Chapter 119: The Wild French Rose
Evening, Ritz Hotel – Paris.
The chandeliers glowed softly above the linen-draped tables. Aaron Anderson sat across from Luc Besson, the two men halfway through dinner, glasses of Bordeaux catching the light.
"When it comes to food," Aaron said with an appreciative sigh, "France really is in a league of its own. Only Italy even comes close in Europe or America."
Besson chuckled. "That's true enough. The British… well, their cuisine is a lost cause. And German food—too heavy. As for America," he shrugged, "I only remember hot dogs and hamburgers."
Aaron smirked over the rim of his glass. "You know, I hear French cinema's market share is dropping again. Too many art films, not enough audience."
Besson nodded slowly, a flicker of frustration in his eyes.
"Hollywood's dominance is overwhelming. French art films can't compete. My peers call me a sellout because I use commercial elements in my stories — but how else can we fight back?"
Aaron leaned forward. "So you think the only way to resist Hollywood… is to play by its rules?"
"Exactly," Besson said, a small smile curving his lips. "To stand against Hollywood, we must first understand it."
Aaron studied him carefully. "Then tell me — have you ever thought about making a film there?"
Besson's eyes glinted. "Let's just say… the idea doesn't scare me."
They shared a quiet toast — two filmmakers on opposite sides of the Atlantic, each with a vision that blurred the line between art and ambition.
---
Later that night, in the hotel's private bar, Sophie Marceau watched Besson's figure disappear through the revolving doors. She turned to Aaron, curiosity glimmering in her gaze.
"So?" she asked. "Will you two work together?"
Aaron smiled faintly. "Hard to say. But he'll end up in Hollywood eventually. He's too smart not to. The only way to learn Hollywood's game," he added, "is to sit at the table."
When they returned to the suite, Aaron dropped onto the sofa and pulled Sophie onto his lap.
"And you," he murmured, brushing his thumb along her jaw, "have you decided? When are you coming back to America with me?"
She looped her arms around his neck, eyes playful. "Aren't you going to ask about Andrzej?"
Aaron laughed. "Do I need to? You think I'm going to lose to a fifty-year-old Polish eccentric?"
He tilted his head. "Let's see — on one side, a young, rich, and very talented Hollywood producer. On the other, a neurotic arthouse director with a messianic complex."
Sophie rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. "You're impossible. You steal a woman's heart and still act like the victim. Congratulations, Aaron — you've got yourself a French lover."
She rested her head against his chest, voice softening.
"Andrzej's heading back to Poland soon. We've been together for seven years… it's time to end it. I'll come to Hollywood, but not right away. Give me a little time."
Aaron nodded, slipping a hand inside her silk blouse, his tone dropping to a whisper.
"Take all the time you need. I'll call when everything's ready."
Her breath caught; her lips brushed his ear.
"Then carry me to the bath," she murmured.
That night, Aaron learned exactly why the French called women like her roses — beautiful, intoxicating, and wild enough to draw blood.
---
By the time Aaron's plane touched down in Los Angeles, mid-September sunlight was spilling across the Pacific.
Ghost had officially crossed the $200 million mark in North America.
The second round of box-office revenue — a staggering $38 million — had just landed in Dawnlight's account.
Needing liquidity, Aaron sold the domestic video and TV rights to Columbia–TriStar for another $45 million in cash.
Even without counting international earnings still to come, he now controlled over $90 million in liquid assets.
The first thing he did was indulge himself — buying two villas:
one perched on the hills of Bel Air, another overlooking the ocean in Pacific Palisades.
The combined cost: $11 million.
---
"God, it's beautiful," Nicole Kidman breathed as she stepped into the Palisades home.
Aaron had brought her down from the Sleepless in Seattle set in Washington to spend the weekend together.
The estate's sweeping view of the Pacific shimmered beneath the late-summer sun, not far from Will Rogers State Beach.
Aaron slipped his arm around her waist, a soft smile on his lips.
"As long as you like it. It's quieter here than West Hollywood — and a hell of a lot more private."
After Ghost, Nicole Kidman was no longer the unknown ingénue she once was.
Privacy, now, was priceless.
She wandered through every room like a queen exploring her new domain, turning occasionally to beam at him.
"I want to redecorate," she declared at last, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "A few changes — to make it ours."
Aaron chuckled, watching her with something between affection and amusement.
"Whatever you want, Nic. This place is yours too."
Pacific Palisades – Late Afternoon
Nicole stood by the glass wall, the ocean breeze spilling into the living room. She turned slowly, eyes gleaming with a designer's intent.
"I want this room to open up more," she said, gesturing toward the windows. "Something minimalist, bright — I need a view that feels alive."
Aaron chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Do whatever you want. Go wild."
He meant it.
The Bel Air villa was already furnished in clean, modern lines — understated, elegant, and move-in ready.
But this Palisades home? It was hers to shape.
"Come on," he said after a beat. "Let's get something to eat."
---
They drove down along Sunset Boulevard, the road eventually dipping toward the coast.
An Italian bistro overlooking the Pacific shimmered beneath the golden light of early evening.
Over dinner, Nicole stirred her cappuccino and said, "Oh, by the way — Malibu just became an official city. They've got a new city council now, even elected their first mayor."
Aaron raised a brow. "Malibu, huh? That's prime land. A lot of stars have properties there — good long-term investment."
He glanced north along the Pacific Coast Highway, where the cliffs curved into the faint haze of Malibu's shoreline.
The place had barely incorporated as a city — but already, real estate prices were climbing.
---
Back in Los Angeles, Dawnlight Films was humming with renewed energy.
Fueled by the massive success of Ghost, Aaron authorized another $25 million investment into the production of Indecent Proposal.
At the same time, Steven Spielberg's passion project — Schindler's List — received a green light without hesitation.
Dawnlight would fund it, while Universal Pictures' international arm, UIP (United International Pictures), handled overseas distribution.
Universal agreed to an unusually generous deal: only 10% of worldwide revenue as a distribution fee — a clear sign of respect for Spielberg.
---
"Liam Neeson?"
Aaron looked up from the casting sheet in his office. Spielberg's note was attached, handwritten, insisting Neeson was perfect for the role of Oskar Schindler.
Aaron nodded, satisfied. "No objections. He's got the gravitas for it."
He glanced at his assistant, Evelyn Beckett, who stood by the door with a folder in hand.
"Budget approved," he said. "Twenty million. Spielberg gets full creative control."
Evelyn smiled. "He's already flown to Poland to scout locations — Kraków, I think. He wants to build the camp sets near the actual Auschwitz grounds."
Aaron leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "Kraków makes sense. Poland's economy's still weak after the Soviet collapse. Labor costs are low — the production value will go a long way there."
He smiled faintly, half to himself. "And shooting it where it really happened… that's something only Spielberg would do."
Outside the office window, Los Angeles stretched beneath the amber dusk — the Pacific glimmering in the distance, quiet and eternal.
Dawnlight was no longer just a rising studio.
It was becoming a force.