The buzz of the wrap party faded from the glitzy Beverly Hills banquet hall.
Leon and Scarlett returned to their apartment, slipping into a few days of near-total seclusion, like they'd hit pause on the world.
No paparazzi hounding them, no script deadlines looming. Time seemed to stretch out, lazy and unhurried.
Scarlett was still riding the wave of Lost in Translation's detached, artsy vibe. Instead of hitting up parties or clubs, she dragged Leon to galleries and art exhibits.
"You need a little culture in your life, Professor Leon," she said, deadpan, but her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Leon rolled his eyes but didn't resist.
He watched her wander through the exhibits in a simple cotton dress and canvas sneakers, bare-faced, pausing before abstract paintings he couldn't make heads or tails of.
She'd furrow her brow one moment, then nod in sudden understanding the next, radiating a quiet beauty that felt worlds apart from Hollywood's glitz. It was fresh, serene, and oddly captivating.
But serenity was just the surface.
Scarlett's playful side hadn't gone anywhere.
At a minimalist gallery, she pointed at a completely blank canvas—save for a tiny signature in the corner—and, with a straight face, asked Leon, "What do you think this piece says about the artist's inner struggle and their meditation on nothingness?"
Leon stared at the overpriced "void" for a few seconds, then deadpanned, "It says they really wanted to make a buck and figured the people coming to this exhibit aren't too bright."
Scarlett froze, then burst into a loud, unladylike laugh, drawing glares from the somber, black-clad art enthusiasts nearby.
"You're done for, Leon Donaldson. The art world's gonna blacklist you for that one," she teased.
"Good. Let them," Leon shot back, slipping an arm around her waist to keep her from doubling over, a grin tugging at his lips.
They hightailed it out of there.
Another time, she insisted he mimic the twisted pose of a modern sculpture for a photo. When he refused, she took matters into her own hands, physically maneuvering him into an even more ridiculous stance.
She even threatened to send the picture to The Hollywood Reporter with the headline, "Horror Master's Crash Course in Art Appreciation."
Over those few days, Leon felt less like he was soaking in art and more like he was watching Scarlett Johansson perform a one-woman show just for him—lighthearted, fun, and a little goofy. It washed away the faint haze Anne had stirred in him and the exhaustion from the wrap party.
That is, until they wandered into an exhibition of classical masterpieces.
The vibe was heavier here, the crowd quieter.
They strolled through, taking in centuries-old interplay of light and shadow.
Then, almost by accident, they turned a corner.
There it was.
A painting.
A girl, gazing over her shoulder, her eyes clear as water, lips slightly parted, as if a thousand words hung unsaid.
Soft light traced her face and the oversized pearl earring, pure and mysterious, radiating a timeless, breathtaking stillness.
Johannes Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring.
Leon's feet stopped cold.
A strange sensation gripped him—not the awe of art appreciation, but something deeper, more personal… almost fated.
The girl's hesitant, expressive gaze, both clear and complex, inexplicably overlapped with moments of Scarlett in his mind: her vulnerability during a rainy Tokyo phone call, the subtle tension beneath her radiance at the wrap party, even the fleeting spark in her eyes during her gallery pranks.
Was it all destined?
He cherished her companionship, her love, yet he'd already set aside a big gift for another girl—The Princess Diaries.
That thought pricked at him, a nagging itch when faced with Scarlett's pure, unfiltered joy.
He needed to do something.
Not with words, but with action.
A spark, as clear as the light in the painting, hit him.
Girl with a Pearl Earring. It was like it was made for Scarlett.
This was her role—a chance to showcase her blend of innocence and allure, stillness and intensity.
This creative urge was both a nod to her talent and a way to quiet the guilt gnawing at him.
He'd gift her this role from the future, ahead of its time.
It would let her channel that pure-yet-sensual, quiet-yet-fierce quality, launching her to new heights.
A perfect redemption—and a chance to score some industry clout. Win-win.
…
Back at the apartment, Scarlett curled up on the couch, watching an old movie, the sunset gilding her in gold.
Leon didn't disturb her. He headed straight to his study.
He didn't start writing Pearl Earring right away. Instead, he forced himself to cool off and tackle more immediate concerns.
Opening his laptop, he pulled up folders for The Princess Diaries and Fight Club.
The scales had already tipped.
His meeting with Brad Pitt had cemented it: Fight Club was a beast of a project, needing serious firepower and perfect timing.
Right now, The Princess Diaries was the smarter play—a fast track to big cash flow, a way to solidify his industry standing, and the perfect vehicle to "place" Anne.
"Secure the base first, then take the risks," he muttered to himself, locking in his decision.
But who to pitch it to? Would Fox Searchlight bite on a princess flick?
…
He'd likely need to wait until Final Destination hit theaters. Only then would he have the clout to pull investors and sit down with studio execs to greenlight the project.
…
The apartment still hummed with the warmth of their reunion, but Hollywood waits for no one.
Scarlett's agent soon dropped a bombshell: a seven-day perfume ad shoot out of state. Big payday, high-end brand, non-negotiable.
"Ugh, I just got back, and now I'm leaving again," Scarlett grumbled, tossing clothes into her suitcase. "This brand's out of their minds—shooting 'morning dew freshness' in the Arizona desert? They're asking for misery."
Leon leaned against the doorframe, jingling his car keys. "Need a driver and a pack mule?"
"Nah," Scarlett said, zipping her bag shut. She sauntered over, looped her arms around his neck, and planted a quick kiss on his lips, her smile teasing. "You stay put in L.A. and don't go starting any 'big projects' while I'm gone." Her tone carried a knowing edge, her eyes crinkling.
"I'd love to," Leon replied smoothly, "but Final Destination's post-production is burning cash so fast Alan's crying daily. I've gotta babysit it with James to make sure they don't slap on some cheap effects."
…
After dropping Scarlett at the airport, Leon returned to his apartment.
The air still held traces of her sharp, rose-scented perfume.
He didn't open a window to air it out. Instead, he sank onto the couch and pulled out his phone.
The screen unlocked, pulling up his calendar. Scarlett's trip: seven days.
The numbers blinked coldly on the screen.
A familiar restlessness, tinged with a slight guilt, stirred in his veins.
The hunter's instinct always sharpened when the prey—or another hunting ground—was out of reach.
He barely hesitated. His fingers swiped to a number he'd been texting a lot lately.
He hit call.