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Ethan had never been a professional gambler, but the 2002 World Cup was impossible to forget.
France losing to Senegal.
The strange, furious controversy around South Korea’s run.
The matches people still argued about years later.
Even two decades on, some results had burned themselves into his memory.
In his old timeline, he had watched those games with anger, disbelief, and the kind of sleep-deprived obsession only football could produce.
Now he had a different wish.
History had better stay ugly.
If those matches changed, his first real shot at capital would vanish.
Football betting was a global business, and during the World Cup the money became ridiculous.
A few people got rich overnight.
Many more learned how quickly one bad wager could push them to the edge.
Ethan was not interested in the romance of gambling.
He wanted to use the tournament once, hit hard, and walk away with enough money to begin buying MGM.
Simple in theory.
Messier in practice.
Even if he knew the results, sportsbooks did not let a man win whatever he wanted.
Every book had limits.
Some serious operators might take hundreds of thousands on a single match, maybe more from the right client, but no legitimate house would casually accept a ten-million-dollar bet from a random twenty-two-year-old.
And if he kept winning, they would notice.
They could limit him, blacklist him, close a market, or decide the money looked suspicious enough to make his life very uncomfortable.
Sportsbooks were legal businesses when it suited them, and legal businesses were very good at protecting themselves.
In 2002, though, the betting market was far less connected than it would become later.
Books competed with one another.
Information moved, but not instantly.
A sudden pattern in one jurisdiction did not necessarily flash across the whole world in time.
That gave Ethan a chance.
He could not hit one place and expect to survive.
He needed people moving in different directions, placing coordinated bets through separate channels, then disappearing before anyone saw the pattern.
That was why he needed the party.
More specifically, he needed the friends who would come to it.
In the original Ethan’s memory, those people were his inner circle.
Trusted.
Smart.
Reckless enough to act.
He would need all of them if he wanted to turn one dangerous opportunity into a billion-dollar opening move.
That night, Charles Hawthorne came to the hospital and sent Emily home to rest.
Father and son were alone in the room when Ethan spoke first.
“Dad, you look exhausted.
Trouble at work?”
Charles glanced at him.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you keep showing up in a suit after office hours.
That means you’re still working.”
Charles looked down at his dress shoes and gave a tired laugh.
“You’re not wrong.
We held an internal screening recently.
The movie wasn’t what we needed it to be.”
“Windtalkers?” Ethan asked.
“John Woo’s war film?”
His father looked genuinely surprised.
“You’re paying attention to movies now?
You used to care about finance, not releases.” He paused, then nodded.
“Yes.
Windtalkers.”
Ethan leaned back against the pillows.
“Let me guess.
Woo’s style doesn’t fit a war picture as well as everyone hoped.
I’ve seen his films.
He knows action.
Gunfights, movement, operatic tension.
But war is a different animal, and he hasn’t proved himself there.”
“Face/Off and Mission: Impossible 2 gave us confidence,” Charles said.
“We backed him, gave him room, and hoped he would give MGM a major win.
But…”
He stopped there.
Ethan offered him half of a peeled pear from the bedside tray.
“Dad, what happens if Windtalkers fails at the box office?”
Charles gave a bitter smile.
“What do you think happens?
MGM takes another hit.
The money we made from Legally Blonde and Hannibal last year gets swallowed.
It will be bad.”
“I mean for you personally.
You led the project, didn’t you?”
Charles went quiet.
“I don’t know,” he said at last.
“Maybe resignation.
The board won’t let an incompetent man sit in this chair forever.”
He forced a reassuring smile.
“But don’t worry.
Even if I leave MGM, I’ll find another company.
I’ve been in this business for more than thirty years.
Someone will hire me.
It may be a smaller shop, that’s all.”
Ethan’s expression turned serious.
“That would still be a bad outcome, wouldn’t it?”
Charles studied him, confused by the change in his son.
The old Ethan had never cared about movies, never cared about his father’s work.
Charles had wanted him in entertainment for years.
With that face, that body, and the resources Charles controlled, he could have launched his son with every advantage.
Whether he became Tom Cruise or Tom Hanks would depend on fate.
A father could buy the first spotlight.
He could not buy destiny.
Instead, the stubborn brat had gone into finance, leaving all of Charles’s Hollywood connections unused.
He had never completely gotten over it.
“Ethan,” Charles said, “what are you trying to say?”
Ethan stopped circling the point.
“Dad, I know you’ve always wanted me in the entertainment business.
While I was unconscious, there were moments when I couldn’t answer anyone, but I was aware.
I had a lot of time to think.”
Charles went still.
“Maybe you were right,” Ethan continued.
“There’s nothing wrong with using what your parents give you.
I was too rebellious before.
And living under the lights, being watched by the whole world…
maybe that doesn’t sound so bad.”
Charles’s eyes brightened.
Something he had wanted for years had finally happened.
His son had come around.
Ethan was twenty-two.
That was not too late.
Plenty of stars had started later.
With the right introductions, the right directors, the right publicity, anything was possible.
“Ethan, my son, that’s a wise decision.” Charles’s voice warmed immediately.
“Don’t worry.
As long as I have anything to say about it—”
“No, no.
Don’t celebrate yet, Dad.
I’m not finished.”
Charles was smiling so hard his eyes nearly disappeared.
“Then keep going.”
Ethan drew a breath.
“I still spent years studying finance.
If I walk away from that without using it, it feels like a waste.
So I want one final gamble.”
His father’s smile paused.
Ethan met his eyes.
“I need money.”
Time was tight.
He did not have a cleaner bridge.
The one opening he had was the one thing Charles wanted most: his son stepping into the entertainment world.
Charles did not seem worried.
“How much?”
“Ten million dollars.”
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