Chapter 82 – The French Kiss
France had once been the beating heart of world cinema—the birthplace of film itself, and the center of Europe's art-house tradition. Before Hollywood's rise, French movies dominated the global market.
But times had changed. By the 1980s, Hollywood's industrial machine had bulldozed Europe's cultural defenses. In France itself, American blockbusters had overtaken local productions at the box office.
Sophie Marceau's romantic comedy La Boum had just opened in the U.S.—to utter silence. Even Gérard Depardieu's Cyrano de Bergerac, a critical and commercial triumph in France that had won the Jury Prize at Cannes, barely made a ripple in America.
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That evening, a Lexus LS400 pulled into a parking lot near Santa Monica Pier. Aaron and Sophie Marceau stepped out, the Pacific breeze tugging at their clothes, and walked toward a beachside bar.
Sophie sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on him with curiosity.
"Aaron, I still can't believe it. Just a year as an agent, and you've already made so many moves?"
Aaron smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just better suited to Hollywood."
"Are you heading back to France soon?" he asked.
"Of course. I only came for a few events. La Boum wasn't exactly a major production."
"You've never thought about pursuing Hollywood seriously?"
Sophie shrugged elegantly. "And do what? Decorative vase roles? Or cheap horror films where I flaunt my body? Hollywood doesn't offer women like me much more than that."
Aaron studied her. In France, she was thriving, spoiled for choice. But in Hollywood, her options were as thin as the low-budget co-production she'd just shot.
"There are more opportunities here," Aaron said gently. "Polish your English, and you'll have a better shot."
Sophie brushed her chestnut hair back. "I know. But the truth is—there just aren't scripts for me here."
Then her eyes brightened. "I heard you developed two films this year, and just bought another. Are you planning to distribute your own movies?"
Aaron shook his head. "Not yet. I'm working with Sony. Dawnlight's still just a small independent outfit."
Sophie leaned closer. "You know, many independents come to France for funding. Have you thought about that?"
"Oh—speaking of which," she added suddenly, "Steven Soderbergh, the director of Sex, Lies, and Videotape, is in France right now, prepping a drama called Kafka."
Aaron chuckled. "Steven? He used to be one of my clients. I haven't followed his moves since I left CAA." No wonder he was spending so much time in Europe—shooting French-backed films.
"I'll definitely tap European money if I need it," Aaron said. "But honestly? I doubt I'll need to for long. My films have commercial legs. Hollywood will be throwing cash at me soon enough."
He raised his glass, smirking. "And frankly, I prefer dealing directly with banks and investment funds. Cleaner that way."
Sophie clinked her glass against his. "Do you plan to shoot in Europe? It's much cheaper than America."
"Of course," Aaron said without hesitation. "Not just for locations. I'll make European stories too. Europe's still Hollywood's biggest export market—you can't ignore it."
Compared to Japan, the world's second-largest film market, Europe shared America's cultural DNA. After all, the U.S. itself was built by European immigrants.
As for Europe's art-world disdain for Hollywood? Aaron saw it as little more than bitterness. They looked down on blockbusters because they couldn't compete. Every European nation was scrambling to boost its cultural exports—and cinema was the sharpest weapon of all.
Film was propaganda dressed as art. Nothing spread cultural values faster. And with Hollywood's money, market reach, and assembly-line production, how could Europe hope to keep up?
In truth, European cinema was struggling. Funding came first from government subsidies, second from television pre-sales, and only lastly from box office returns.
Hollywood, meanwhile, had the world in its pocket.
Night fell over Santa Monica. The door to the Fairmont Hotel suite swung open, and Aaron Anderson and Sophie Marceau tumbled inside, locked in a fierce, hungry embrace.
Their kiss burned with urgency, carrying them straight into the bedroom. Clothes fell away, and soon they were entangled on the bed. The Frenchwoman's allure was intoxicating—after all, this was Sophie Marceau, the celebrated "French Kiss" herself.
Breathless and glistening with sweat, Sophie clung to him with a languid smile.
"Mmm… aren't you tired yet?"
Aaron chuckled against her skin. "You're too irresistible. What do you expect?"
He pressed his face into her softness, tracing every curve with his hands. Another kiss, deeper this time, until Sophie broke it off with a teasing laugh.
"Soon, I'll have to return to France," she whispered. "Who knows when I'll be back in America again?"
Aaron sighed, running his palm across her body. "You really won't try Hollywood?"
She tousled his hair gently. "Hollywood doesn't have a place for me right now. And can you really decide my career?"
Aaron lifted his head, eyes gleaming with confidence. "Not yet. But soon. You've seen how quickly I'm rising. Give me time."
He believed it. Making a star was just business—and he had already proven he could do it.
Sophie kissed him again and murmured, "Then let's just enjoy these few days while I'm here."
She was pragmatic. Aaron was young, successful, handsome—why wouldn't she indulge? But she also had her own career in France, and a boyfriend waiting for her back home.
Aaron only smiled. "Then I'll come to France to find you."
For two adults in the industry, there was nothing unusual about sharing such a night.
They spent less than a week together. When Halloween passed, Sophie Marceau flew back to France—back to her world, where she already held sway. Unlike Nicole Kidman, who was still staking her claim in Hollywood, Sophie had no need to gamble everything here.
After tasting the charm and tenderness of the famed "French Kiss," Aaron turned his focus once more to the only mistress who truly mattered: his career.