Los Angeles International Airport, international arrivals hall.
Leon leaned against the railing at the pickup area, sunglasses hiding most of his face, though the tense line of his jaw betrayed a subtle restlessness.
...
He'd cut short his unspoken "vacation mode" with Anne by two days, using the excuse of "handling Final Destination post-production and preparing for the gala" to move back to his own apartment. Anne didn't make a fuss. She just winked playfully and said, "Have fun at the gala!" Her tone was light, almost too understanding.
That kind of effortless clarity from her stung him with a faint, needle-like guilt. She was too smart, tucking away her emotions so neatly it was harder to handle than any tantrum.
...
The airport intercom announced the arrival of the Tokyo flight. The crowd began to spill out.
He spotted her almost instantly.
Scarlett Johanson.
The long flight didn't seem to have worn her down much. She wore a black baseball cap pulled low, but a few strands of her signature blonde hair slipped out by her ears. A simple white T-shirt, jeans, and a loose black leather jacket gave her a tall, purposeful stride, tinged with urgency.
She saw him too. Her eyes lit up, all her cool composure melting away. Dragging her carry-on, she broke into a jog, ignoring any potential cameras or stares.
"Leon!"
She threw herself into his arms, wrapping them around his neck with enough force to nearly knock him back a step. A mix of her faint perfume and her natural scent filled his senses.
"Hey, easy there," Leon chuckled, instinctively steadying them both by holding her waist. His sunglasses tilted in the embrace, so he pulled them off.
Scarlett looked up, her cap brushing his chest, her face glowing with an unfiltered, radiant smile, her eyes brimming with obvious longing. "Miss me?"
"What do you think?" Leon leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead, natural but restrained under the public's gaze. He always kept it measured in crowds.
Scarlett pouted at the brief kiss but didn't push it. She gave him one more tight hug before letting go, then looped her arm through his, leaning most of her weight against him. "I'm exhausted… Tokyo's rain never stopped, and Sofia was basically murdering me with her glares the last few days. But I survived."
She rambled on about the grueling final days on set, the awful plane food, her tone carrying a playful, almost whiny reliance she only showed around him. Leon listened quietly, throwing in a comment here or there, her familiar warmth slowly easing the unease Anne had stirred.
In the car, Scarlett's chatterbox opened wide. She shared stories from Tokyo, mimicking Sofia Coppola's pained expressions during rehearsals, poking fun at Bill Murray's dry jokes, laughing so hard she nearly tipped over. Leon drove, a smile tugging at his lips. He could tell the trip, though tough, had grounded her. The doubts and frustrations from her acting seemed to have given way to a stronger confidence. The spark in her eyes was brighter, more certain.
Back at Scarlett's rented place, the door barely closed before words became unnecessary. Her suitcase was kicked aside. Scarlett leaned against the door, looking up at him, her gaze intense and direct, all travel fatigue replaced by urgency. Leon braced his hand against the door by her ear and kissed her, no restraint this time, the kiss heavy with the weight of their time apart.
She responded eagerly, her fingers threading through his short hair, pulling him closer. Clothes scattered from the entryway to the living room to the bedroom. The sunlight was blocked by heavy curtains, leaving only soft, muffled sounds in the dim room.
...
All the calculations, hesitations, and dilemmas were swept away by the rush of emotion. At least in this moment, he was entirely hers, and she was his.
...
Two hours later, Scarlett curled up in Leon's arms, idly playing with the pendant on his necklace, her voice slightly hoarse. "I heard about Chainsaw's final box office numbers… insane, Leon. Almost $110 million on that budget?"
"Yeah," Leon said, his fingers lazily tracing her back, savoring the softness of her skin. "Fox is rolling in it. Harvey Milk's probably laughing in his sleep."
"And you?" Scarlett propped herself up, her eyes gleaming. "How much did you make? Are you a little rich guy now?"
Leon smirked. "I get a union cut. Enough to not sweat bills for a while."
He skipped the specifics, but the money was solid. A 13:1 return on investment, even with his small share, was no joke.
"That's awesome," Scarlett said, resting her head back on his chest, her voice full of genuine happiness for him, mixed with a faint, almost imperceptible envy. "I knew you'd kill it. Ever since Midnight Scream."
She paused, then her tone shifted, a touch delicate. "The gala… it's gonna be a big deal, right? I heard a lot of heavy hitters will be there."
"Yeah, Fox is hosting. It'll be a spectacle," Leon said evenly. "Alan and Laura want to use it to officially put me out there."
Scarlett went quiet for a moment before asking softly, "Will Anne Hathaway be there?"
The room stilled. Leon's hand paused on her back for half a second before resuming its slow motion, his voice steady. "She's not part of the Chainsaw crew. She's not on the list."
"Oh," Scarlett said, dropping it, but buried her face deeper into the crook of his neck, her warm breath grazing his skin.
Leon knew she wasn't fully convinced, but she chose not to press. That silent understanding preserved the fragile calm of the moment.
...
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation gala was held in a lavish Beverly Hills hotel ballroom. Champagne towers gleamed, sharply dressed waiters wove through the crowd, and the air was thick with the scent of high-end perfume and gourmet food.
Half of Hollywood seemed to be there, flashbulbs popping, laughter and chatter loud enough to shake the rafters.
When Leon and Scarlett walked in, heads turned. Scarlett had swapped her casual look for an elegant black halter gown, her blonde hair swept up to reveal a graceful neckline, her makeup flawless, her presence commanding. She clung to Leon's arm, her smile poised and charming as she navigated the attention and greetings.
Leon, in a classic black suit, understated but sharp, was calm and composed, nodding to familiar faces with a steadiness that belied his newcomer status.
Alan Lyle spotted them immediately, wine glass in hand, Laura Thompson at his side. "Leon! Scarlett! We've been waiting for you!" Alan, flushed and clearly a few drinks in, clapped Leon's shoulder and ushered them toward a group of Fox execs.
He turned to a polished, middle-aged man with meticulously combed hair. "Leon, let me formally introduce Tom Rothman, chairman of Fox Searchlight." Alan's tone carried clear admiration.
Tom extended a hand, his smile professional but his eyes sharp and appraising. "Mr. Donaldson, a pleasure. Chainsaw's success is remarkable. You've done Fox Searchlight proud."
"You're too kind, Mr. Rothman," Leon said, shaking his hand firmly but humbly. "It's Fox Searchlight that gave me the shot, and it was a team effort."
"Humility's a good trait in a young man," Rothman said, his smile widening. His gaze flicked to Scarlett. "Miss Johanson, how was Tokyo? Ms. Coppola spoke highly of you."
Scarlett responded gracefully. After a brief exchange, Rothman was pulled away by another exec, but his demeanor made it clear: Leon Donaldson was now on Fox's top-tier radar.
As expected, Leon became the night's subtle centerpiece. Eli Roth, the director, soaked up congratulations, red-faced and buzzing, hugging people and sharing set stories. But it was obvious—especially from Alan and Laura's attention—that the execs were zeroing in on Leon, the writer.
That spotlight sent a clear message to the room. People flocked to him—actors, directors, producers, agents, known and unknown, handing over business cards, offering praise, probing for collaboration. Leon handled it smoothly, polite but distant, never brushing anyone off but never overcommitting either.
Scarlett stayed by his side, the perfect partner, occasionally jumping in to deflect overly eager advances with effortless charm.
During a brief lull, an elegant figure approached with a Hollywood golden boy in tow. "Leon, congratulations," Gwyneth Paltrow said, holding a champagne flute, her smile radiant. Beside her stood Brad Pitt, at the peak of his charisma, effortlessly commanding attention.
"Thanks, Ms. Paltrow. Mr. Pitt, great to meet you," Leon said, shaking their hands.
"Brad's been raving about your ideas in Midnight Scream and Chainsaw," Gwyneth said, playing the connector. "Especially that dark, subversive edge."
Pitt nodded, his gaze carrying an actor's sharp intuition. "Leon, Gwyn mentioned you've got something about a 'Fight Club'? Sounds… unique, but pretty dark. That's a risky move."
He was blunt, not swayed by Leon's current buzz.
Leon wasn't surprised. He knew Fight Club's box office failure in his past life was real, but its later cultural impact and DVD market comeback made it legendary. "I get your concerns, Mr. Pitt," he said calmly. "It's not a typical blockbuster. It's a bold jab at middle-class male nihilism and consumerism—a satire. The core isn't the violence; it's the raw release and the tearing down and rebuilding of a fake self."
He outlined the story's central conflict and Tyler Durden's rebellious, philosophical allure. Pitt's interest visibly deepened, though his brow stayed furrowed. "Sounds challenging. But the budget won't be small."
"True," Leon said, knowing Pitt's worry—recalling David Fincher's perfectionism-driven budget overruns and high actor salaries in his past life. "If this moves forward, I'd aim for a balance between creative vision and cost control. It'll take tight trust between the director, cast, and studio."
He sidestepped salary talk, emphasizing "collaboration" and "balance."
Pitt studied him, surprised by his grounded pragmatism, then gave a genuine smile. "Interesting idea, Leon. We should find a quieter spot sometime to dig into this story and its… potential." He raised his glass.
"My pleasure," Leon said, clinking glasses, sealing a future talk.
Gwyneth smiled, satisfied.
After they left, Leon exhaled. The chat with Pitt went better than expected, but the real challenges loomed: convincing Pitt to take a profit-sharing deal over a massive upfront salary and managing Fincher's creative passion against budget constraints.
Leon knew if Fight Club succeeded, its prestige would eclipse any B-horror hit. But the risks were just as steep.
The gala rolled on, laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. Leon sipped his champagne, the bubbles sharp and faintly sweet, his mind clear amidst the glitz.
He stood at a crossroads. Chainsaw's success was his foundation, but Fight Club and even The Princess Diaries lay ahead in a haze of possibility. Scarlett's warm arm stayed linked with his, yet Anne's wild, needy green eyes lingered like a distant, unshakable mark in the corner of his mind.
The hunter's path was never a single journey. And the game of emotions seemed trickier than any business deal.
He took another sip, the champagne's bite lingering on his tongue.