The following morning, Adrian Knight wasted no time acting on his decision to upgrade his life. He had someone from a property agency track down a two-story detached apartment near Plummer Park in West Hollywood, and by evening, he was already moving in, leaving Koreatown behind. He told himself it was only logical. A man sitting on a fortune of one hundred thousand U.S. dollars shouldn't be cramped in a run-down neighborhood. Comfort was no longer a luxury; it was a necessity.
The new apartment came with two bedrooms, two living rooms, a proper study, and no fewer than three bathrooms. Adrian walked through the rooms with a quiet satisfaction, running his fingers over the polished wood of the banister and the cool marble of the counters. It was not a mansion, but it was more than enough for him to live, think, and plan in peace.
By the end of the month, Steven Soderbergh officially came to CAA to sign a representation contract. Adrian, who had been handling his early negotiations, was naturally recognized as his primary agent. He even involved another trusted colleague, Jack Wells, to make the deal smoother.
Steven looked around the office with a dazed smile, still struggling to believe his sudden ascent. "It feels like a dream," he said, his voice carrying both excitement and disbelief. The young director had never imagined that his low-budget indie film, Sex, Lies, and Videotape, would fetch a purchase price of 1.2 million dollars from Miramax.
Adrian leaned back in his leather chair, studying the man's reaction. Soderbergh was new to the business side of Hollywood, and Adrian made sure he understood the rules. Under the California Talent Agencies Act, the first contract between an agent and an artist was valid for only a year. Renewals could last up to three years, but most young artists extended in increments of two.
The implication was clear: Soderbergh might be a client today, but tomorrow he could be courted by others. Agents had to prove their worth constantly.
Adrian twirled the heavy, brick-sized mobile phone in his hand, its weight a symbol of both status and burden, before speaking again. "Miramax called," he said casually. "They want your input on the re-editing of the film. After that, we'll prepare for the Cannes exhibition. That's the real battlefield."
Steven's eyes lit up, though anxiety still flickered underneath. "That's fine, but… when do you think Miramax will schedule the actual release?"
Adrian smiled faintly. "You don't need to worry. Harvey Weinstein didn't throw down 1.2 million just for the thrill of it. He's betting big on your film. The real test comes in May at Cannes; after that, everything will fall into place."
Steven nodded slowly. Adrian, stretching his arms like a cat settling after a meal, asked, "Any new projects on your mind?"
The director laughed helplessly. "How could it be that fast? My first film isn't even released yet."
"Fair point," Adrian conceded. "Take a vacation then. Call me if something comes up. I'm not the nanny type. Not for you, not even for Stallone or Cruise."
CAA in Turmoil
Later that afternoon, angry shouts echoed from behind the closed doors of CAA President Ronald Meyer's office. The sound carried through the hallway like thunder.
In a nearby office, Michael Ovitz frowned and glanced at his assistant. "Why is Ronald so worked up?" he asked.
Susan Miller, his efficient secretary, answered promptly. "Judy Hofflund and David Greenblatt have left CAA. They've formed a new company, Independent Talent Agency, ITA."
Ovitz's expression hardened. Hofflund and Greenblatt were not just employees; they were Ronald Meyer's protégés, assistants he had mentored personally. Their departure felt less like a career move and more like a betrayal. Worse still, they hadn't left alone. They had taken several young agents and promising clients with them.
CAA had built its reputation by raiding other agencies for talent, never the other way around. To lose staff to a breakaway agency was an insult.
"Ronald's already gathering people to push back," Susan added.
Ovitz nodded slowly. He understood. In Hollywood, retaliation was a language in itself. CAA would undermine ITA by slandering their reputation, blocking their access to resources, poaching their clients, and applying pressure wherever possible. Ruthless? Yes. But survival in this industry had no room for mercy.
Still, Ovitz allowed himself a private thought: Ronald's impulsive temper and expensive gambling habits often created more problems than they solved. As the majority shareholder with fifty-five percent of CAA's stock, Ovitz bore the greater responsibility. Ronald, with twenty-two and a half percent, wielded influence but also volatility.
That evening, Adrian Knight sat in his study in West Hollywood, a cup of strong black coffee by his elbow and a stack of documents spread across his desk. Among them were outlines for two major "packaged" films CAA was backing that year.
The first was Dick Tracy, a lavish detective drama directed by and starring Warren Beatty, adapted from the famous comic strip. The second was Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese's gritty retelling of the rise and fall of gangster Henry Hill.
Both projects glittered with Hollywood star power. Dick Tracy was being produced under Disney's Touchstone Pictures label, while Goodfellas was a Warner Bros. production. Gangster and action films were reigning genres at the time, and CAA had stacked the casts with A-list names to ensure box-office dominance.
Yet Adrian's attention kept drifting to another document: a slim, four-page outline of a script titled "Ghost", penned by screenwriter Bruce Joel Rubin.
He tapped the pages thoughtfully. Ghost had been circulating at CAA for months, dismissed by senior agents as too sentimental, too strange. A romance about a murdered man who lingers as a ghost to protect the woman he loves? To Michael Ovitz and the others, it sounded like a commercial misfire.
Adrian disagreed. Beneath the supernatural premise, he saw a universal story of love, loss, and longing. Something audiences would cling to. He even chuckled at himself. "And people ask what an agent makes? Not much, unless he learns to think like a producer."
The truth was clear to him: CAA was no longer the endgame. It was merely a stepping stone, a platform to expand his connections until he could stand on his own as a producer.
The buzz of awards season filled Los Angeles. March brought the Academy Awards, and with them an endless whirl of receptions, industry mixers, and late-night parties. For Adrian, these events were both opportunity and distraction.
But his real mission took him to a modest coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard, where Bruce Joel Rubin agreed to meet. The writer arrived with curiosity in his eyes, clearly surprised that someone from CAA was chasing him down over Ghost.
"You're Adrian Knight," Bruce said after shaking hands. "The agent who sold Steven Soderbergh's film. I didn't expect you to be interested in my script."
Adrian didn't waste words. "CAA doesn't value Ghost, but I do. It's original, it's powerful. I'll buy the rights for one hundred fifty thousand dollars."
Bruce blinked, taken aback. "You want to purchase it outright?"
"For three years," Adrian clarified. "Forty thousand down now. If I fail to develop it within that time, you regain full ownership. No tricks, no hidden clauses."
The writer studied him, gauging the seriousness in his voice. "You sound confident, but you don't exactly have a long client list yet."
Adrian took a slow sip of his coffee. "That's because I don't have time to babysit clients. I'm building something bigger. And yes, I'm confident that I will develop this script within three years."
Bruce leaned back, considering. To him, Adrian seemed less like a traditional agent and more like a man already half-transformed into a producer. Finally, he nodded. "Alright. But on one condition: when the film gets made, I want to be directly involved."
Adrian smiled. "Of course. You're the heart of this story. When the adaptation happens, you'll be part of it every step of the way."
They walked together to a nearby law office, where the contracts were drafted and signed. Adrian transferred the agreed sum, locking down the rights to Ghost for three years. If it failed, the deposit was forfeit, but if it succeeded, the upside was enormous.
As the ink dried, Adrian made another suggestion. "Do you want me to recommend an agent?"
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Not you?"
Adrian shook his head with a wry smile. "Do you really think I'd be suitable?"
The writer chuckled. "Fair enough. You're right, you're already thinking like a producer, not an agent."
Adrian didn't argue. He knew the truth: under anti-monopoly laws, agents were barred from participating directly in film production. From the moment he bought Ghost, his career as an agent was already counting down to its inevitable end.
That night, Adrian returned to his West Hollywood apartment. The contract lay on his desk, the weight of both risk and promise in those pages. To most of CAA, Ghost was just another rejected script. To Adrian Knight, it was a chance to prove himself, to carve out a place not merely as a talent representative but as a visionary who could spot value where others saw none.
The city outside buzzed with Oscar fever, limousines pulling up to hotels, stars descending in glitter and gowns. Adrian, however, sat quietly in his study, a man who had just gambled a small fortune on a story about love beyond death.
For him, the real drama was only beginning.