Chapter 118: "Wayne, Don't You Fking Start With Me!"
Hollywood had seen worse scandals than this. In the grand scheme of things, it was just a PR issue—though it would definitely put the shooting schedule under pressure.
Wayne had always planned to wrap filming by Christmas, capturing all the necessary footage before the holidays. But with Nicolas Cage's unexpected mess, the rest of the shoot was bound to become a race against time.
All he could hope now was that this incident wouldn't cost too much precious time.
The car slowly rolled to a stop in front of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. The valet opened the door, and without even fully stepping out, Wayne and Nina handed over a tip and quickly sidestepped the incoming storm.
Sure enough, around a dozen reporters swarmed him at the entrance.
"Director Garfield, is it true Nicolas Cage spent last night in a bar and missed the first official day of filming?"
"Wayne! Do you regret casting him now?"
"Sources claim Cage's absence was due to a fallout with you…"
"Director Garfield, how are you planning to deal with the male lead?"
Watching his boss getting boxed in and overwhelmed by reporters, Sergei didn't even bother parking the car properly. He tossed his keys to the valet and barreled toward the entrance. His bear-like size alone made the crowd instinctively back off.
With his head lowered and not a word said, he bulldozed through the crowd, helping Wayne push his way through to the hotel doors. Just past the threshold—like crossing a border—the hotel security held the press back.
"These people are insane," Sergei grumbled, straightening his now-wrinkled suit. This was a custom piece tailored by Hela's team and gifted by Wayne himself. Normally, he treated it like a treasure—handmade and worth over ten grand.
Wayne had tried to avoid all this chaos by skipping a press junket and diving straight into production. Still, he hadn't been able to dodge the media storm this time.
Without a word, his face dark, Wayne marched toward the elevators. Waiting for him was Zack Snyder, who pressed the button and silently guided him to Cage's suite.
The atmosphere inside the room was icy. John sat stiffly in a chair. Opposite him was Nicolas Cage, looking gaunt and still in his bathrobe, while his agent, Susan, seemed locked in a heated exchange with John.
"Nicolas." Wayne's arrival turned all eyes toward him.
He sat next to John, raised a finger, and pointed it lightly at the disheveled actor.
"Right now, I need an explanation. One that actually convinces me."
Wearing nothing but a robe, Cage's angular, hollow face looked worn and brittle. The apology he had rehearsed died in his throat—drowned by his stubborn pride.
"This wasn't supposed to happen… I just smoked a joint that someone had laced with something…" His voice was hoarse and cracked. "Don't come f**king looking for trouble with me…"
Susan's eyes widened in horror, immediately reaching out to cover his mouth. That was not what they had agreed he would say.
Wayne almost laughed—out of sheer disbelief. So he's not just arrogant—he's also an idiot.
"Looks like your brain hasn't sobered up yet," Wayne sneered. He had assumed Cage was simply a temperamental genius, but now it was clear—this man's self-destructive tendencies were going to wreck everything.
"Listen to me, Mr. Cage," he continued, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his assistant's bag. Lighting one, he exhaled slowly, voice cold. "Downstairs, there are at least twenty media outlets camped out—waiting to plaster 'Nicolas Cage: Drug Addict' all over the headlines."
"If this circus causes any more delays, believe me, you can't afford the damages. John's contract with you has a drug clause. Do I need to pull it out and read it aloud?"
"No need!" Susan interrupted loudly, grabbing her client and dragging him toward the bedroom. "Director Garfield, give me ten minutes. I'll have him cleaned up and lucid."
Wayne watched coldly as Cage resisted being pulled away, completely oblivious to the damage he had caused—the derailed schedule, the press fallout, the loss of authority. And he didn't even look remotely sorry.
John leaned in, his face tight with anger. "I had someone go check out the bar," he muttered, gesturing toward the bedroom. "It wasn't just the laced joint. He downed nearly an entire bottle of Chivas. And the worst part?"
He lowered his voice.
"Our dear Mr. Cage snorted a small amount of f**king cocaine too."
Wayne sat in silence, slowly puffing on his Marlboro, quietly listening as John walked him through the full story. To be fair, maybe this entire mess couldn't be blamed solely on Nicolas Cage—he'd clearly been set up.
This dingy New York bar wasn't like the ones Cage frequented in Los Angeles. Seeing how easily he flashed cash for booze and weed, someone had naturally marked him as an easy target. Once he was dazed from the joint, they poured him full of hard liquor and slipped him something he should never have touched.
Wayne had long thought many Hollywood stars were prone to doing brainless things. Visiting an unfamiliar city? Fine, go out and decompress—but at least bring a few people from the crew. You're pulling in seven-figure salaries; it's not like you can't afford to pay for a few drinks and some security.
Roughly ten minutes later—just when Wayne's patience was wearing thin—Susan finally emerged from the room with her client in tow.
Nicolas Cage still had that stubborn gleam in his eyes, but he stepped forward, bowed slightly, and addressed John and Wayne.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Grey. Director Garfield, this was entirely my fault. I've been dieting and immersing myself in the role, and it took a toll on my mood. That's why things spiraled out of control. I sincerely apologize for the trouble I've caused."
Susan exhaled in relief the moment he finished and promptly sat him down on the couch.
"I assure you," she added, "Nicolas had no intention of causing problems. This won't happen again."
Wayne gave a subtle nod in acknowledgment. It wasn't forgiveness, not exactly—but he accepted the apology. Right now, solving the crisis was more important than pointing fingers. This was not the time for internal division.
Technically, Wayne could invoke his authority as second producer on the project to hold Nicolas accountable on Warner Bros.' behalf—he could even have him removed from the film entirely.
But to what end?
That would only delay production further and jeopardize the entire timeline.
Compared to the risk of losing a $60 million investment, this incident was a minor bump. No one in the room—not even Wayne himself—was worth $60 million.
He stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and walked to the window. Looking down at the street below, he pointed and said:
"Our first priority now is handling the press outside. If we don't get in front of this, a media firestorm will crush crew morale. And let me be clear—I don't want this kind of attention for Joker. Not like this."
The reporters had only multiplied since Wayne returned to the hotel. If anything, the tabloid hounds had caught the scent of blood and were circling like sharks.
The Warner Bros. PR team was no doubt already mobilizing, but Wayne noticed that the New York Times—the first to show up—was no longer among the crowd. The remaining reporters were mostly from small- and mid-sized outlets, the kinds that would gleefully fabricate stories for clicks, let alone when there was actual dirt to dig.
And once a celebrity sues them? That's their favorite game—lawsuits mean exposure. Getting sued is a badge of honor to these outlets; they want celebrities to come after them.
"So what do we do now?" Susan asked, frowning. "We can't let those reporters find out what really happened—not if we want to protect Joker."
Wayne nearly snapped at her. Now she cared about the movie? Where was that sense of responsibility when Cage was lighting up?
"Forget it," Wayne muttered, shaking his head. "The paparazzi will sniff out that bar in no time. It's impossible to hide now."
Honestly, he didn't give a damn about Nicolas Cage's reputation. Hollywood was full of people worse than him, and plenty of them were still box-office gold. With the right spin, public opinion could be steered. Audiences rarely boycott stars for their personal lives.
"Here's what we'll do," Wayne continued, turning sharply. "We'll hold a press conference on set tomorrow. We get ahead of the story, take control of the narrative."
He turned to Cage, eyes narrowing.
"Mr. Cage, when you talk to the press, stick to one story and one story only: you were doing method acting. You went to that bar to experience what Arthur—the Joker—might go through. You got scammed. End of story. Understand?"
He walked back to the coffee table and jabbed a finger into Cage's chest—not exactly a gesture fitting of the elite upbringing he'd had from the Garfield family.
But the chaos this so-called "brilliant actor" had stirred up had left Wayne with nowhere else to direct his rage.
Maybe once, Wayne would've cared about maintaining a working friendship. Not anymore. From now on, this would be strictly professional—until the day Joker was finished.