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Raphael walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at the pinned man.
"Who told you to ask that question?"
James Wilson's eyes bulged. He tried to speak, but the invisible grip on his throat turned every word into a silent gasp.
Raphael eased the pressure just enough.
"Talk."
James sucked in a ragged breath.
"It was… a betting company…"
"Which one?"
"William… William Hill…"
Raphael nodded. Exactly as I thought.
William Hill—the same bookmaker Goldman had used to place his World Cup bets.
"How much did they pay you?"
"Fifty… thousand… pounds…"
Raphael gave a cold laugh.
Fifty thousand pounds was worth selling your soul for?
The next second James's face twisted in agony. Both hands flew to his chest. He rolled off the bed, gasping, then went still.
Raphael released the Force, turned, and left the apartment without looking back.
The next morning the building manager noticed the door ajar, called the police, and James Wilson was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital—official cause: "massive heart attack."
At the same time Raphael paid a quiet visit to the CEO of William Hill. By the time he left, the man's eyes were glassy and obedient. Then the owner. Then every major shareholder.
Three days later the entire company had been "cleaned."
The CEO and owner were now perfect puppets—loyal only to Raphael.
The shareholders had been "voluntarily" forced to sell their stakes at rock-bottom prices, their memories wiped and replaced with the firm belief that "sports betting is a dying industry."
On paper William Hill was still the respected century-old British bookmaker.
In reality it had become Raphael's private ATM.
From now on, every future World Cup, Olympics, or major sporting event could be gently nudged. The profits would flow forever.
When the crew's jet finally left London, Ewan leaned across the aisle in the private cabin.
"Raphael, what the hell were you doing those three days? You disappeared every night."
Raphael leaned back in the leather seat.
"Handling some private business."
Ewan narrowed his eyes. "Does it have anything to do with that Sun reporter?"
"More or less."
Ewan opened his mouth, saw the look on Raphael's face, and wisely shut it again.
The jet climbed into the clouds and headed home.
---
September 2, Los Angeles.
Jessica was waiting at the airport gate.
The second Raphael stepped out she ran into his arms. He lifted her off the ground for a second, then set her down.
"Ready?" she whispered against his ear.
"Always at one hundred percent," he grinned.
"Me too."
Step Up was set to premiere on September 20. There was no time to rest. The next week belonged to promotion—and to securing that final $30 million payout from Universal.
Even though Raphael no longer cared about the money, a promise was a promise. Plus the film would decide whether Jessica's career kept climbing.
She studied his face, a little worried. "You look exhausted. Want to take two days off?"
Raphael smiled. "Rest? While I'm young I should hustle. Plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead."
Jessica punched his chest twice, laughing. "Stop talking nonsense!"
They drove back to Malibu.
The California sun was bright. Every time their eyes met across the car they both broke into the same sunny smile.
His phone buzzed.
Ari: [Star Wars Episode II third-week numbers: North America $271M, global $502M.]
A week earlier, while Raphael was still in Europe, Ari had sent the second-week figures: [North America $197M, global $358M.]
It was tracking exactly where Raphael wanted. As long as the final total beat the original timeline's $650M—and ideally pushed past $700M—he would call it a win.
There was bad news too.
Ari had warned that the Los Angeles Times had run several savage reviews. The Los Angeles Weekly joined in. Hollywood Reporter and New York Weekly were openly calling George Lucas "ready for retirement."
The only silver lining: no one was attacking Raphael personally. They weren't praising him either.
Raphael sneered inside. This was exactly why he had zero interest in prestige pictures. He refused to let a bunch of self-important critics drag him into their games.
As long as he didn't care what they wrote, they had no power over him.
IMDb and Rotten Tomatoes were still tiny babies in 2002—completely irrelevant.
Jessica glanced at him. "Who texted?"
"Ari." Raphael wiggled the phone. "Star Wars third-week box office."
Jessica just gave a soft "oh" and didn't ask for details.
She never brought up the Natalie rumors either.
Back in Malibu they cooked dinner together—Raphael made light Cantonese dishes, Jessica threw together a few traditional Mexican favorites.
After a month apart the first night home felt warm and full of love.
The price, however, was steep.
The next morning when they started the Step Up press tour, Jessica had to lean on him the entire day.
Oddly enough, that only helped. Every photographer and interviewer who saw them instinctively treated them like a real couple.
---
The Step Up publicity window was only one week.
The budget was barely $10 million—no effects, no big set pieces, no scandal fuel.
The only selling point was Raphael and Jessica—two red-hot young stars falling in love on screen.
At the kick-off meeting Mark Platt was brutally honest.
"We don't have money for billboards or planted articles. All we have is the two of you—and the rumors swirling around you."
Raphael leaned back. Jessica sat beside him.
"So?"
"So—" Mark looked at them seriously. "This week you two are going to flirt like crazy. TV, magazines, interviews—be as lovey-dovey as possible. Make every teenager think you're actually dating."
Jessica raised an eyebrow. "We are dating."
"I know." Mark nodded. "But you can't say it out loud."
Raphael blinked. "Come again?"
"If you confirm it, the magic dies. Teenagers love the guessing game—the 'are they or aren't they' tension. If you say 'we're just friends,' they'll call you liars. If you say 'we're together,' the spark disappears."
Raphael got it instantly. "So we stay in that sweet ambiguous zone and let them argue online."
"Exactly!" Mark grinned. "The more they fight about your relationship, the hotter the movie gets."
Jessica shrugged. "I'm fine with it."
Raphael shrugged too. "Same."
The Universal publicist added the final rules.
"You can hold hands, hug, stare into each other's eyes—all of it. But when reporters ask directly, stay vague: 'We're really close,' 'She's special,' 'He takes great care of me.' Never close the door completely."
Raphael nodded. "Understood."
The next seven days they hit every outlet in Los Angeles.
First morning: KTLA morning show.
They sat on the couch. The host asked about their first impressions.
Raphael thought for a second. "She was stretching in the sunlight, wearing dance clothes. The moment she turned and looked at me, the whole studio lit up."
Jessica blushed and laughed beside him.
The host pressed her. "Jessica, what was your first impression of him?"
She glanced at Raphael. "There was a scene where he crawled out of the mud after a rain shot—covered in dirt, looking like a mess. But when I looked into his eyes, I knew I was already in love."
The host's eyes sparkled. "Love at first sight?"
Jessica smiled. "Pretty much…"
Raphael coughed. "Wow, if you keep talking your manager is going to kill me."
Jessica burst out laughing. The host laughed even harder.
That afternoon they hit KIIS-FM—the biggest pop station for teens.
Host Ryan Seacrest had them in the booth for rapid-fire questions.
"Raphael, Jessica's birthday?"
"April 28."
"Jessica, Raphael's favorite food?"
". Especially chicken."
"Raphael, Jessica's favorite color?"
"Blue."
"Jessica, does Raphael snore when he sleeps?"
Jessica paused, then grinned. "I can't answer that."
Ryan's eyes lit up. "Why not?"
Jessica looked at Raphael, smile widening. "Because answering would mean admitting I know whether he snores or not."
Ryan spun to Raphael. "Do you snore?"
Raphael kept a straight face. "I sleep very quietly."
Ryan raised an eyebrow at Jessica. "Do you believe him?"
Jessica shook her head. "Not even a little."
Raphael glared at her. "You—"
Jessica collapsed laughing on the couch.
The entire studio audience—listening live—lost their minds.