In the early hours of the morning, the sky outside was turning a soft lavender, heralding the arrival of dawn. But on the third floor of Star Talent Brokerage, the lights still burned brightly. Inside Helen Solomon's office, time crawled.
Helen sat rigidly in her chair, the faint ticking of her elegant ladies' watch louder than the hum of the overhead lights. She glanced at her wrist for the hundredth time, opened her mailbox again, then closed it with a sigh. The calm on her face couldn't fully mask the unease in her eyes.
On the sofa, Amanda Newhouse was draped over the cushions with a newspaper in hand, trying in vain to fight sleep. Every few minutes, she'd flip a page without reading a word. Donna stood behind Helen, more jittery than usual, her eyes darting between the landline and Helen's computer screen like she expected one to explode with news.
Ben Gosling, the calmest of them all, had settled himself comfortably beside Naomi Watts on the sofa, who rested against him. He relished the contact, even if he'd never admit it aloud. He was the kind of man who believed publicly in solitude and privately in snuggles.
Naomi, however, wasn't as composed. "Helen," she finally said, unable to hold it anymore, "why don't you just call the distribution department at Fox and ask?"
"No need," Helen replied without looking at her. "I spoke with them yesterday. As soon as the numbers come in, they promised to email me directly."
Amanda groaned from the couch. "It's been hours. The suspense is killing me."
Ben muttered, cheek pressed to Naomi's shoulder. "We're lucky we're getting numbers at all this quickly."
"Some of us care about box office," Amanda shot back.
"I do care," Ben said, eyes still half-closed. "Just... not at four in the morning."
Donna glanced at him. "You made the movie, you should be the most nervous!"
"I already got paid," Ben said, grinning sleepily. "Let Fox sweat."
Before anyone could retort, Donna suddenly shrieked, "We've got the mail!!"
Ben sat up as Donna darted to Helen's side, bouncing in place. Helen, her expression unreadable, opened the email in silence.
"How is it?" Naomi asked, voice tense.
"Box office?" Amanda pressed, stepping closer to Helen's desk.
Helen's eyes scanned the numbers, her lips parting but no words coming out. Amanda leaned in until they were shoulder to shoulder. Donna craned her neck.
"As of 12:00 p.m. on February 18th," Helen read aloud, "154 theaters screened the film. Friday box office grossed $3.35 million. Average per-screen earnings: over $20,000."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
"Oh my God," Naomi gasped, grabbing Ben and kissing him. Ben, now wide awake, blinked and broke into a grin.
Amanda's jaw dropped. "That's... that's impossible."
Helen finally leaned back, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in days. "Even the additional fifteen emergency screens didn't lower the average," she murmured. "$3.35 million, first day."
Donna, for once, was speechless. Amanda gaped at Ben. "You realize this is going to become a Hollywood legend, right? First-time director. Forty-thousand-dollar film. This box office. It's like something out of Variety's fever dream."
Ben gave a modest shrug. "Maybe we're just getting started."
Helen chuckled, shaking her head. "I can't believe it. All that stress. And here you are lounging on Naomi like a cat who won the lottery."
"I did win the lottery," Ben said, squeezing Naomi's hand. "You all helped me buy the ticket."
Then he stood, stretching dramatically. "That's it. Party Time! We're celebrating. Someone find an open restaurant. I want every single Star Talent staff member there. Drinks, food, the works."
Amanda blinked. "Seriously?"
Ben looked around. "Without this company, I'd still be storyboarding in a garage. You think I could've made this film without you? Without Helen clearing budgets, you casting, Donna wrangling equipment, Chris editing on no sleep?"
Helen tilted her head, amused. "Well, when you put it that way…"
"It's a party," Naomi said, smiling at him.
"It's our party," Ben corrected.
Amanda grabbed her purse. "Then I'm calling everyone. No one's missing this."
As Helen picked up the phone to reserve a place, Donna finally spoke, her voice warm. "Guess this is what it feels like to win."
Helen gave a tired smile. "Let's make sure we remember it."
And so, as the city woke up, the staff of Star Talent Brokerage prepared to celebrate the first steps of what was quickly becoming a box office phenomenon—and the rise of a new voice in Hollywood.
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By early morning, the entire cozy retro-style restaurant Helen had reserved was buzzing with life. Nestled on a quiet stretch of Melrose Avenue, it had the dim lighting, amber-toned booths, and old jukebox corner that screamed "industry favorite" without being pretentious. The "Closed for Private Event" sign on the door kept the curious away, and the air inside was thick with laughter, the clink of glasses, and the low thrum of Ella Fitzgerald on vinyl.
The entire Star Talent Brokerage team had shown up, all of them shedding the weekday hustle in favor of champagne and well-earned pride. For once, no one was taking calls, checking watches, or reviewing contracts.
Ben stood near the bar in a dark, untucked shirt, holding a glass of bourbon like a man twice his age but smiling like a kid who just found out summer break started early. Naomi clung to his arm, dazzling in a simple satin dress, her cheeks flushed with excitement—and probably the wine.
Helen, impeccable as always, had swapped her tailored office look for a midnight-blue wrap dress. She stood talking with Amanda near a tall table stacked with sliders and charcuterie, sipping something that looked like scotch but had been secretly watered down. Amanda, in a backless black top, animatedly recounted the moment they got the email—again—to a group of interns who hadn't been there but nodded like they'd lived it.
Donna, already two tequila shots in, had somehow recruited the line producer and a junior agent into a gleeful conga line snaking past the dessert table.
Ben leaned into Naomi's ear and whispered, "You think it's too early to order a cake shaped like a VHS tape?"
Naomi chuckled. "With a missing poster on top?"
Ben grinned "I like the way you think."
Helen approached them with Amanda in tow, both holding drinks. "This is your moment, Ben," Helen said, raising her glass.
Amanda grinned. "I'm not saying I always believed in you... but I always mostly believed in you."
Ben laughed and clinked glasses with them. "I'll take it. Besides, I think the one who really believed was George. He said it was the most terrifying film he'd ever seen. And that was before we showed him the fake missing person website."
Helen smirked. "That was Amanda's idea."
Amanda bowed with mock pride. "I just hope the FCC doesn't call us."
Ben looked around the room—the agents, assistants, production runners, and interns who'd scrounged, begged, and pulled favors to make The Blair Witch Project real. They were all here. All celebrating.
"I want to say something," Ben said, climbing awkwardly onto the edge of the booth like a kid about to give a school speech.
Conversations tapered. All eyes turned.
"I don't know if you all realize what you pulled off," he said. "You helped take a film made for forty grand—with no stars, no studio, no permits—and turned it into a phenomenon."
He caught Helen's eye. "You handled our budget like a magician."
Then Amanda. "You cast faces no one had ever seen and made people believe they were real."
To Naomi. "You believed in this story and in me—even before the deal was sealed."
Then he glanced at the rest. "To everyone who fetched coffee, set up tents in the woods, fought raccoons, edited until dawn... This is your victory too."
Someone clapped. Then another. Within seconds, the room erupted into cheers and applause.
Ben raised his glass again. "To The Blair Witch Project—and to whatever the hell we do next."
Glasses clinked. Someone turned up the jukebox. A Sinatra song kicked in.
Helen slid beside Amanda with a small sigh. "Do you think we can keep him out of trouble?"
Amanda watched Ben laughing with Naomi and Donna, who was now wearing a napkin as a headband. "Not a chance," she said. "But I think I'm going to enjoy the mess."
Helen smiled. "Me too."
As the party at the restaurant hummed in full swing—champagne flowing, laughter echoing, and the staff of Star Talent Brokerage toasting to their miracle hit—Ben, still holding Naomi's hand, nodded discreetly to Helen and Amanda. Naomi caught the signal and gave a slight tug to Amanda's sleeve. Helen, as always, noticed everything and followed without needing a word.
They slipped through a side hallway into a quieter space near the kitchen—just the four of them now, away from the noise and champagne.
Ben leaned against the wall, Naomi beside him. "We wanted to talk business before we wrapped the night."
Helen folded her arms, already transitioning into executive mode. Amanda perched on the edge of a prep table, still glowing from the evening's success.
"It's good news, actually," Naomi said. "With no real commercial blockbusters releasing until The Lion King in mid-June, the theatrical runway for The Blair Witch is cleaner than we expected."
Helen nodded. "We've got space, yes. But we also need to consider the risk of burnout. Viral doesn't last forever."
"That's what I wanted to talk about," Ben said. "We've peaked curiosity with the tape, the media coverage, the disappearance angle. But eventually, the audience will want something more. A face. A voice. An explanation."
Amanda raised an eyebrow. "You're not thinking of bringing the cast back already?"
"God, no," Ben shook his head. "That would kill the mystique."
"Exactly," Helen cut in smoothly. "Don't worry. They're not coming back until at least the first week of June. And even then, it'll be under tight PR control."
Ben grinned. "How did you even convince them to go to Africa collectively?"
Helen smirked, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "Simple. We told them they were shooting a documentary—funded by 20th Century Fox, of course."
Naomi laughed. "Wait, seriously?"
Amanda chuckled. "She even handed them fake production schedules. I saw her at Kinko's putting together the press packets. It was Oscar-worthy."
Ben looked genuinely impressed. "You're diabolical. I love it."
"I'm thorough," Helen replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "And it helps that the actors believed in the project. We sold them on the idea that the mystery was the art."
"But let's not underestimate the current heat," Amanda added. "Theaters and Fox both didn't expect this level of buzz. We're seeing people line up just to get another look at that fake documentary."
"Which means we need to plan the next wave of marketing," Helen added.
It was just past midnight when Ben and Naomi finally slipped out of the restaurant through the back entrance, the laughter and music fading behind them like a distant memory. It had been more than 12 hours since the party started.
The cool night air hit them softly, and Naomi wrapped her coat tighter as they walked toward Ben's car parked down the block.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. There was no need to.
The night was theirs.
When they reached the car, Ben unlocked the door for her, then leaned against the driver's side, gazing up at the stars just barely visible beyond the Hollywood haze.
Naomi leaned beside him, bumping her shoulder gently into his. "You know," she said, "you looked pretty damn confident up there."
"Up where?"
"Giving your speech to the Star Talent Team. Holding court like some indie-film king."
Ben chuckled under his breath. "Felt more like a camp counselor giving a farewell talk."
"Well, it worked." She looked at him, her voice softer. "They love you, you know. Helen. Amanda. Even Donna."
"They love the success," Ben said, but without bitterness. Just honesty. "Hollywood doesn't care about people, it cares about momentum. For now, I'm riding the wave."
Naomi tilted her head. "And what about me? Do I just love the momentum?"
Ben turned to face her fully. "No," he said quietly. "You're different."
A moment passed between them—quiet and charged. "I've been thinking about that night," Naomi said.
"Which one?"
"The one before the Fox deal. When we talked about this maybe turning into something real."
Ben's hand found her hand naturally, fingers locking. "I still want that," he said. "Even if I mess up the next film. Even if this all falls apart."
Naomi smiled gently. "You won't mess it up."
He gave her a look. "Okay, maybe you'll mess it up a little," she amended, teasing. "But I'm not going anywhere."
She stepped closer, their foreheads nearly touching now. "For a guy who made a movie about people getting lost in the woods," she whispered, "you seem pretty good at finding your way."
Ben kissed her. It wasn't rushed or heated. It was slow, steady. Like something that had been waiting a long time for the right moment.
When they finally pulled apart, Ben opened the car door for her.
She slipped in with a playful smile. "So, where to, Mr. Momentum?"
Ben grinned as he got in. "Home."
And with that, they drove into the quiet of the night—just two souls, a camera's length away from a brand-new chapter.