Chapter 92: That Expensive, Really?
The afternoon sun glimmered over Sunset Boulevard as a silver Lotus Esprit roared down the road.
Aaron Anderson was on his way from Burbank to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where he had a meeting scheduled with Al Pacino.
Traffic was light — until, out of nowhere, a woman darted across the street near a comedy club.
"Jesus Christ—are you trying to die?!"
Aaron slammed on the brakes, tires screeching as the car swerved violently onto the grassy curb. The Lotus shuddered to a stop, narrowly missing a streetlight.
The woman froze, eyes wide, then hurried over to his window, breathless. "Oh my God, are you okay?"
Aaron's heart was pounding like a drum. Fury bubbled up as he threw open the door and stepped out.
"Are you insane?" he snapped. "You trying to get yourself killed—and take me with you?"
The woman looked barely five-foot-three, clearly Latina — maybe Mexican — with tanned skin and striking dark eyes. Pretty, yes, but Aaron was far too angry to care.
Before she could answer, he grabbed her by the collar. "What the hell were you doing? Speak!"
"I—I'm sorry! Please, I didn't see the road! It was my fault!" she stammered, her voice trembling. She looked more like a frightened schoolgirl than an adult woman.
Aaron's grip tightened for a moment before he sighed and released her. "Unbelievable," he muttered.
"I'll pay for the damage!" she blurted out nervously.
Aaron glanced back at his car. A few scratches on the paint, nothing serious. He pulled out his car phone and called Jack Wells to handle it.
He didn't have time for this — he had a meeting to get to.
"Where's your car?" he asked sharply.
"O–over there," the woman said, pointing to an old Honda parked nearby.
"Good," Aaron said. "You're driving me to the Beverly Hills Hotel."
"W–what?" she blinked in disbelief.
He shot her a glare that could kill. "Move. I'm already late."
Terrified, she nodded quickly. "Y–yes, sir!"
A few minutes later, Aaron sat in the passenger seat of her car, his briefcase on his lap. The woman gripped the wheel tightly, stealing nervous glances at him.
"Sir," she said softly after a while, "my name is Salma Hayek. I'm from Mexico City. I promise I'll pay for any damages."
Aaron raised an eyebrow, finally studying her properly. She was beautiful — dark hair, golden skin, and a wild, untamed energy that radiated from every movement.
And that figure… she could give Jennifer Connelly a run for her money.
"You're from Mexico?" Aaron asked, his tone softening slightly.
"Yes," she said. "I just came to Los Angeles a few months ago."
"You an actress?"
Salma nodded. "I used to act in television dramas back home. I came here to look for work… but it's not easy."
Aaron gave a dry chuckle. "Tell me about it. This town eats people alive."
Salma's hands trembled on the wheel. "I had a meeting today… a producer said there was a small movie role for me. But when I got there, he—he tried to—"
Her voice faltered, shame and fear crossing her face. "I ran out."
Aaron exhaled slowly, glancing out the window. "Welcome to Hollywood," he said flatly.
Salma managed a faint, bitter smile. "So I've learned."
They drove in silence for a while, the city lights gliding past them.
Aaron studied her again — the fiery eyes, the heavy accent, the defiant chin despite the fear in her voice. There was something magnetic about her.
"Salma Hayek, huh?" he said finally, almost to himself. "You've got the look. Hollywood just doesn't know it yet."
She glanced at him, startled. "You think so?"
Aaron smirked. "Yeah. You'll need more than looks, though. Around here, talent's cheap — survival isn't."
Her lips parted, unsure whether to thank him or take offense.
By the time they reached the Beverly Hills Hotel, Aaron stepped out, smoothing his jacket.
He turned back and looked at her one last time.
"Listen, Salma — forget about the car. Consider it paid."
She blinked. "What? But I said I'd repay—"
"Forget it," he said, already walking toward the entrance. "Just don't run into any more cars — especially mine."
There was something undeniably captivating about the woman — that unmistakable, fiery Latin charm that lingered even after she'd nearly caused a wreck.
When Aaron arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he turned to her and said coolly,
"All right, that's enough. Next time, watch where you're going. You almost got yourself killed out there."
Without waiting for a reply, he picked up his briefcase and cell phone, then strode through the hotel's glass doors.
Salma Hayek stood by the car, watching his back disappear inside.
"Not even going to let me pay for the damages?" she muttered to herself.
But as she looked down at her trembling hands gripping the steering wheel, one thought stuck in her head:
That man wasn't just anyone.
He belonged in this city.
Born into a comfortable family in Mexico, Salma wasn't like the typical struggling immigrants clawing their way through Hollywood. Still, she wasn't naïve — she knew opportunities came and went fast here.
And that man — that sharp, confident man with movie scripts in his hand — had Hollywood written all over him.
The way he dressed, the car he drove — a Lotus Esprit, the same model made famous by Pretty Woman — everything about him screamed success.
She hesitated for a moment, then squared her shoulders and walked into the hotel.
If fate had gone to the trouble of letting her almost die in front of him, she wasn't about to waste it.
After some searching, she spotted him in the hotel café, sitting across from a man whose face was instantly recognizable.
Her eyes widened.
"That's… Al Pacino."
Salma quietly took a seat in a corner booth, ordered a cup of coffee and a small plate of pastries, and watched from afar.
The young man who had nearly strangled her was now speaking with one of the greatest actors alive — and by the looks of it, they were discussing a script.
Aaron passed Pacino a few pages, and the older actor read with genuine interest. The two laughed, relaxed, as if they'd known each other for years.
Salma couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was obvious: this was business — movie business.
---
Across the café, Aaron was indeed pitching his new project — the American adaptation of Scent of a Woman.
Pacino listened intently, but sighed.
"I just wrapped Frankie and Johnny, and I'm heading straight into Bugsy. I like this one, but I won't be available until later next year."
"That's fine," Aaron said smoothly, smiling. "We're still refining the script. Once it's ready, I'll bring it to you first. I believe this film can go all the way to the Oscars."
At that, Pacino's eyes gleamed.
"The Oscars, huh?" he murmured. "My agent mentioned this script before — said that blind colonel role would be a hell of a challenge."
Aaron nodded, sipping his coffee.
"The Italian version focused too much on the soldier's life. My adaptation will be about connection — the quiet bond between a reclusive, temperamental ex-officer and a shy young student. Two lost souls redeeming each other. A journey of confrontation, discovery… and understanding."
Pacino sat back, thoughtful — and smiling. "I like that. It's human."
They shook hands, and as Aaron watched the legendary actor leave, he felt a flicker of satisfaction.
Pacino was interested. That was enough for now.
A moment later, his phone rang — it was Jack Wells.
"The Lotus is fine," Jack reported. "Barely a scratch."
Aaron chuckled. "Of course it's fine. If anyone's getting hurt around me, it's never me."
He hung up and stepped outside — only to see Salma Hayek hurrying toward him again, her heels clicking across the marble.
"Sir!" she called, slightly breathless. "Your car's damaged, right? Let me drive you home."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. I didn't think you'd still be here."
"I thought you'd left already — and I told you, you don't owe me anything. Why're you waiting around for me?"
Salma flashed a nervous, charming smile.
"Because you clearly don't care about the money," she said playfully. "That handmade English suit you're wearing? I'd bet it costs at least four thousand dollars. And that Lotus you just left parked on the grass? Not exactly something a man worries about if he's counting pennies."
Aaron blinked, looking down at his suit.
It was European — Nicole Kidman had picked it out for him. He'd never even checked the price tag.
"Four thousand dollars?" he muttered under his breath. "This thing's that expensive?"
Salma couldn't help but laugh softly.
Aaron sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. Drive me to Burbank."
Salma's eyes brightened instantly. "Of course!"
As they walked toward her car, Aaron glanced at her sideways — amused by her persistence, maybe even impressed by it.
Hollywood was full of dreamers.
But this one, he thought, might actually go somewhere.