Mark's face turned pale as Nicky's words hit him. The empty Scotch bottle—worth two months of his salary—nearly slipped from his grasp. Just a bottle? He was about to snap when Lina stood up, cutting him off.
Lina glided over with a glass of Burgundy, her voice dripping with honey. "Mr. Spielberg, I sincerely apologize on Nicky's behalf. She's been through so much lately—she isn't quite herself. I hope you won't take it personally."
"On my behalf?" Nicky raised an eyebrow. She walked slowly toward Lina, looking her up and down with such intensity that Lina visibly tensed.
"Nicky, what are you doing?" Lina tried to sound calm, but her knuckles whitened around her glass. This was her chance—a shot at a role in a Spielberg film. She couldn't let Nicky ruin it.
"I just wanted to see how big your face really is. Does it have its own gravitational pull?" Nicky smiled, her teeth flashing. "Not everyone has the nerve to apologize for someone else—especially without asking."
Lina's face flushed. "How can you say that? I'm only trying to help!"
"Trying to help?" Nicky held out her palm, utterly serious. "If you really mean it, show me the money. PayPal or wire transfer—I'm not picky. How about $500? Call it a 'sincerity fee' for that apology you just gave on my behalf."
Leo, watching from the side, nearly choked trying not to laugh. He'd always thought Nicky was just a spoiled rich girl—he never knew she could be this savage, and this brutally practical.
Lina froze. She had some pull at Spark, but she wasn't rich—most of her paycheck went toward maintaining her image. She couldn't just throw $500 around. She stood there, speechless, lips pressed tight.
"Don't insult my relationship with money," Nicky said, pulling her hand back with mock solemnity. "What I have with cash is real—built on trust and mutual respect. Not like some people, all talk and no action." She shot Lina a victory smile before turning and picking up the empty whiskey bottle. "Wow, we're really out."
Mark saw his chance and jumped in. "Nicky, go get another bottle from the cabinet! The 1982 Lafite!"
Nicky ignored him. Instead, she walked over to Mr. Spielberg, empty bottle in hand, her tone shifting to polite and pragmatic. "Sir, maybe we should eat. Alcohol isn't great for the liver, especially as we get older. I noticed you eyeing the truffle risotto earlier. It looked good."
Spielberg watched her—no flattery, no pretense—and laughed, genuinely amused for the first time that night. After decades in Hollywood, he'd had his fill of sycophants. Someone this blunt was refreshing. "You're right. Let's eat. I did want to try that risotto."
Mark was stunned. Had they all misread the situation? Was Spielberg not here for the wine and games? He'd stocked up on expensive reds assuming the director wanted a drinking session, but maybe the man just wanted a good meal. Deflated, Mark sat back down.
Leo finally caught on too—this wasn't some high-stakes power dinner. It was just dinner.
The room fell quiet, everyone lost in their thoughts—except Nicky, who only had eyes for the food. "Server," she called toward the door, "can we get the truffle risotto over here? And an extra plate, please?"
"Right away," a server responded, quickly placing the risotto in front of her with a clean plate.
The moment the food arrived, Nicky sat up straight, tucked her napkin into her collar, gripped her knife and fork, and stared at the plate like a hungry puppy. Spielberg chuckled and speared a bite of risotto himself. "Alright, everyone—dig in."
And dig in Nicky did. With swift, precise movements, she worked her way through the truffle risotto, seared foie gras, Boston lobster—even "borrowing" half of the steak from Spielberg's plate.
Leo watched in awe. She really hasn't eaten all day—just half a piece of bread since morning.
Lina stared in disbelief. How is she eating so much without gaining weight? Is this some kind of superpower?
Mark could only slump in his chair. She really came here just to eat. All that money on the private room and vintage wine—wasted.
Only Spielberg seemed entertained. He even passed her a clean plate now and then. "Slow down, there's plenty. Order more if you want."
When Nicky finally set down her utensils, the table was nearly cleared. She patted her full stomach and called out, "Could you ask the kitchen to box up an order of spaghetti Bolognese for me? And two portions of tiramisu to go. Thanks."
The whole table stared in disbelief. After all that, she still had room for takeout?
Unfazed, Nicky turned to Spielberg, her tone genuine. "Thank you for the meal, sir. I really enjoyed it. About the supporting role in your new film—please don't feel pressured. I know my acting needs work. Most of my past roles were bought by my family. I get it. We can talk another time if something fits."
Spielberg's appreciation only grew. He'd come out of curiosity about the "bankrupt heiress," but she was more real—and more interesting—than he'd expected. "You're honest. I like that. The audition is yours. Come to my studio next Wednesday. Just be yourself—like you were with that risotto."
Nicky blinked, then broke into a real, surprised smile. "Thank you, Mr. Spielberg. I'll prepare well. I won't let you down."
Lina and Mark could only watch, utterly defeated. In the most chaotic dinner possible, Nicky had somehow won. Lina's nails dug into her palms. Mark recalibrated silently—I need a whole new strategy with Nicky.