Two days after the Brad Pitt party, the noise still hadn't faded. The fight at Brad's had already gone from whispered rumor to cocktail-hour story, and by the time Izaac woke that morning, two gossip blogs had published grainy, badly lit clips of him flooring two drunk MMA fighters. No context, just the image of a man in a suit moving with precision, the kind that doesn't come from bar fights.
Henry hadn't stopped smirking about it. "You realize you just became someone's 'Do Not Mess With' bedtime story," he'd told Izaac over coffee. "Half the people think it's badass. The other half think you're trouble. Both are good for business — if you play it right."
By mid-afternoon, Henry had lined up a lunch at the Sunset Tower's quieter terrace. The kind of place where privacy didn't come from walls but from the unspoken rule that nobody interrupted a table unless invited. They were meeting Victor Caine, a B-tier director with just enough clout to get phone calls returned and a reputation for squeezing every drop of charm out of a meeting until you realized he hadn't actually said yes to anything.
Victor arrived ten minutes late, wearing aviators despite the shade, and greeted Henry like an old accomplice. When he turned to Izaac, there was a flicker of recognition — or maybe calculation.
"So this is the mystery man from New York," Victor said, taking his seat without waiting to be offered. "I've heard… fragments."
"Fragments can be misleading," Izaac replied evenly.
"True," Victor said, smirking. "But they're also how stories start. And we're in the story business, aren't we?"
The waiter came and went with drink orders. Henry let the conversation drift to Hereafter — Izaac's first co-produced series, still in its pre-production high-wire act. Victor had heard of it, or at least pretended to.
"You're working with—what's his name? That guy from Nightfall Crossing?" Victor asked.
"Daniel Keane," Izaac said.
Victor leaned back, stretching like a cat. "Keane's… temperamental. You'll see. Likes to think he's a low A-lister, but he's really high B with an expensive stylist."
It wasn't exactly false — Keane had a habit of testing directors' patience — but the tone was sharp enough to leave a burr.
"I've worked with temperamental," Izaac said. "Usually it's code for 'cares about the work.'"
Victor's smile thinned. He studied Izaac for a moment longer than polite. "We'll see how long that optimism lasts. This town eats optimism. And men who think they can fix people."
The rest of lunch was a balancing act — Henry keeping the air light while Victor tried a few subtle digs, the kind that test boundaries. Izaac didn't flinch, didn't rise to the bait, and by dessert Victor seemed almost annoyed at the lack of reaction.
After Victor left, Henry shook his head. "That wasn't terrible," he said. "But don't be surprised if he throws shade about you to the wrong people."
"Then I'll just have to make sure the right people see me first," Izaac replied.
The rest of the day moved in meetings and phone calls — location scouting updates, budget adjustments, wardrobe test shots pinged over from production. He spent an hour on the lot, walking the skeletal beginnings of Hereafter's set, running his hands over unpainted flats that would soon become whole worlds. The hum of workers, the smell of sawdust, the tape outlines marking where walls would be — it was intoxicating.
By the time the sun slipped toward the horizon, Henry texted an address: "Stop by. Low-key industry thing. "
The house was tucked in the Hollywood Hills, its view swallowing half the city. Inside, the lighting was warm, the music low, and the crowd a cross-section of actors, producers, and faces familiar enough to make a casual observer think they'd accidentally walked onto a red carpet.
Izaac moved through the rooms with Henry at first, the two of them nodding hellos, pausing for a drink, overhearing snatches of half-formed deals.
It was near the back terrace, where the city glimmered like a spilt jewelry box, that he saw her. Madison Beer — leaning casually against the railing, mid-laugh at something someone had just said, until her eyes cut toward him.
The laughter stilled, replaced by something quieter. Assessing. Interested.
She didn't call him over. Didn't wave. Just let her gaze hold for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to her conversation, as if to say: I know you saw me. And I know you'll come over eventually.