Dunn's demands for his luxury estate left Richard Meier's design team dumbfounded.
All they could say was, This guy knows how to live!
He basically wanted to mash up Bill Gates' and Larry Ellison's mansions into one.
It'd be split into an inner and outer courtyard.
The inner courtyard—his and his "lady's" private domain—needed top-tier, high-tech security and tracking, just like Gates' place. Every move by anyone stepping inside would be monitored from a central control hub.
The twist? No outside men allowed. The design had to be delicate and feminine, catering to a woman's taste.
He even suggested tossing in some medieval European-style female sculptures. Once the estate was done, Dunn planned to snag some elegant salon oil paintings of women's figures to hang up—adding a touch of art and romance.
The outer courtyard would be packed with features: a helipad, sports courts, a fishpond, fake mountains, a pavilion garden, and a seaside lookout—pretty much mirroring Larry Ellison's setup.
But unlike Ellison's, this one would have a standout main building beyond the staff quarters—a front-facing showcase.
Dunn's studio and guest hangout spot would be in the outer courtyard's main house. The inner courtyard? His personal kingdom, off-limits to any outside guys.
Richard Meier, with 30 years designing for big shots and billionaires, had never seen a request this "absurd."
The inner courtyard needed a layout that left room for those future salon paintings.
Artistic pursuit, huh?
Sure, 200 years ago, salon-style oil paintings were the thing—until the Impressionists took over. Nowadays, they can't touch Impressionist works in auction prices or artistic cred.
But Dunn was crystal clear: he wanted French salon paintings—specifically ones showcasing women's graceful forms. His intent was obvious—he expected Meier to design around that.
Those paintings? Mostly of naked ladies.
What was he up to?
No outside men allowed, paired with Dunn's well-known personal style…
The inner courtyard…
Wasn't this just his playground for fun?
Was he trying to turn it into some Roman palace vibe?
Dunn didn't care what the old architect thought. He'd laid out his demands plain and simple.
Fifteen months from now, he wanted to move in, bags in hand!
Three months out, his custom Boeing 747 would be ready. Ten months, his private yacht would arrive. Twelve months, Dunn Films would shift to its new HQ campus. Fifteen months—Dunn would settle into his new digs!
The grandest, flashiest, most mysterious home in America!
"Inner courtyard, outer courtyard—ha!"
Dunn was pretty proud of himself.
This kind of ancient Eastern wisdom? No way these culture-starved Americans would get it.
Charlize Theron stood out from the other girls at the hillside estate. She never lacked film offers—her only wish from Dunn might've been an Oscar nudge.
She'd just spent a month vacationing in South Africa.
Now back in LA, she'd landed a new gig.
But when she returned to the estate, her face was all gloom. She brushed past Penelope Cruz's friendly wave without a glance, storming straight to the study to find Dunn, fuming.
"What's up? You look ticked."
"Someone messed with me!"
Charlize Theron sounded like a pouty kid, eyes welling up, lips trembling, looking downright pitiful.
Dunn chuckled, waved her off, and patted his lap. "Alright, quit the drama. Come here!"
She'd been a model before—tough as nails. No way she'd cry that easy.
Sure enough, the next second, Charlize snapped out of it, a mix of frustration and helplessness on her face. She shot him a playful glare, then sauntered over, plopping into his lap, arms around his neck, pouting, "I was messed with."
Dunn grinned. "Penelope? Tonight, we'll team up and teach her a lesson!"
"Ugh, I'm serious!"
Charlize turned her head, clearly annoyed now.
"Hm?" Dunn sensed something off. "What happened?"
She hesitated, then spilled it slowly. "I signed on for this movie, Red Dragon—you know, the Silence of the Lambs prequel. It was all set—I'd be the lead, opposite Anthony Hopkins. But this afternoon, the director said there'd be a quick audition. I didn't think much of it."
"And?"
"He told me to meet him at a hotel."
"What?"
Dunn's eyes widened. He got the picture.
Hotel auditions were common in Hollywood, but more often than not, they screamed "casting couch."
"You went?"
"I figured my name was big enough. The Unsinkable proved I've got the chops—I shouldn't have to play that game for a role."
Dunn smirked, unimpressed. "Even if it's just an audition, you don't go to a hotel! That's practically an invite. Your bad!"
"You!" Charlize bristled. "I got screwed over, and you're yelling at me?"
"Hm?" Dunn's face darkened, eyes narrowing, voice dropping. "Screwed over? Don't tell me he laid a hand on you?"
Charlize shrank a bit. "Well… no, not that."
Dunn glared, exasperated. "Then what's the problem?"
"But he had dirty thoughts!"
"No kidding! You're gorgeous—every guy who sees you has dirty thoughts."
Charlize didn't know whether to laugh or fume, shoving his chest. "You're still not gonna help me get even!"
Dunn sighed. "What am I supposed to do? This stuff happens all the time. He made an offer, you said no, you walked away—no harm, no foul. Unless… you're hung up on that Red Dragon role? Playing Hannibal's sidekick—it's a total flower-vase part."
He'd cashed in on the casting couch himself—why wouldn't he defend it?
He could play the game, but others couldn't? That's nonsense.
If it's not forced like Harvey Weinstein's stunts, a willing deal's fair game—God himself can't judge that.
Charlize had a body as lush and curvy as Penelope Cruz's—among Dunn's flings, only the supermodels could compete.
Holding her this long, Dunn's interest started to stir. His hand slipped under her shirt, roaming as he whispered in her ear, "Alright, let's have some fun. It's been a while—I missed you."
Charlize wouldn't say no, but her face stayed tight, teeth gritted. "He said some nasty stuff!"
"Hm?"
"He said… he wanted to taste Dunn's woman!"
Dunn froze mid-move, staring hard at her. "You serious?"
Technically, Charlize wasn't "his woman"—just a casual fling. But that kind of provocation? Dunn wouldn't stand for it.
She met his gaze, calm. "I wouldn't dare stir trouble with your name on the line. It's the truth."
"Hmph, interesting!" Dunn's mood soured. He lifted her off his lap, set her on the desk, and paced the study a couple steps before asking, "Who's the guy?"
"Brett Ratner."
Dunn's eyes narrowed. He knew the name.
Yeah, that jerk's rep was trash.
Charlize added, "He's only in his 30s, but he's on a roll. Directed both Rush Hour movies—huge box office hits. Especially Rush Hour 2. Even with the attacks messing things up, it did solid numbers, made New Line a ton of cash."
Dunn sneered. "Looks like he's gotten too full of himself! A couple low-budget wins, and he thinks he's hot stuff!"
Others might not know, but Dunn did.
Rush Hour succeeded because of Jackie Chan, period. He wasn't just the star—he was the action director and choreographer. Ratner was basically a clueless puppet following orders.
Sometimes he couldn't even grasp the moves, so Jackie had to demo and explain—over and over. Total amateur leading a pro.
The action was all Jackie. The comedy? Chris Tucker owned that. A typical Black comedian—average acting, but oozing charm, quick wit, and verbal flair.
That electric clash between them was the heart of Rush Hour's success.
And now, this small-fry glory had Ratner thinking he could take a swing at Dunn?
Charlize smirked. "Maybe he figured I'd been gone a month and you'd ditched me."
Dunn nodded, voice icy. "Perfect. Kirk Douglas, fine—he's got clout. But this nobody dares step up? Thinks I'm a pushover? Who's handling Red Dragon?"
"Universal Pictures."
"Universal?" A slow, savoring grin crept onto Dunn's face. "Oh, this'll be easy!"
If it were Disney's Miramax, it'd be trickier—dealing with Roy Disney would cost him something to axe Ratner.
But Universal? One phone call.
Dunn didn't hesitate. Late as it was, he dialed Ron Meyer.
"Calling this late—what's up?"
"I hear Universal's working on a movie, Red Dragon?"
Ron paused. "Yeah, sounds familiar."
Dunn kept his tone flat. "Your pick for director—Brett Ratner—I'm not happy with him."
"What? He piss you off?"
"Yup."
"Dunn—"
Dunn cut him off, no room for debate. "Save the pep talk. I'm furious about this guy! I don't want him succeeding—I want results!"
Charlize, watching from the side, gaped in shock.
That was Ron Meyer, Universal's chairman—and Dunn was laying into him like that? Talk about bold!