Chapter 119 – The Cold and Tyrannical Side of Wayne Garfield
Susan Levin cast a worried glance at Nicolas Cage. Her client was, after all, a temperamental artist—who knew how he'd react to a director as domineering as Wayne?
But to her surprise, Nicolas Cage didn't flare up at Wayne's stern tone or the accusatory finger jabbing toward him. He simply nodded, silently acknowledging the warning.
"John," Wayne said, turning to the production manager, "keep in close contact with Warner. As long as the major media don't get involved, the damage will be minimal. These tabloid rags and local TV stations only chase headlines—they don't actually shape public opinion."
After finishing with Cage, Wayne added a few extra instructions to John, clearly still uneasy.
"Don't worry," John replied, gesturing toward Los Angeles as if to strengthen his point. "The PR team at Warner won't screw this up. Most major outlets still give Time Warner some respect."
Wayne wasn't too worried about that. Worst-case scenario, Time Warner's clout could quiet the noise. What truly concerned him was someone using this mess to stir up bigger trouble.
As long as no one deliberately exploited the situation, Warner Bros.' weight would be enough to smooth things over. But if someone used this as an excuse to disrupt the shoot or blow the budget? That'd be a disaster.
Wayne wasn't some unknown rookie anymore. After back-to-back hits with both critical and commercial success, he was a rising force in Hollywood. If someone could cause just enough trouble to delay his release date, there'd be plenty of rivals happy to try.
It was simple math: the North American box office was a fixed-size pie. If Wayne's films were gobbling up oversized slices, that meant someone else was getting less—or nothing at all.
In this era of the "Big Six" studios, where cooperation and competition were always tangled, anything could happen.
"Alright, let's leave it at that for now," Wayne said as he stepped out of Cage's suite. "Everyone in the crew's getting a paid day off—over a hundred people lost a full day of work, Mr. Cage. Tomorrow morning, I expect you to apologize to the entire team. You wasted their time, not just ours."
Seeing the hard look in Wayne's eyes, Susan quickly stepped forward.
"He will apologize. I promise, Director Garfield."
"Mm." Wayne gave a curt nod and walked out.
Zack Snyder—quiet and unobtrusive as always—was the first to slip back to his room. Wayne and John made their way upstairs, with Wayne's assistant trailing close behind.
Along the way, John kept glancing sideways at Wayne, as if he'd just discovered something new about his longtime collaborator. By the time they reached Wayne's presidential suite, he couldn't hold it in anymore.
"I had no idea you had this kind of dominance in you. During the entire Get Out shoot, you never once acted like this."
His words made Wayne pause in surprise. Then he gave a bitter smile and shook his head.
"That's because Get Out was a smooth production," Wayne replied. "The crew was harmonious, and your style is pretty easygoing. When things run well, I've never seen a reason to get angry.
Joker is different. This film is too important—to both of us. Honestly, John, every time I close my eyes, all I see is the crushing pressure of that $60 million investment. I've even started having nightmares about the project failing.
I've faced plenty of tough shoots before, and I've never lost my temper like I did this morning. I know all too well—anger solves nothing on set. It just leads to mistakes.
But today..."
He trailed off, shaking his head again with a helpless sigh. He opened the suite door and collapsed onto the wide sofa inside.
John didn't follow. One look at Wayne's exhausted posture told him all he needed to know. He quietly turned around and headed to his own room—he still had a mountain of production work to handle.
But what Wayne had told John wasn't the full story.
The version of Wayne Garfield that showed itself today—the cold, commanding one—wasn't just a side effect of stress or pressure. It was a deeper part of him.
The product of the Garfield family's elite upbringing? Perhaps. But the truth was more complicated.
From a young age, Wayne had been performing—onstage, in conversations, even in daily life. He'd learned to wear a mask so well that no one really knew what lay beneath.
This was a man who had long ago mastered the art of pretending.
A genius actor—who may have forgotten who he was when the performance ended.
Even Wayne himself wasn't entirely sure who he truly was anymore. The quiet, uneventful youth from across the Pacific… the soul that had once suffered from illness yet harbored a taste for blood and brutality… and now, the hard edge shaped by American elite education—all of these layered together left even Wayne confused about his true nature.
But there was one man who had seen through him.
Professor Anderson Horowitz of USC's School of Cinematic Arts, one of Wayne's earliest mentors, had once described his prized student using four words: "cold," "ruthless," "clear-headed," and "resolute."
A seasoned educator who had taught generations of filmmakers, Horowitz had immediately recognized the mask beneath the polish—how much of Wayne's "good manners" were just a performance.
Just like how Nina never bothered to argue with Halle Berry's harsh impression of him. Perhaps the "Black Pearl" was right in some ways—after all, she'd seen with her own eyes that terrifying, beastly side of Wayne Garfield.
Yet, to most who knew him, Wayne always appeared generous, composed, and loyal to those who supported him.
"Nina," Wayne asked again, clearly still unsettled, "was I really that scary when I lost my temper today?"
Nina looked up from her fashion magazine and sighed. She put it down and spread her hands in surrender.
"Scary? No. You were absolutely terrifying. Especially that look on your face when you smashed the cup—it was like someone had unleashed a wild animal. Everyone just wanted to get as far away from you as possible."
Maybe… it was time to consider a confidentiality agreement and talk to a therapist. Even Wayne was beginning to suspect something wasn't right in his head. He prided himself on staying calm and rational—this morning's outburst had felt disturbingly out of character.
"Haha, Boss—you know what? Halle Berry called you a tyrant today."
Nina smiled as she teased him, but Wayne didn't reply. He lit another cigarette, his thoughts clearly drifting far away. She simply shrugged and went back to her magazine—this wasn't the first time she'd seen him like this. When Wayne got deep into his own thoughts, he often disconnected from everything around him.
She just needed to remember to watch his cigarette butts—he had a habit of burning his fingers when he got lost in his own head.
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Knock, knock, knock.
The sound at the door pulled Wayne out of his thoughts. He was still debating whether he should really draw up an NDA and finally seek psychological counseling. Some of the thoughts that popped into his head lately were… not normal.
"Hey, Halle."
"Hey, Nina. Is Wayne busy?"
Hearing the voice at the door, Wayne shook his head hard, shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind.
"Come in, Halle. What brings you here?"
Halle Berry stepped in and sat down across from him. She had clearly showered and changed. Her smooth, chocolate-toned skin shimmered like silk under the room's lights—soft, radiant, and mesmerizing.
She wore a simple outfit: fitted light-blue jeans and a khaki short-sleeved T-shirt. Nothing fancy, yet on a woman in the prime of her beauty, it looked effortlessly alluring.
Wayne had always admired her skin tone most—it was neither too pale like many white actresses nor overly dark like most African-American women. Back in her youth, Halle Berry was a rare gem—strikingly beautiful, nothing like the older, meme-fodder version she'd become online in later years.
"Just wanted to check how things turned out. Is Nicolas Cage okay?" she asked.
"This is my first real Hollywood film—the role I had to trade my body and pride for. If today's mess delays filming, I might actually die crying."
"He's fine. We're back on schedule tomorrow. You don't have to worry."
Wayne's gaze swept slowly over the Black Pearl's body—lingering for a moment on her long legs and perfectly shaped hips, then drifting up to her stunning face.
Nina, recognizing that look in her boss's eyes, immediately stood up. She knew it was time to leave. Sergey had the right idea—when not called upon, he stayed in the other room watching TV, never getting in the way.
Halle quickly noticed Wayne's gaze too—and understood exactly what it meant. The man still hadn't forgotten her body. As Nina slipped away, Halle licked her lips and gave him a coy smile.
"Wayne, I've never seen the inside of a five-star presidential suite before… Don't you want to give me a little tour?"
She stood, those endless legs clearing the coffee table in one step, her voice sweet as honey.
"Of course, Halle. You've always been a smart woman."
Wayne scooped her up in his arms, kicked open the master bedroom door, then used his foot to pull it shut behind them.
From inside came a breathless yelp, followed by a teasing whisper:
"Honey, be gentle this time. Don't hurt me… I still have scenes to shoot tomorrow…"
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