The three drew near, and Simon greeted them while subtly gauging Jonathan and De Niro's expressions.
Jonathan remained his usual genteel and affable self, but De Niro's face betrayed clear indecision.
Seeing this, Simon realized Jonathan must have had a solid conversation with him.
Still, Robert De Niro obviously hadn't made up his mind.
After last year's shake-ups, WMA—with its rigid structure and fierce internal battles—had clearly begun its slide from dominance. Meanwhile, CAA's packaging tactics were landing Hollywood stars ever-higher paydays. Which agency Robert De Niro favored was obvious.
But Simon was dead set against seeing that happen.
As his role evolved from writer and director to producer and investor, he understood that if CAA grew as unchecked as in the original timeline, Hollywood studios would only grow more powerless.
The fix was straightforward: keep the major agencies in balanced competition.
Daenerys Films was still a minnow splashing up ripples in Hollywood; reshaping industry tides alone was impossible. But Simon wouldn't abandon the push.
So, after a few exchanges, he cut to the chase: "Bob, in my opinion, WMA is the better fit for you."
Since their first meeting, Robert De Niro had taken a real shine to Simon.
Now, he glanced at Jonathan Friedman, pondered, and admitted, "Simon, Joe—actually, Mr. Ovitz has spoken to me personally a few times. Honestly, CAA pulls me in more."
Simon noted Jonathan's slight unease and pressed on to De Niro: "Bob, you know about Sean Connery's office at CAA, right?"
Robert De Niro nodded, puzzled.
Sean Connery was CAA's first big Hollywood catch. To honor him, Michael Ovitz had vowed to reserve a private office for Connery forever.
To most stars, it signaled CAA's devotion to its clients.
Simon saw it differently: "Bob, since signing Connery in 1979, hardly any of his films have been hits. Even that 007 spinoff four years back, Never Say Never Again, wasn't a real success. Yet CAA keeps scoring him big-budget gigs. Bob, what does that tell you?"
De Niro just shook his head, while Jonathan's eyes lit with insight; he stayed quiet, smiling as he waited for Simon to continue.
Simon went on: "It means CAA's deeply hierarchical too. Their team-up system naturally funnels resources to favorites. Connery reaps the benefits. And it's not just him—CAA's got Dustin Hoffman, Warren Beatty, Robert Redford, Al Pacino, all on your stardom level, and they signed on earlier. So, Bob, do you really think joining now would get you the spotlight you deserve?"
Truth be told, Simon's pitch wasn't mere deflection to block De Niro from CAA.
Without his interference, Robert De Niro would indeed join as another marquee name.
But the outcome?
From the nineties onward, De Niro—who could've matched Meryl Streep's acting legacy—faded into comedy roles.
CAA snagged Connery $20 million for Entrapment near seventy. But in his own seventies, De Niro was relegated to crude farces like Dirty Grandpa.
It was one of Hollywood's great tragedies.
Robert De Niro fell silent after Simon's words.
Neither Simon nor Jonathan interrupted.
A moment later, Robert told Jonathan: "Joe, I need more time to think."
Jonathan sensed the tide had turned in their favor and nodded. "Of course, Bob. I'm eager for good news."
Time had slipped past nine-thirty unnoticed.
With that, Robert De Niro said his goodbyes.
After seeing him off and returning to the party, Jonathan asked curiously: "You seem keener than me to keep De Niro from CAA. Why?"
Though they were close, Simon couldn't spill his full thoughts, saying only: "You know about Monday? My chat with Ovitz didn't go well."
Jonathan nodded with a grin.
He knew—and had fretted Simon might bolt to CAA.
After holding back all week, he'd meant to sound him out at the party. Simon's pitch to De Niro had eased his mind completely.
So he shifted topics: "Simon, that actress's profile you faxed this afternoon—Nicole Kidman. I've reached out; snagging her won't be tough. But what's the play?"
Simon didn't hide it. "I want her for Mia."
Jonathan knew Pulp Fiction's casting cold.
Mia was still in submissions. Nicole Kidman had buzz in Australia, but in Hollywood? A total unknown. Slim chance Simon had scouted her performance.
But 'Australia' sparked a link to Janet.
As Simon's agent, though unclear on their drama, Jonathan saw signs they hadn't truly fallen out—not even a real spat.
Maybe Janet had tipped her to Simon.
He knew Simon wasn't rash. If he picked her for Mia, she'd deliver. Run Lola Run had rocketed Sandra to A-list; Jonathan wouldn't mind another top actress in his stable.
They talked a bit more before Simon readied to leave, then recalled something: "Joe, I just whipped up a story script for an animated film. I'll send it Monday—help connect me with Disney."
Jonathan blinked. "Animation?"
Simon nodded. "It's about a lion cub growing into the king of the plains. Called The Lion King."
Jonathan shook his head. "Simon, Disney's not the powerhouse it was. Eisner and Katzenberg sidelined animation. Two years ago, they spun it off as a subsidiary and exiled the staff to some rundown warehouse in Glendale."
Simon tracked Hollywood closely; he knew.
Though pre-3D boom, Disney dropped 2D hits like Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin in the early nineties, but early on, Eisner and Katzenberg prioritized live-action—rumors even swirled of axing animation entirely.
"Joe, I'm aware. I'm not selling the script. If feasible, I want Daenerys to fund it, commissioning Disney's animation arm to produce. Cycles are long, so skip distribution for now. Just pitch it that way."
Jonathan frowned. "Simon, I don't follow."
Simon would puzzle folks more in the future; he hated explaining every time. "Joe, it's a gift for Janet. Just approach Disney as I said."
Jonathan studied him deeply, didn't pry, and smiled. "Alright, you're my key client. But Simon, this is really Pascal's turf. Reaching out to Disney stretches my role."
Simon shrugged. "Amy's swamped—she's off to New York tomorrow. Your cut from me tops hers; pull some extra weight."
Doubting Amy earned less, Jonathan still agreed.
Deal struck, Simon bid farewell.
As usual, Neil Bennett drove; Simon spotted Sandra in the crowd, escorted her to his SUV, and they headed east from Jonathan's toward West Hollywood.
Coldwater Canyon to West Hollywood was a short hop; ten minutes later, the Chevy pulled up outside an apartment near Santa Monica Boulevard.
Eyeing the pitch-black hallway at the entrance, Simon thought better and got out with Sandra.
They'd barely hit the curb when sharp clicks echoed nearby.
Simon eyed Sandra—hands twisted behind her, gaze lowered—and smiled. "Perfect: 'Simon Westeros's New Girl Exposed.'"
Sandra heard the shutters snapping on, flashes firing, and felt an odd thrill. But his nonchalant tone, like skimming tabloid headlines, showed he didn't care.
He wouldn't.
Suddenly irked, she shot back: "Why not 'Sandra Bullock's New Romance Exposed'?"
Simon shrugged. "You're not as famous as me."
"Asshole," Sandra rolled her eyes, toe scuffing the ground. After a pause, she ventured: "Want to come up?"
Simon glanced at the building. "Your assistant—Gina, right? Doesn't she live with you?"
Gina Kolos usually did.
But after accepting his ride, Sandra had hustled her off from the party, insisting she stay out tonight.
Recalling her motives, Sandra's cheeks warmed.
She lied coolly: "Nah, she's got a boyfriend—crashes there weekends."
Simon nodded. "Oh."
Sandra waited, saw no step, and prompted: "Well?"
Simon smiled. "I'll pass. You know Jenny and I aren't squared away yet."
"You—you two broke up, didn't you?"
Sandra glanced at the SUV's front seat, scarcely believing her own words.
Simon shook his head. "No, just a bump. Love's never a straight path."
Disappointment flickered in Sandra's eyes; then she looked up. "Then that woman at the party—would you sleep with her?"
Simon pondered. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"Hm?"
"Depends on the mood."
Sandra's eyes widened, recalling Janet's pet name. "Jenny nailed it—you're a little bastard, Simon."
Simon feigned anxiety. "You won't ditch me as a friend, will you?"
Sandra echoed his line. "Depends on the mood."
Simon chuckled. "Head up—it's late."
But Sandra held still, hands behind her, mustering nerve to meet his eyes. "You know I like you, right?"
"Yeah. That's why I can't come up."
Sandra pushed. "Why?"
Simon gazed at her. "We're good friends, Sandy. I don't care about many people. I have Jenny now—I can't go further with you."
Sandra stared hard. "But you'd bed women you don't care about?"
Simon nodded. "Yeah."
Confounded, Sandra freed her hands, waving wildly. "Aren't you scared Jenny finds out?"
Simon shook his head. "No."
"Why?"
Simon reflected. "Jenny and I—we've got unconventional outlooks. She won't mind."
Sandra huffed. "How do you know? Women do mind."
"I thought so once," Simon nodded. "But post-breakup, I saw she doesn't. Jenny's all about total freedom—do what you want, skip what you don't."
Sandra blurted: "No such freedom exists."
Simon smiled. "That's probably why she likes me."
Sandra shot a disdainful look but waited for more.
"The higher on the pyramid, the freer you are. Jenny thinks I'll top the world's," Simon explained, grinning as he added: "Me too, actually."
Sandra rolled her eyes. "Suddenly your bullshit's lost its charm."
Simon spread his arms. "Good night, then."
Sandra eyed his handsome face, inwardly griping at God's injustice.
So damn good-looking.
So talented.
So cocky.
And not hers.
Bastard.
She stepped in, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
Caught off guard, Simon twisted his head—just in time for her lips to graze his cheek.
Amid the frantic shutters, to spare her humiliation, Simon cupped her waist and gently pushed to part them subtly.
But Sandra clung, shifted, and her soft lips landed square.
They tangled briefly; she nipped his lip at the end before pulling back. Her face glowed rosy under the lamplight. Ignoring the swarming paparazzi, she flashed a victorious smirk and bolted into the hall.
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