of honor was: the young co-producer and director of the film.
"Naomi, how does it feel to be chased by fans everywhere you go?" Wayne asked with a grin, walking into the elevator flanked by two striking women—one black, one white.
"It feels like I'm the center of the universe," Naomi beamed. "I love it! My agent's been flooded with audition offers. I won't have to fight for background roles anymore. Thank you, Wayne!"
Wayne smiled and nodded. "That's your own hard work paying off, Naomi."
He truly relished moments like this—not just because he was rising, but because everyone around him was leveling up too. Jimmy now had his own office at CAA, and Naomi had broken into stardom. He'd once said they'd be partners on this journey—and it was coming true.
---
As the elevator doors opened on the hotel's fourth floor, they were immediately met with the sound of enthusiastic applause.
Jeff Robinov stood not far from the elevator, leading the ovation.
"Thanks, Jeff," Wayne said, stepping forward to hug him. He leaned in and whispered his thanks against Jeff's shoulder.
Jeff patted him firmly on the back. "You earned it, Wayne. Come on, let me introduce you to a few people."
With a glass of champagne in hand, Wayne followed Jeff into the buzzing party, ready for what truly mattered tonight: networking.
"Director Garfield, a pleasure to meet you."
"Hey, Wayne!"
One by one, executives and producers from Warner Bros. greeted him. Jeff made the rounds, introducing him to various department heads and studio power players.
---
"Wayne, this is Tim Burton, director of Batman Returns, which will follow Get Out in Warner's summer release schedule."
Standing before him was a tall, slightly disheveled middle-aged man in formalwear—his hair wild and unkempt, his presence magnetic.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Burton!" Wayne said warmly.
Burton was one of the few directors Wayne had admired deeply, particularly for his unmistakable gothic style. His films left lasting impressions.
"Very pleased to meet you, Director Garfield," Burton responded.
Where Wayne was still shaping his cinematic voice, Burton had long since forged his own signature style—gothic, fantastical, and emotionally rich. Films like Edward Scissorhands, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and The Addams Family were unmistakably his.
"Congratulations, young man—another film crossing the $100 million mark!" Tim Burton said, his eyes full of appreciation. "You're a genius. I don't know how you come up with this stuff."
Wayne was humbled. "Thank you, Mr. Burton. I just got lucky."
Burton laughed and gave him a friendly pat on the arm. "Luck might get you one hit, but in Hollywood? No one accidentally has two in a row."
"I love your production style. Your work digs into the human psyche, but never feels overly heavy. Your dark elements are absolutely fascinating."
Jeff stood to the side, smiling. Burton was one of Warner Bros.' most successful collaborators. He was glad to see Wayne and Tim hitting it off.
"Thank you. I'm still finding my voice," Wayne said. "Maybe you can give me some advice."
Some connections are instant—and with Tim Burton, Wayne felt exactly that. He could tell the praise wasn't hollow; it came from genuine admiration.
Wayne, in turn, respected Burton's unwavering creative identity. Even if Batman Returns were to flop (which it wouldn't), his opinion of Burton wouldn't change. Here was a man who had remained true to his style for a lifetime—regardless of commercial highs or lows.
"Well, I've probably monopolized you long enough," Burton said, noticing that others were watching their conversation. "Batman Returns premieres this Friday at the TCL Chinese Theatre. If you're free, I'd love to have you there."
"Wouldn't miss it," Wayne said with a nod.
"Don't worry, Tim. I'll make sure Wayne gets an invite," Jeff added with a chuckle.
Wayne took a deep swig of his champagne as he watched Burton walk over to Michael Keaton, the man playing Batman himself.
Batman, Wayne mused. That name had always felt oddly close to him. Bruce Wayne… Wayne Garfield.
The fates of these two Batmen were bound to intertwine—just as he had planned all along.
"Excuse me, Jeff—I think I need a quick bathroom break," Wayne said, patting his stomach.
Wayne normally didn't drink much, but tonight had been one toast after another, and now his stomach was churning uncomfortably.
After excusing himself politely, he made a quick beeline toward the restroom. Naomi Watts, who had been keeping close by, caught up with him and asked with concern:
"Are you okay? Want me to grab you some medicine?"
Wayne shook his head. "Just had a bit too much to drink. I think I need to throw up. Don't worry about me—go enjoy the party."
He stepped into the restroom, knelt over the toilet, and vomited without hesitation. After checking to make sure he hadn't gotten any on himself, he turned on the faucet and stepped in front of the mirror.
The splash of cold water on his face helped him wake up a little. He cupped his hands over his mouth, breathed out hard to check his breath, then shook his head and stepped back into the corridor.
As he massaged his temples, looking for a quiet spot to sit down and breathe, a tall girl came stumbling toward him. His instincts flared—she was going to bump into him.
He instinctively sidestepped her.
The sudden movement caught the girl completely off guard, and in her heels and drunken stagger, she dropped right to the floor.
"Are you alright?"
Wayne offered a hand and helped her up.
"I'm fine. Sorry, I had a little too much to drink. Oh my God—are you Director Garfield? I can't believe it. I loved Get Out! Sorry—I'm just a little starstruck!"
Wayne folded his arms across his chest and watched her "performance." If he believed for a second that this was a genuine accident, he'd really have to be naïve.
The girl had light blonde hair, a tall, toned model's figure, and a stunning, charming face—clearly a mixed-race beauty. Every move she made oozed calculated allure, like she'd practiced this exact kind of "coincidence" before.
"Sorry—I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Cameron Diaz. I'm a model."
She extended her hand with a sweet smile. Wayne shook it lightly, only to feel her gently scratch the center of his palm.
"Maybe we could grab a drink somewhere a little more private, Director Garfield."
From the moment she "tripped" to now, Wayne hadn't spoken much—just silently observing her act. Now, having confirmed her intentions, he raised an eyebrow and said:
"Sure. Let's grab a drink out on the balcony."
He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and the two of them stepped out onto the terrace. The Los Angeles air, still warm from the sun that had baked the city all day, gently brushed against their skin.
"You've got quite the figure, Cameron. You said you're a model? That explains the... fire," Wayne said, eyeing her up and down. He had no doubt—this girl was very flexible.
The Mask... Charlie's Angels... oh, yeah...
"Thank you," Cameron purred. "I've always been really passionate about film. Maybe... you could tell me about your directing process—somewhere a little quieter?"
Her smile was dazzling. In high heels, she shuffled slightly closer, until their breath mingled in the space between them.
"Miss Diaz, don't you think this balcony is already pretty quiet?" Wayne replied coolly.
He set his glass down on the railing and casually wrapped an arm around her waist. The silky evening dress clung to her like a second skin—the sensation beneath his fingers was exquisite.