The city glowed as if it knew something he didn't. From the Ferrari's passenger seat, Izaac watched the blur of yellow cabs, late-night diners, and glass towers flashing in the rearview. New York had a way of making everyone feel like a guest in its house, even when you could buy the whole block.
They had just left SoHo's unmarked loft, the one where Emily Blunt had casually touched his arm and promised a continued conversation. Henry Golding's hands rested loose on the wheel, the hum of the V12 stretching between them like a quiet flex.
"You fit in tonight," Henry said again, glancing at him.
"Fit in, or stood out?"
Henry smirked. "Both. That's the sweet spot. But tonight's not over."
Before Izaac could answer, his phone buzzed. Emily Blunt. He swiped to answer.
"Emily," he said.
Her voice carried the kind of calm that only came from years of being invited everywhere and turning most of it down. "Change of plans. Brad's hosting at his place in L.A. tonight. Private, small crowd. No cameras, no leaks — the kind of people you only meet once if you're lucky."
"That's a long flight for a drink."
She laughed softly, the sound cutting through the engine noise. "It's not about the drink. It's about the room. I'll text you the hangar address. Jet leaves in an hour. Madison Beer's already there. Madelyn Cline too."
The names landed like small pebbles in still water. Madison Beer. Madelyn Cline.
Henry raised an eyebrow when Izaac ended the call.
"L.A.?" Henry asked.
"L.A.," Izaac confirmed. "Tonight."
"Guess I'm not going home for that midnight whisky." Henry downshifted, the Ferrari surging forward.
The drive to Teterboro was a blur of dark highway and quick glances from other cars at the sleek black machine. Henry barely slowed for the security gate; the guards waved them through with the recognition given to regulars.
Inside the private hangar, the air smelled faintly of jet fuel and the echo of wealth. A Gulfstream G650 sat with its stairs down, cabin lights spilling warmth onto the tarmac. A ground crew moved like shadows around it, loading luggage, checking hydraulics.
Emily was already inside, framed by the oval doorway. She wore a black silk jumpsuit, hair pulled back in a way that made the entire outfit feel deliberate, intentional. She held a champagne flute like it was an extension of her fingers.
"Glad you made it," she said when Izaac stepped aboard. Her gaze flicked to Henry. "You too, Golding."
Henry gave her a mock bow. "Wouldn't miss it."
The cabin smelled of leather and something floral. Madison Beer sat two seats down, head tilted as she scrolled her phone, long brown hair spilling over one shoulder. Across from her, Madelyn Cline laughed at something on a tablet screen.
Emily gestured toward them casually. "I think you've met Madison… at least in passing?"
Izaac shook his head. Madison looked up briefly, eyes catching his for just a second before she returned to her phone. No smile. No disinterest either — more like she was filing his existence away for later.
Madelyn gave him a polite nod and a warm, "Hey," before returning to her tablet.
The seats were arranged in two facing pairs; Emily took the one across from Izaac, Henry sliding in beside her. The engines began their low whine.
"Two hours, forty minutes to L.A.," the pilot's voice came over the speakers.
Emily crossed one leg over the other. "Brad's in one of his hosting moods. Expect good wine, terrible jazz, and conversations that sound like movie scripts you'll never see."
Henry grinned. "And maybe one or two career-altering handshakes."
At thirty thousand feet, champagne gave way to a bottle of Japanese whisky someone produced from the galley. Conversation flowed in pockets. Emily spoke about the changing nature of film — how streaming had killed mid-budget movies but given birth to something stranger, wilder. Henry told a story about a dinner in Singapore where the guest list accidentally included a tech billionaire who thought he was there for a cryptocurrency pitch.
Izaac listened more than he spoke, answering when prompted but always turning questions back on the asker. It was a habit — the less people knew, the more they wanted to fill the gaps themselves.
Madison remained quiet, occasionally glancing his way. At one point, when Emily excused herself to take a call in the rear cabin, Madison finally spoke without looking up from her phone.
"You're not American," she said.
"No."
"Not European either."
"No."
She smirked slightly, still not looking up. "Figured." And that was it.
Henry leaned over to Izaac later, speaking low enough not to carry. "She's been asking about you before tonight, you know. Madison. Just don't ask me why — I didn't pry."
Izaac didn't answer.
L.A. was velvet-black when they landed, the Pacific air warm even past midnight. A black Escalade waited at the foot of the stairs, engine idling. The drive wound through wide streets lined with palm trees and gated estates, the city lights glittering like a spilled jewelry box in the distance.
Henry watched the neighborhoods slide past. "Brad's place is the kind where you can get lost inside for an hour and still not find the bathroom."
They reached the gates — tall, discreet, with just enough presence to signal money without shouting it. The security guard leaned in to check the guest list, then stepped back when he spotted Henry.
Inside, the driveway curved around a central fountain before spilling into a courtyard lit with warm sconces. The house rose behind it, modern yet softened by wood and stone, glass walls revealing silhouettes of people moving inside.
Music drifted out — not the pounding bass of a club, but something smoother, older. Frank Sinatra, if Izaac's ear was right.
They stepped inside, and the scent hit him — cedar, faint cigar smoke, and the unmistakable undertone of expensive wine.
Brad Pitt stood near a long walnut table covered in small plates and bottles of wine, laughing with a circle of guests. He looked exactly like Brad Pitt was supposed to look — casual but curated, in a white tee and perfectly fitted jeans.
Emily led them over. "Brad, this is Izaac. Visiting from…" She glanced at Izaac as if leaving the answer to him.
"From far enough away," Izaac said smoothly.
Brad chuckled. "I like him already."
They shook hands, Brad's grip firm but not overdone. "Emily says you're in town for… what was it, Henry? Business?"
"Business," Henry confirmed vaguely.
Before Izaac could reply, another voice cut in from the side. "No way. Izaac?"
They all turned. Tom Cruise stood there, shorter than most men in the room but radiating the kind of energy that made you forget height entirely.
"Izaac," Tom said again, grinning like he'd found a long-lost friend. "I haven't seen you since— what was it — Tokyo? That charity thing?"
"Something like that," Izaac replied, shaking his hand.
Brad looked between them, eyebrows raised. "You two know each other?"
Tom laughed. "Know him? Hell, he saved my ass in a poker game once. I still owe you for that night."
Izaac only smiled, letting the comment hang.
Emily tilted her head, watching him now with a slightly different expression — as if another piece of a puzzle had just dropped into place.
And just like that, the room had shifted. No one knew exactly who he was, but now they knew Tom Cruise did. In L.A., that was worth more than any introduction.