The neon of Hollywood Boulevard bled across the pristine hood of the Lotus.
Aaron eased the car to a stop at a curb in the red-light district, killing the headlights.
They sat in the dark, the engine ticking as it cooled.
“The script calls for a survivor,” Aaron said, his eyes scanning the sidewalk.
“She’s working the Boulevard just to make rent.
She meets a corporate raider who’s lost in the neighborhood, gives him directions, and it spirals into a week-long arrangement.”
Aaron pointed discreetly through the windshield at the women working the corner.
“Watch how they work the window.
It’s an appraisal.
They’re clocking the guy’s wallet before he even puts the car in park.
That’s the baseline you need.”
Nicole didn’t blink, her focus locked on the street, absorbing the micro-expressions and the shifting body language.
“I’ve been driving through this neighborhood for the past three days,” Nicole said, her voice quiet in the dark cabin.
“Getting the headspace isn’t the problem.”
“Good.
When you walk into that room, ground it.
Don’t play the tragedy, play the transaction.”
Aaron kept his voice steady, but the mechanics of the casting were bothering him.
He glanced at Nicole’s long legs stretched out in the passenger footwell.
She was knocking on five-foot-eleven.
Al Pacino was five-foot-seven on a good day.
It was an open industry secret: male A-listers absolutely refused to be dwarfed by their romantic leads.
If Pacino signed the contract and got insecure during the screen test, Nicole would be cut before she even opened her mouth.
Aaron needed a new angle.
The next afternoon, Aaron was sitting in a production office on the Warner Bros.
lot with Thomas Gray, the North American head of Golden Harvest and the lead producer on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
“Your leverage is the stunt work,” Aaron said, tapping the file.
“You brought in Hong Kong guys who actually know how to take a hit.
It makes American action look completely sluggish.”
Gray leaned forward.
“We have guys doing wirework inside ninety-pound animatronic suits.
Nobody has even attempted it.”
“That’s the hook,” Aaron said.
“You have physical comedy backed by legitimate martial arts.
The comic has a massive cult following, and the cartoon is dominating Saturday mornings.
The built-in audience is already there.”
Gray watched him carefully.
“You see the vision.”
“Let’s talk about the reality.” Aaron looked right past the pitch.
He was evaluating a product with no A-list names, a tight budget, and stuntmen sweating in rubber suits instead of ILM optical effects.
“You already made the rounds with the major studios.”
“Fox looked at it,” Gray admitted, shaking his head.
“They offered two million for the North American theatrical rights.
It was an insult.”
“The lowball makes sense,” Aaron replied.
“To the Big Seven, a ten-million-dollar indie is just a rounding error.
They assume the marketing will eat the gross.”
He kept his expression entirely neutral.
‘Let them think it’s a risky bet,’ he thought.
Gray didn’t need to know the reality.
Aaron already knew this wasn’t just some secondary-market filler—it was going to shatter the box office, gross over two hundred million, and become the biggest independent release in history.
“We drop the majors,” Aaron said smoothly.
“We take it to New Line Cinema.
They built their house on genre films, and they’ll actually pull the trigger.”
“We wrap in early July,” Gray said, the business clicking into place.
“Do you need a rough cut?”
“The second you lock picture.
I’ll get the mid-major buyers into a screening room.”
Golden Harvest wasn’t a domestic studio; they needed to recoup their budget fast, and a strong North American theatrical run would dictate their global market value.
Aaron was going to hand them the exact bidding war they needed.
Three days later, Aaron walked Nicole onto the Disney lot in Burbank for the Pretty Woman callback.
“Pfeiffer and Golino both passed,” Aaron said as they navigated the corridors toward the casting office.
“They’re dipping into the newcomer pool because they have to.
They’re out of A-listers.”
The moment they walked into the waiting area, the temperature dropped.
Richard Lovett was standing in the corner with his client, Julia Roberts.
Lovett was a fellow junior agent at CAA, older than Aaron, but currently losing the internal war for Ovitz’s attention.
Aaron’s massive Cannes sweep had turned the agency floor into a bloodbath, and every move they made was being heavily scrutinized.
Lovett clocked Aaron and Nicole immediately.
He leaned in close to Julia.
“You already sat with the producers, Goldstein and Reuther.
You have the momentum.”
Julia glanced across the room, her posture tight.
“I heard Aaron Anderson packaged the early stages of this.”
“He put some pieces together,” Lovett said, keeping his voice low but his eyes on Aaron.
“He’s a dealmaker, not a talent manager.
That’s Nicole Kidman.
She’s fresh off the boat from Sydney.
The only reason she’s in this room is because she’s sharing Aaron’s hotel suite.”
Lovett also saw the glaring physical liability.
He knew Pacino would never share the screen with a woman who was five-eleven.
Across the room, Aaron swept the competition.
It was a tight circle.
Julia Roberts was the obvious threat; her massive, iconic smile was genetically engineered for the American box office.
Sitting on the far couches were Winona Ryder and Jennifer Connelly.
Aaron mentally crossed them off.
Too young.
They both radiated a fresh-faced innocence that completely missed the gritty, desperate reality of a streetwalker.
Ryder had solid indie credibility from Beetlejuice and Heathers, and Connelly had the pedigree from Once Upon a Time in America, but neither fit the vibe Aaron had hammered out with screenwriter J.F.
Lawton.
It was going to come down to Julia and Nicole.
Nicole had zero Hollywood credits.
Julia had two solid supporting roles already in the can.
Aaron had leverage with the producers, but he didn’t have actual casting authority.
If director Garry Marshall put them head-to-head on camera, Aaron couldn’t rig the tape.
__________________________________________________________________
A/N: I’ve dropped a few reference images in the last few chapters.
Peace out,
Lucent