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Two days after the incident, Summer Altice walked into Julian’s office.
“It was you?”
The sight of Julian behind the desk clearly shocked her.
All the way from Los Angeles, she had asked Saul who his employer was.
She had not expected the answer to be Julian Moretti.
Julian closed the file on his computer and looked at the bandage across the bridge of her nose.
“There were complications,” he said, “but you still made it to the appointment.”
She looked almost the same as the first time he had seen her: dark brown hair, gray-brown eyes, thick hair parted to the side, sharp features shaped by years in front of cameras.
The bandage was the only thing that broke the image.
Three years earlier, Summer had been listed in Stuff’s “102 Sexiest Women in the World” and had appeared in magazines such as GQ, YM, and Maxim.
Then she had chased a bigger career in Hollywood.
Now she could barely afford legal representation.
If Julian had not seen the news and had Saul call the Hollywood station, she might still have been inside.
“How did you get tangled up with Weinstein?” Julian asked.
The name was vivid in his memory.
In another timeline, it would take a New York Times investigation in 2017 for the producer’s crimes to burst fully into public view.
More than a hundred women would eventually come forward.
The number did not even include those who stayed silent to protect careers, privacy, or simple survival.
Hollywood loved to stand in bright lights.
Underneath, too much of it was rot.
“I went to audition,” Summer said, her voice shaking despite the days that had passed.
“For Rambo.
That bastard…
he…”
She stopped.
Her eyes reddened, and she snatched a tissue from Julian’s desk.
Julian let her cry and waited until her breathing steadied.
“Thank you,” she said at last, jaw tight.
“Julian, if you had not sent someone…
I do not know what I would have done.”
She wiped her eyes hard.
“I decided.
You can offer less if you want.
I will take the HR job.
I hate Hollywood.
I want out.”
“That is what I wanted to discuss,” Julian said.
“For now, you will not receive ordinary pay.”
Summer froze.
“Saul spent 1.32 million dollars to post bond for you.
Your old record is long enough to make the number uglier than it should have been.”
She had been accused of attempted murder, plus a stack of other charges.
With Weinstein’s lawyer interfering and her prior messes dragged into court, bail had climbed to a ridiculous level.
“It was DUI and driving without a license,” Summer protested.
“DUI can be treated as a violent-risk offense.
Add leaving the scene of an accident.”
“I hit a road sign.”
“Then you should review traffic law while you are here.”
Julian picked up a pen and wrote a clean figure on a notepad.
“The bond money should eventually come back, but not until the case moves through court.
That could take a year and a half, maybe longer.
Saul will also represent you.
Counting interest at a basic rate, legal time, and the risk I am carrying, you owe me two hundred thousand dollars.
That is two years and one month of work.
Living expenses will be handled by the company.”
He slid the notepad toward her.
“So.
Do you want to pay and leave now, or stay?”
Summer stared at the number.
“Tell me what the job involves.”
If the conditions were bearable, she had nowhere better to go.
“I need you to contact former Playmates and centerfold models.
You have some kind of…”
“Sisterhood network,” she said.
She had modeled it loosely on college sororities.
At first it was half joke, half survival tool.
Over time, more and more women joined, until it became the private contact network for a large share of the models who had worked with the magazine.
“Right.
That.
I expect to recruit sixty to seventy women, assuming they meet the standard.
You are one of the few people who can reach them without making it feel like a corporate summons.”
Most of the old contracts had been service agreements, not management contracts.
The company made the women visible; the women brought attention back to the company.
Everyone got something, then drifted apart.
The relationship was shallow by design.
“That is all?”
“Were you hoping to model again?”
“Not just a model.” Summer straightened.
“I studied communications.
I kept a 3.85 GPA, made Academic All-WAC in volleyball, and still found time to work professionally.”
In school, Summer had been the kind of student her peers envied: strong grades, serious athletic ability, and a modeling contract at sixteen.
She had played for the San Diego State Aztecs, then transferred to UCLA to continue her studies.
In Los Angeles, a Playboy photographer had noticed her at a swimwear competition.
“If you are that impressive…”
Julian’s eyes settled on her face.
“I happen to need a secretary.
From now on, you stay with me.”
He did need a capable secretary.
Summer suited the role in more than one way.
“A secretary?” Summer said, offended.
“That is all I am worth?”
“Between the recruiting work and the assistant role, I will count it at eight thousand dollars a month.”
That was comfortably above the average American income at the time.
Summer’s expression changed so quickly it was almost comic.
“When you put it that way, secretarial work has its virtues.”
“High pay means high expectations.
I need you available around the clock for work and daily support.”
Julian handed her a glass.
“Start by getting me coffee.”
“Are you hiring a secretary or a maid?”
“For my purposes, there is overlap.”
“Then why not hire a full-time housekeeper and save money?”
Summer shot him a glare, snatched the glass, and stormed out.
Saul, who had been standing quietly to the side, finally stepped forward.
“That is Weinstein,” he said.
“If you intend to help her, you need to understand what you are stepping into.”
Julian smiled, slow and unreadable.
“Saul, have you forgotten how we acquired this company?”
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I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.