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Raphael stopped, still smiling, and handled every single one of them.
The swarm came at him like zombies—business cards, script summaries, investment pitches, Dior executives making small talk, CK higher-ups offering polite congratulations. He hadn't expected the two luxury brands to send people, but he guessed Philip had quietly arranged it.
He collected a stack of cards, nodded at a dozen "let's talk soon" promises, and said "maybe later" at least thirty times.
Ari somehow squeezed through the crowd, sweating, and whispered urgently in his ear.
"Raphael, whatever you do, don't trust those indie producers."
Raphael glanced at him. "Why?"
"They have zero resources, zero money, zero crew. They just want to ride your heat. If you even hint you're interested in prestige pictures, they'll glue themselves to you and use your name to chase funding."
Raphael laughed softly. "Relax. I have zero interest in arthouse films."
"Really?"
"Really." Raphael's tone was dead serious. "I will never shoot an awards-chasing movie in my life. You can take that to the bank."
Ari exhaled in relief. "Good."
Natalie stood right beside them and had heard every word.
When Ari left, she looked at Raphael.
"Why are you so against prestige pictures?"
Raphael raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Arthouse films," she said. "Oscars, Academy recognition, the kind of credibility that opens every door later. Why wouldn't you want that?"
Raphael thought for half a second.
"Because they don't make money."
Natalie actually froze.
"That's… it?"
"That's it." He met her eyes. "I act to make money. Prestige pictures don't."
Natalie opened her mouth, then closed it. She had more to say—about how you had to play the game, integrate into the real power circles of Hollywood if you wanted a long career—but the words stayed locked behind her teeth.
Raphael's Force perception caught the unspoken ambition anyway.
The squid circle. The true core of Hollywood power.
He had half the bloodline for camouflage, not for kneeling.
Sucking up to those people? Playing their games? Never.
"Let's go in," he said. "Screening's about to start."
They walked into the theater.
Lights dimmed.
George Lucas gave a long thank-you speech.
The cast introduced themselves one by one.
Then the film began.
Raphael didn't sit in the front row reserved for the stars.
He walked to the back and dropped into the seat beside Madeline.
Madeline glanced at him. "Why aren't you up front?"
Raphael smiled. "I promised I'd watch it with you. So here I am."
Madeline didn't reply. She just reached over and squeezed his hand.
The Lucasfilm logo appeared.
The familiar John Williams score swelled.
Two hours later the credits rolled.
The theater exploded with applause.
Madeline turned to him.
"You were good."
Raphael grinned. "Thanks, Mom."
She paused, then added bluntly, "But the plot is still ridiculous."
Raphael: "…"
Madeline kept going. "Jedi can't fall in love, so of course he falls in love, then he can't admit it, then he's ready to die for it—classic space soap opera. So cliché."
Raphael gave a helpless laugh. "You're not wrong."
Madeline looked at him and suddenly smiled.
"But I still loved it."
She patted his hand. "Because my son is in it."
Philip leaned in from the next seat. "Mom, stop roasting him."
Madeline shot him a glare. "This isn't roasting. This is honesty!"
Philip surrendered instantly. "Fine, you're right."
Raphael watched the mother-son banter and felt a quiet warmth spread through his chest.
Madeline turned back to the rolling credits.
"But seriously, Raphael—you really acted well."
Raphael blinked. "You mean that?"
"Absolutely." She nodded. "That Anakin—his struggle, his conflict, his pain—you made it believable. I don't know what real Jedi are like, but the young man you played felt completely real."
Raphael's chest swelled with genuine pride. A compliment from his own mother hit harder than any Oscar ever could.
Madeline kept talking. "This movie is going to be huge!"
Philip nodded beside her. "No doubt. Star Wars is American pop-culture DNA. As long as the franchise lives, Raphael's stardom is locked in for at least the next three years."
Raphael agreed completely. That was exactly why he had fought so hard for this role in the first place.
He leaned back in his seat, watching "Anakin Skywalker – Raphael Lee" scroll across the screen.
From tonight onward, the whole world would know that name.
---
That same night Philip took Madeline back to the hotel. The rest of the cast boarded the studio jet and flew straight to Europe for the international press leg.
George's plan: Raphael and Ewan would hit Europe; Natalie and Samuel would cover Asia.
Raphael had briefly considered volunteering for Asia—he wanted to see what Beijing and Shanghai looked like in 2002—but Natalie was going there too.
Team up with her?
He killed that idea instantly.
The jet cut through the clouds toward Europe.
First stop: Paris.
Then Berlin, Rome, Madrid, and finally London.
The first few cities went smoothly—interviews, fan events, TV appearances. Raphael had the routine down cold.
Until London.
August 19, London hotel, media roundtable.
Raphael and Ewan sat on stage. Dozens of journalists aimed cameras and recorders at them.
The first few questions were harmless.
Impressions of British fans?
Ever been to London before?
Favorite things about the UK?
Raphael answered with his usual easy smile.
Then a reporter stood up.
His badge read: The Sun.
"Mr. Lee, I have one question."
Raphael nodded. "Go ahead."
The man looked him dead in the eye.
"According to our sources, during the World Cup you earned more than one billion dollars through British bookmakers."
The entire room went silent.
Every head snapped toward Raphael.
Ewan's jaw dropped.
One billion?!
The reporter kept going.
"You made that much money and paid zero tax to the UK. Do you think that's appropriate?"
Ewan's face changed.
The studio handlers' faces changed.
Raphael's smile stayed perfectly in place.
But inside, the Force was already stirring.
He stared straight into the reporter's eyes.
"Sir, what's your name?"
The man hesitated. "I… James Wilson."
Raphael nodded.
"Mr. Wilson, let me ask you a few questions in return."
The reporter stayed silent.
Raphael continued calmly.
"First: I purchased sports lottery tickets. In the UK, do lottery winnings require tax?"
The reporter opened his mouth to say "yes."
No sound came out.
An invisible grip closed around his throat.
Raphael kept going.
"Second: Did I buy those tickets inside the UK, or through legal offshore channels?"
Still no sound.
Raphael smiled.
"Third: If anything I did was illegal, why hasn't the British government sued me?"
James Wilson's face turned beet red. He stood there choking on air, unable to speak a single word.
The room stared in confusion.
Raphael stood up.
"Mr. Wilson, I've answered your question. As for you… you look unwell. I suggest you see a doctor soon."
He turned to the moderator.
"Are we done here?"
The moderator nodded dumbly. "Y-yes."
Raphael walked off stage and headed for the exit.
Ewan hurried after him, still stunned.
"Raphael, what the hell just happened? Why couldn't that guy talk? Was he telling the truth? You really made—"
Raphael cut him off. "Let's go back and rest."
On the way to the car his phone buzzed.
Ari's text: [Opening weekend numbers are in. North America $103M, overseas $84M. Congratulations!]
Raphael glanced at the screen. The corner of his mouth lifted.
Global opening: $187 million.
He didn't remember the exact original number, but this was definitely higher.
That night the reporter story flew back to the States.
George Lucas called immediately.
"Raphael, I heard about that Sun asshole. Don't worry—I'll handle it."
Raphael leaned back on the hotel sofa.
"George, it's fine. Small thing."
"Small thing?" George's voice rose. "That bastard was trying to manufacture a scandal!"
Raphael smiled. "Then take care of it. Call Murdoch and ask if he wants to burn his own brand."
George was practically panting with rage. "I already reached out to Fox. They'll issue a statement tomorrow."
Raphael hung up and narrowed his eyes.
That reporter had been too targeted.
Someone had put him up to it.
He closed his eyes and let Force perception expand.
The faint mental imprint he had left on the man was still there.
Raphael opened his eyes.
2 a.m.
He left the hotel.
Following the invisible thread, he found James Wilson's apartment in a run-down East End building.
With a tiny push of the Force the door lock clicked open.
He stepped inside.
James Wilson was lying in bed, tossing and turning.
The second he saw Raphael he shot upright.
"You—how did you get in?!"
Raphael raised one hand.
Wilson's voice died in his throat. An invisible weight slammed him back onto the mattress, pinning him motionless.
Raphael closed the door behind him with a soft click.
"Mr. Wilson," he said quietly, "we need to have a little talk about who told you to ask that question."