Golden sunlight danced on the balcony, covered with lush green vines. A waiter, dressed in a shirt and suit, skillfully navigated through the crowd, carrying a four-tiered dessert tray. The air was filled with a lazy, relaxed atmosphere—morning after the party, where ti seed to slow down.
Finally, the waiter stopped at a table by the window, brought his legs together, and slightly bowed.
"Mr. Star."
He greeted politely, and a bronzed face with sunglasses lifted up, nodding lightly. The man covered the phone's receiver, pausing the conversation. Once he gave permission, the waiter placed the desserts down, carefully arranged the table setting, bowed again, and quietly left.
Only then did Darren Star put the phone back to his ear.
The sunglasses served a dual purpose: shielding his hungover eyes from the sunlight and deterring familiar faces from approaching to say hello—a silent signal that he wasn't available for chit-chat, a code understood by everyone in Hollywood.
"David, don't think I don't see through your ga. You know, I know, and I don't mind. This is indeed an opportunity for Anson, but you should know we're taking a risk, considering it's Brad Pitt. We could easily clear up the misunderstanding and expose your plan to Brad, and in return, we'd beco friends with him."
"Oh, Darren, dear Darren, you shouldn't treat like this. Have you forgotten? I agreed to your request without any hesitation at the very beginning."
"Yes, of course, I haven't forgotten. That's why I'm talking to you now. As for Brad, to be honest, I haven't decided whether I should call him yet."
Darren wasn't in a hurry or nervous; he remained composed, having quickly grasped the key points after a brief mont of chaos and haste.
On the other end of the line was David Klein.
Was David surprised?
Not at all.
He had anticipated this before making the call.
Perhaps Darren's business acun was slightly lacking, but his negotiation and public relations skills were top-notch. Even when facing HBO executives, Darren's silver tongue shone brightly.
Despite this, David couldn't help but throw in a jab, "Ha, you sly old fox. My God! Honestly, do you owe Anson's parents so sort of debt?"
"That's my business. But David, let's be straightforward here. This situation benefits you, , Anson, and everyone involved. We're very willing to cooperate."
"Then that's great. So, what are we discussing now?"
"So compensation. David, if this thing goes through, what kind of figure are you looking at? Surely, you're not planning to leak any details."
"Jesus Christ. Darren, you're sabotaging Anson's career prospects."
"No, I'm not greedy. My demands are quite simple: you know, public relations, dia coverage, promotion, and of course, Anson's pay."
Back and forth, they parried and thrust.
The negotiation had already seen several exchanges of offense and defense.
Then David Klein caught on to sothing crucial, feeling both exasperated and amused. He looked up at the sky and paused, "…The current figure isn't enough?"
"Not enough. Anson has already shot two episodes, and now this is the third. You know, in sequel films, the actors' pay tends to increase. Though this isn't a sequel, it also wasn't part of the original plan."
"Darren, you really are a shaless old fox."
"Thank you for the complint. The feeling is mutual."
"Alright. I get it—eighty. Darren, if you dare say a hundred right now, I'm hanging up."
The "eighty" here referred to "eighty thousand," or $80,000.
In a flash, David Klein assessed the situation and decisively offered a figure, cutting off Darren's path for further bargaining.
Darren could sense David Klein's decisiveness, and the "hundred thousand dollars" that was on the tip of his tongue was quickly swallowed. Knowing when to stop, Darren simply replied, "Pleasure doing business."
Seeing how quickly Darren agreed, David Klein couldn't help but grow suspicious. "Damn it... I can trust you, right? Make sure your PR resources are mobilized, Darren. I need that push."
Darren didn't bother to explain further; a single sentence was enough. "David, I said, pleasure doing business."
"Pleasure doing business."
Click—
The conversation didn't continue any further, as the call was abruptly ended on the other side.
Darren glanced at the phone screen, realizing that his sunglasses were blocking his view. He lowered his gaze, looking over the rim of the glasses.
Indeed, the call had been disconnected.
But Darren didn't mind; a small smile curled at the corners of his lips.
David Klein needed his cooperation and assistance, revealing the entire plan. Darren, with his sharp intuition, imdiately grasped his old friend's underlying motives.
Thinking it over, this plan would benefit both the "Friends" production team and Anson. Moreover, Darren could gain favor with David Klein, avoiding the need to repay the favor of arranging Anson's audition while waiting for David's future return of the favor—a win-win deal.
Besides, if "Friends" could break through the salary structure, it would also be advantageous for "Sex and the City."
In Darren's eyes, David Klein was indeed formidable—
A single opportunity, an unexpected event.
It wasn't really a big deal, but David Klein connected the dots, acted decisively, and made quick decisions.
Courage and boldness.
Of course, Darren wasn't far behind, assessing the situation and aligning with David Klein's thoughts in a flash, securing the maximum benefits for both Anson and himself. In less than five minutes, two top producers had completed their negotiation and cooperation.
As Darren said, "Pleasure doing business."
Buzz. Buzz, buzz.
From outside ca the rumbling of an engine.
Darren instinctively looked out, and not just him; the other patrons enjoying their brunch also curiously turned their attention outside.
The newcor was not in a sports car.
In Los Angeles, a variety of sports cars are commonplace, still captivating tourists and residents who love spotting luxury vehicles on the streets. But for industry veterans like Darren, sports cars have long lost their appeal—unless they're limited editions.
But that wasn't the case here.
What appeared was a motorcycle.
Any expert on the scene would recognize it imdiately—it was a BMW R1200C, the sa model Jas Bond rode in "Tomorrow Never Dies."
Sleek, minimalist, and stylish.
The rider parked, turned off the engine, and dismounted with an effortless grace. His long legs were particularly striking, his tall and lean fra, balanced and muscular, glead under the Californian sun, instantly drawing a wave of murmurs from the crowd.
Even Darren, who usually didn't care, found himself looking over.
And then.
The man removed his helt, running a hand through his tousled sandy-brown hair. The smile that spread across his face in the sunlight was enough to take the breath away from everyone present.
"Hey, Uncle Darren."
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