Nicole Kidman became the first true actor to sign under Adrian Knight's representation, and technically, the second artist overall in his growing roster. For Adrian, this was no minor victory. Nicole wasn't just another hopeful actress drifting in from Australia; she was an elegant, striking figure with potential that could be molded into stardom. He had no illusions that it would be easy. Hollywood rarely welcomed outsiders with open arms, but Adrian thrived on making the impossible possible.
Nicole still had to devote time to promoting her Australian thriller Dead Calm, which was gaining modest attention overseas. That meant Adrian's first weeks as her agent were busy ones. Phone calls, small meetings, quiet arrangements, everything to place her face in front of the right people. CAA's culture was ruthless, built on power and leverage, and Adrian was determined to show that even as one of the youngest agents, he could deliver results.
CAA's client base was staggering. Producers, directors, actors, screenwriters, singers, novelists, over six hundred names filled its books. But the number of agents was surprisingly small. Each handled multiple careers, often balancing conflicting interests, egos, and rivalries. Michael Ovitz himself, the larger-than-life cofounder, managed more than thirty high-profile clients personally.
For newcomers like Adrian Knight and his colleague Jack Wells, who had survived the grueling mailroom trial, the assignment was both a blessing and a curse. They were handed minor artists to manage names with little weight in the industry, scraps left behind by senior agents who had better things to do. Yet it was also a testing ground: if they could turn nobodies into stars, their futures were assured.
Adrian, however, was picky. He wasn't about to waste his time babysitting mediocrities.
One afternoon in the CAA offices, Jack Wells watched as Adrian flipped through client files, barely giving each more than a few seconds of attention before pushing them aside.
"You don't like any of them?" Jack asked, half amused, half exasperated.
Adrian shook his head with certainty. "They're fringe figures. Extras who'll never get a leading role. Hollywood chews people like this up and spits them out. I don't see long-term potential in any of them."
Jack chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Of course not. Why do you think they're left for rookies like us? Nobody with clout wants them."
He shuffled through his own stack, then pulled one thin file and handed it over. "Here. A writer from Saturday Night Live. He also does stand-up bits on the show. Might be worth a look."
Adrian opened the file and saw the name: Adam Sandler, age twenty-three.
SNL was no small resume credit. The NBC comedy show had a legendary reputation, a breeding ground for stars. Anyone who made it past the writers' room and onto the stage had serious potential. Adrian read quickly, stand-up background, quirky humor, occasional sketches. Raw, maybe, but definitely promising.
"What about him?" Adrian asked.
Jack shrugged. "He left with Ari Emanuel. Signed to ITA."
The name made Adrian pause. International Talent Agency was the upstart firm formed by two defectors who'd walked out of CAA the previous year. Ever since, Ovitz and the CAA brass had waged a quiet but relentless war to crush them.
Adrian smirked. The hypocrisy amused him. After all, wasn't CAA itself built by defectors from William Morris? But that was Hollywood: betrayal was sin only when it wasn't your own.
"So," Adrian said, "poaching him would score points."
Jack nodded. "Exactly. If you can pull Sandler back to CAA, Ovitz will notice. Ari Emanuel is young, hungry, and Jewish. Ovitz once liked him, but now he's the enemy. If you can cut off his talent pipeline, you'll make allies upstairs."
Adrian leaned back, eyes narrowing in thought. "And Emanuel? He's supposed to be one of the golden boys, right?"
"Yeah. Him, Lovett, Huvane, Lourd, O'Connor, Moloney. They're all the backbone of the next generation."
Adrian stood abruptly, decision made. "Alright. I'll take Sandler. Leave it to me."
Hollywood was a battlefield of self-interest. Loyalty was a currency rarely honored. Agents bribed, threatened, or seduced their way into better contracts. Poaching wasn't just tolerated; it was expected. Adrian understood this better than most.
Jack, as if remembering something, slid another folder across the desk. "By the way, there's news on that project you asked me to track. A studio looking for a young actress."
Adrian opened the folder. Touchstone Pictures, Disney's subsidiary, was preparing a low-budget romantic comedy. Title: $3000.
The synopsis was crude: a wealthy man hires a prostitute for a week, pays her $3,000, and inevitably falls in love with her. The story had the bones of something greater, but the current version was too grim, almost sleazy. Disney would have to rewrite it, lighten it, make it a fairy tale. Adrian's eyes sharpened. Pretty Woman, he thought. That's what it could become.
Nicole Kidman wasn't Julia Roberts. But could she carry such a role? Adrian wasn't sure. Still, the thought stirred ambition. If he could maneuver Nicole into that position, it might launch her career in America.
"Thanks," Adrian said, closing the folder. Another opportunity to chase, another mountain to climb.
The industry was buzzing weeks later when the Oscar nomination party rolled into Beverly Hills. At the Samuel Goldwyn Theater, Rain Man led the pack with eight nominations. It was a CAA-packaged project from top to bottom, and its success only elevated the agency's mythic status.
Adrian attended in his sharpest suit, blending into the sea of executives, actors, and producers. Yet he knew his place. Nobody cared about the rookie agent in the corner; all eyes were on Barry Levinson, Dustin Hoffman, and Tom Cruise. They basked in the cameras, while Adrian observed quietly, storing away every detail.
CAA's true power wasn't in the glitz but in the leverage. Stars obeyed their agents. Studios bent to Ovitz's will. Deals were bundled and sold as packages, cutting out anyone who didn't play along. It was empire-building disguised as representation. Adrian admired it, even as he plotted how to carve his own share.
Los Angeles nights painted the city in neon, hiding its rot beneath layers of shine. Adrian's Chevrolet pulled up outside a bar on Sunset Boulevard. Dressed in blue jeans, a crisp white T-shirt, and a black blazer, he looked like any other ambitious young man chasing a dream. Only the brick-sized cell phone at his side betrayed his growing means.
Inside, the bar throbbed with noise. Japanese businessmen laughed too loudly on the dance floor, throwing around money like confetti. Adrian scanned the room until he spotted a stocky young man with curly hair at the bar. Adam Sandler.
Adrian approached, waved for two beers, and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter. "Keep them coming," he told the bartender. The man grinned and set the drinks down without protest.
Sandler eyed him with mild suspicion. "You're Adrian Knight?"
Adrian lifted his glass. "Cheers." He clinked it against Sandler's and took a long drink.
"So," Sandler asked, "what do you want with me?"
"I want to sign you," Adrian said without hesitation. His voice carried the calm confidence of a man who had already decided the outcome. "You've got talent, Adam. Real potential. But staying with ITA? That's career suicide. They're finished. Come back to CAA. I'll push you as a comedy star."
Sandler hesitated, fiddling with his glass. "I already have an agent. Ari Emanuel."
Adrian smirked. "You signed last May. Standard rookie contract. One year. All you have to do is not renew."
"But...."
"Listen," Adrian cut in. "Ari Emanuel's finished. Ovitz and Meyer have already made the call. ITA will be buried. You stay there, you sink with them. You come with me, and I'll get your scripts read. CAA controls packaged projects now. You want to write and star? I can make that happen."
Sandler stared, surprised. "You could actually get CAA to back my stuff?"
"Why not? If it's good, it sells. And with SNL as your base, you've got an audience already." Adrian leaned closer, his voice low but firm. "You're funny, Adam. You've got a future. Don't waste it on the wrong horse."
For a moment, Sandler said nothing. Then he gave a small nod. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask," Adrian replied. He drained his beer, gestured for another. "Call me when you're ready. It's almost March, the timing's perfect."
Sandler finished his drink and left soon after, clearly torn between loyalty and survival. Adrian watched him go with a satisfied smirk.
He'd seen this play a hundred times already, even in his short career. Fear dictated everything in Hollywood. Fear of being blacklisted, fear of missing out, fear of choosing wrong. All Adrian had to do was present himself as the safer bet.
When the night grew quieter, Adrian lingered over his last beer. The businessmen on the dance floor were still shouting, flashing cash like fools. He thought of his father, the "cheap old man," who used to rail against the Jewish bankers on Wall Street before despair drove him into the ocean. The memory still stung.
Adrian's own views had been shaped by that bitterness. Hollywood was full of Jews. Ovitz, Emanuel, half the power brokers at CAA itself. He distrusted them instinctively, resented their dominance. And yet, he couldn't deny their brilliance at the game. Even his ambition forced him to acknowledge the irony: to succeed, he would have to beat them at their own craft.
"Jewish vampires," his father had called them. Adrian almost laughed at the echo of those words. Maybe so. But vampires could be killed.
He slipped a twenty onto the counter, rose from his stool, and walked out into the Los Angeles night. Another client was within reach. Another step up the ladder. Adrian Knight was far from finished.