"Can you pack up the leftover lobster and steak to go?" Nicky said to the server, her tone as casual as if she'd asked for a napkin.
Mark's face instantly darkened. He stepped forward, cutting off the server, and glared at Nicky. "Nicky, this is a business dinner, not a takeout counter! Have some respect—you'll embarrass the company!"
Nicky dabbed the corner of her mouth with a silver napkin, looking both innocent and unshakably confident. "The company's covering this, right? Ms. Hayes said everything tonight is reimbursable. Isn't it better to take leftovers than waste food?"
"You—you—reimbursable!" Mark sputtered, unable to form a full sentence. Finally, he nodded through gritted teeth. He watched in disbelief as Nicky expertly accepted the takeout containers from the server—even scooping in an unopened jar of truffle butter. This wasn't the pampered heiress he knew; she was thriftier than a coupon-clipping suburban mom.
Once everything was packed, Nicky and Mr. Spielberg settled into the lounge area. They talked about everything from the quality of Australian Wagyu to the cinematography in his new film about immigrant struggles. Nicky even drew from her recent experiences: "Director, if you're shooting a warehouse scene, don't overdo the 'struggle.' People who actually move boxes use tricks to save energy—like using their knee to nudge a crate. It looks more real that way."
Spielberg's eyes shone with appreciation. He set down his champagne flute. "Nicky, would you be interested in a role? There's a supporting part—a rich girl who falls from grace. It needs that kind of grounded authenticity."
Nicky just waved a hand, laughing honestly. "Director, please. I can't act—at all. My old roles were all bought and paid for by my family. I couldn't even cry without eyedrops. I'm more of a realist. If you need someone who can actually move boxes and wash dishes because she's done it herself—then I'm your girl."
Spielberg stared for a second, then burst out laughing. In all his years in Hollywood, he'd never met someone so quick to dismiss themselves—so bluntly, and with such charm. He hadn't seen her viral drama, but her raw honesty was refreshing compared to the preening actors he usually met.
Soon, the server returned with the neatly packed food. As the oddly entertaining dinner wrapped up, Spielberg made a point of clasping Nicky's shoulder before leaving with his assistant. "Come by my studio next week. Even if you're not acting, I'd like your thoughts on the script. You have a interesting perspective."
Once alone with Leo, Nicky continued calmly placing bottled water and unused butter packets into her canvas tote. Leo finally stepped closer. "What are you doing? That stuff's practically worthless."
"Worthless or not, it's already paid for," Nicky said, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "I'm $137 million in debt. Every bit helps. Why fight with money?"
Leo looked at her—dead serious—and all he could think was, She's got a point. The spoiled socialite he once knew was gone, replaced by someone who understood the value of a dollar better than anyone.
Outside, the night air had turned cool. Nicky pulled her work jacket tighter and turned to Leo. "Where do you live? I didn't drive. Can you drop me off at a nearby hotel?"
"What are you up to?" Leo took an involuntary step back, eyeing her suspiciously. He hadn't forgotten her sharp tongue and was half-expecting another curveball.
"You think I'm going to eat you?" Nicky rolled her eyes. "It's just a ride. You want me to walk?"
Relieved, Leo pointed toward the parking lot. "My car's over there. It's a used Chevy—kind of old. Don't judge."
On the road, both their phones rang. Leo answered his only to be met with Ms. Hayes's yelling: "What happened? I told you to watch Nicky, and she ends up taking leftovers from a business dinner? The company is a laughingstock!"
Nicky, meanwhile, got a much calmer call: "Spielberg just phoned. He said you were refreshingly real. You and Leo are going to his studio next week. Don't mess this up."
After hanging up, Nicky made a face at her phone and mock-static noises. "Tunnel. Bad signal. Bye."
Catching her reflection in the rearview mirror, Leo had to ask: "Aren't you afraid of making Ms. Hayes angry?"
"Afraid of what?" Nicky leaned back, fiddling with the takeout bag's string. "No pay, no fear. What's she gonna do—fire me?"
When they pulled up in front of a Super 8 motel, Nicky knocked on the window before getting out. "You're still my agent, right?"
"Yeah," Leo said, his feelings mixed. He used to think representing Nicky was career suicide, but these past two days had been the most interesting of his professional life.
"Pick me up at 5 a.m. I'm going live. You'll be holding the phone." She paused, then added, "Also, check the news when you get home. And submit an expense form to the company for some new clothes—get yourself a new shirt too. That one's practically see-through. You're an agent—look the part."
She turned and walked into the motel, leaving Leo sitting in his car, utterly confused. What kind of stream starts at 5 a.m.? He pulled out his phone and searched: Nicky Spielberg, Nicky leftovers. Hashtags were already climbing. Watching the numbers rise, he allowed himself a small smile. Maybe sticking with Nicky wasn't such a bad idea after all.