The kitchen table was buried under a mountain of newspapers. Headlines from the San Francisco Chronicle to the San Diego Union-Tribune were singing the same tune: The Glass Horizon was the underdog story of 1981. With an $8.2 million domestic haul, the film had defied every industry metric, proving that a quiet, intense drama could compete with the neon-soaked blockbusters of the summer.
But for Anastasia, the most important piece of paper wasn't a review. It was the envelope Robin Pareto held in her trembling hands.
"I've never seen a first-time check this large," Robin whispered, sliding the document across the wood grain. "The distributor had to cut it early just to keep our lawyers from hovering. Your 2% of the theatrical gross, plus your remaining salary installments."
Anastasia looked at the figure: $172,500. In 1981, that was enough to buy ten suburban homes outright.
The CommissionWithout a word, Anastasia took a second, pre-filled check from her own ledger and pushed it toward Robin. It was for $17,250—the 10% commission they had agreed upon in their original contract.
Robin stared at it. "Stasia, you don't have to pay me the full amount today. We could wait for the home-video residuals—"
"A contract is a contract, Robin," Anastasia said, her green eyes steady. "You fought for those gross points when the directors thought they were worthless. You earned your share. Take it, buy yourself a better car, and get a bigger office. We're going to need the space."
Robin took the check, her eyes shimmering with a mix of gratitude and awe. She realized then that she wasn't just representing a child star; she was working for a financier who happened to be fourteen.
The Institutional PivotThat afternoon, Anastasia didn't head to the mall or a car dealership. Instead, she sat in the back of the family station wagon, flanked by Sarah and Beth, as her father drove them to the towering headquarters of a major bank in downtown Los Angeles.
She had requested a private meeting with a senior investment officer. Because of her recent press coverage, the bank had agreed, though they clearly expected a starstruck child wanting to put her money in a high-yield savings account.
Mr. Henderson, a man in a pinstriped suit who looked like he had been carved out of mahogany, greeted them in a glass-walled office.
"It's a pleasure, Miss Jones," Henderson said, looking at the fourteen-year-old. "Most young performers your age are looking for a trust fund or a new wardrobe. How can we help you manage your earnings?"
Anastasia leaned forward. She didn't use her Aura—she wanted the cold, hard logic of her words to do the work. "I want to open a corporate account for Jones International, and I want to diversify. I'm not interested in traditional bonds, Mr. Henderson."
Henderson smiled patronizingly. "I see. Real estate? Gold?"
"Technology," Anastasia said. She pulled a notepad from her bag. "There is a small company up in Cupertino. They've been public for about a year, but the market is skeptical because of their recent internal shifts. They're called Apple Computer."
Henderson chuckled. "The 'home computer' fad? Miss Jones, that's a highly volatile stock. Many experts think the market is already saturated."
"The market hasn't even begun," Anastasia replied, her voice like flint. "I want to take $50,000 of this check and buy as many shares as possible. And I want to set aside another $30,000 for a private venture. I've heard rumors of a small software firm in Washington state called Microsoft. I want your firm to find a way to get me a seat at the table for their next private funding round."
The Architect's VisionThe room went silent. Sarah and Beth looked at each other, confused by the names of companies that sounded like toys. Henderson, however, stopped smiling. He looked at the girl's auburn hair, her calm posture, and the sheer certainty in her eyes.
"You want to put nearly half your earnings into... software?" Henderson asked.
"I want to own the future," Anastasia said. "While everyone else in this town is buying cocaine and Ferraris, I'm buying the infrastructure of the twenty-first century. If you can't facilitate that, I'll find a bank that can."
Henderson cleared his throat, suddenly reaching for a pen. "No, no... that won't be necessary. We can certainly execute those trades. It's just... an unusual request for a girl of your years."
"I've had a lot of time to think about it," Anastasia said, a small, knowing smile touching her lips.
As they walked out of the bank, the California sun hitting the glass towers, Anastasia felt a profound sense of relief. In her past life, she had been a victim of time. In this life, she was making time work for her.
"Stasia," Beth whispered as they reached the car. "What's a 'Microsoft'?"
"It's the reason we're never going to be poor again, Beth," Anastasia said, pulling her sister into a hug.
She had the fame, she had the talent, and now, she had the capital. The "garage movie" had been the spark, but the investments she had just made were the fuel that would turn Jones International into a global empire.