Britney's sudden arrival and quiet departure were like a sweet, fleeting shooting star, leaving behind a bright streak across Leon's life—one that carried a trace of heat and aftertaste.
She had brought with her a kind of raw, slightly rebellious energy, along with sparks of musical inspiration, which had carved out a unique place in his heart.
That napkin with her phone number was no longer just a possible way to get in touch—it became a memento of shared secrets and a brief taste of freedom.
With her gone, and the final days of the millennium drawing near, Leon's world suddenly felt quiet… almost too quiet.
Anne Hathaway, following her company's advice, kept a low profile and maintained a polished public image before the filming of The Princess Diaries officially began.
Other than a few required media appearances and promotional events leading up to New Year's Eve, she spent most of her time at home, accompanied by her parents, forced into playing the role of the "good girl."
She would occasionally send him text messages filled with little complaints, though always restrained. Leon could feel her careful anticipation—looking forward to their official meeting on set.
Scarlett Johansson, meanwhile, was still caught up in the whirlwind of campaigning for Lost in Translation at the Golden Globes.
The calls and texts never stopped, though they were usually short and rushed:
> "Just finished an interview, totally wiped out. Miss you!"
>
> "Met a really important judge with Sofia, hope it helps!"
>
> "Good night, my Vermeer."
She had started calling him that, playfully linking him to the painter from Girl with a Pearl Earring.
Her voice always carried that mix of exhaustion and excitement, hoarse from overwork, and long calls were impossible.
Leon understood and supported her, but the physical distance and time zone differences made the longing feel almost unreal.
Adriana Lima, too, was in her busiest season of the year, bouncing from one international promotional campaign and brand deal to the next, like a spinning top.
She no longer had time for another surprise visit, but she would steal moments between flights—or late at night—to call him.
Her accented English was filled with complaints about her grueling schedule and bad food, laced with affection and that casual intimacy she reserved only for him.
She always ended the calls with something fiery like, "Just wait till I'm done—I'll come deal with you." As if those words alone were enough to stake her claim on him.
Carmen Kass kept her usual rhythm.
Every few days she would call briefly from her private line, never more than two minutes.
Sometimes it was a holiday greeting, sometimes a question about an obscure book, and sometimes just a quick, "The weather's getting colder, don't forget to bundle up."
Before Leon could even respond, she'd wrap it up with, "I have to go, we'll talk later," and hang up.
This aloof, routine check-in fit her icy, mysterious style perfectly—like a quiet reminder: I'm still in your world. Don't forget me.
The biggest surprise, though, was Jennifer Aniston.
She, too, continued reaching out—not often, but always at the right moments.
Sometimes she'd share a funny story from a Hollywood set, sometimes she'd ask his opinion on an old movie they had discussed before. Her tone was always light and friendly.
But between the lines, Leon could faintly sense an almost imperceptible desire—like she needed someone to confide in.
When combined with recent tabloid rumors—"Trouble in Paradise: Pitt and Aniston's Fairytale Romance May Be Cracking"—Leon couldn't help but feel a headache coming on.
Had his little butterfly-effect meddling accidentally derailed what was supposed to be Hollywood's golden couple of the new millennium?
The thought passed quickly.
He remembered that even if Brad and Jen married on schedule, they would eventually split anyway—thanks to Pitt's infamous affair with Angelina Jolie during Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
According to the gossip, it wasn't just Jolie—even his housemaid wasn't safe from him. Whether true or not, those stories were everywhere.
Pitt would later claim that the real issue was their "fundamental differences" over whether to have kids. But to Leon, that sounded more like a flimsy cover-up.
With that realization, any guilt he had quickly evaporated.
Love in this industry was fragile and complicated, full of pressures and variables no outsider could truly understand.
Leon even laughed at himself.
Here he was, juggling multiple women, very much playing the "bad guy," yet deep down still feeling disdain for Pitt's possible behavior. That kind of double standard… maybe that was just human nature.
So he decided to leave things alone. He wouldn't interfere in Aniston's life.
Staying in the safe space of friendship was probably the best option.
---
December 25th — Christmas Day.
Los Angeles was alive with holiday cheer. But for Leon, Leonardo, and Tobey—three young men without heavy family obligations—there was no better way to celebrate than with a big NBA game.
Once again, they gathered at the Staples Center to watch the Lakers take on the San Antonio Spurs.
At this point, the Lakers were surging, led by the unstoppable duo of Shaq and Kobe. The difference from the shaky start of the season, when Kobe had just returned, was night and day.
And that was reflected in the betting odds.
Leon considered once again using his "prophet's edge" to make some quick money. But when he checked the lines, he saw that the Lakers' dominance and home-court advantage made their win payout frustratingly low.
He went with Lakers -2.5 (meaning they had to win by at least 3 points), but even that was only -110 odds—bet \$110 to win \$100.
A far cry from the 3-to-1 payout he'd gotten when they faced the Trail Blazers.
After crunching the numbers, Leon still threw in \$3 million.
The profit margin was small, but the win was practically guaranteed—and right now, he needed to build up serious capital for bigger future investments.
If the Lakers won by 3 or more, he'd net around \$2.72 million.
Leonardo had found out about Leon's last big score—turning \$1.5 million into \$4.5 million—and while impressed, he also warned him:
> "Leon, listen. This is thrilling, but don't fall into the gambler's trap. Hollywood has swallowed plenty of guys because of this stuff."
Leon nodded, assuring him it was just occasional, and under control.
Leo, though tempted, played it safer this time. He bet \$1 million on the Lakers to win outright, at -130 odds.
Tobey was even more cautious, putting down only \$500,000 on the Lakers to win.
The game itself was a battle. The Spurs, as always, gave the Lakers hell.
But in the end, Shaq's dominance in the paint and Kobe's clutch scoring sealed it.
The Lakers won 99–93—by 6 points, just enough to cover the spread.
As the buzzer sounded, the Staples Center erupted.
Leo and Tobey jumped to their feet, high-fiving like kids, Tobey even punching the air in triumph. Both made a nice side profit—peanuts compared to their fortunes, but extra money was always fun.
Leon, meanwhile, quietly exhaled in relief.
It wasn't as massive as last time, but \$2.72 million in profit was now safely his. Combined with the \$4.5 million from his first "prophet's bet," he had cleared over \$7 million in cash winnings.
That money was critical for his next move. Tax headaches could be dealt with later.
---
When the noise died down, life settled back into routine.
In the final days before the millennium, Leon finally had long stretches of uninterrupted time.
Instead of wasting them on leisure, he locked himself in his study, carefully reviewing his finances and investment layout.
He had already poured most of his profits from Final Destination—along with his own funds—into tech stocks, especially Qualcomm.
His timing had been perfect. The value had multiplied several times over, riding the wave of the late-90s boom.
But Leon knew better.
The so-called "Y2K crisis" wouldn't truly explode. After the panic-driven surge early in the year, tech stocks—especially internet stocks—had inflated into a dangerous bubble.
The market was drunk on irrational exuberance, but deep in his memory, the alarms of that inevitable crash were already ringing.