In the final forty-eight hours at Cannes, the air was thick with tension and frenzy.
Inside a suite at the Carlton Hotel.
Mara walked in again with the latest media monitoring report in hand, fear barely hidden in her voice.
"Harvey, Pulp Fiction has overtaken every other film in buzz and coverage.
Every reporter is saying the same thing now—'No matter who wins the award, this movie has already won.'"
Harvey stayed silent for a long time, then let out a low chuckle.
"Won?" he scoffed. "Fine… let it win once.
When awards night comes, everyone will understand—Link is just a genius we discovered. And when that happens, every spotlight will be on me."
He stood up and lit another cigar.
Smoke rolled through the room as his voice dropped even lower.
"Miramax doesn't create gods. It creates myths.
And I—am the man who creates those myths."
—
Night fell over Cannes once more.
The sea breeze swept across the red carpet as flashes exploded on both sides, like a chain of small detonations.
It was the final night of the festival—the Palme d'Or ceremony.
Link stood in a backstage corridor. Outside were applause and cheers; inside were cold air and silence.
Through the heavy curtain, he could hear the host announcing each nominated film.
The media war had been raging for three straight days.
The New York Times called it "a showdown between art and publicity."
France's Libération put it more bluntly:
"Someone stirred the entire Cannes Film Festival with a single cup of coffee."
That night, on the closing red carpet—
Harvey Weinstein looked like a different man altogether. He charged forward enthusiastically, wrapped an arm around Link's shoulders, and forcibly dragged him in front of the cameras.
"Over here! Over here!" he shouted at the flashing lights. "My best partner! Together, we made history!"
A reporter shoved a microphone toward him. "Mr. Weinstein, are you confident you'll take home this year's Palme d'Or?"
Harvey turned to the camera with an impossibly confident grin. "No matter the outcome, Pulp Fiction is already a success. It proves Miramax's vision. We believe in new directors—and we helped make Mr. Link."
His tone was gentle, like a proud father praising his son.
Link didn't pull away. He even smiled cooperatively, letting Harvey perform like a clown.
—
In the backstage lounge, Quentin paced back and forth.
"God, I hate this part," he said, clawing at his hair like a caged animal. "If they don't give us an award, I'm gonna find a wall and bash my head into it."
"Try not to do that in France," Link said calmly, handing him a bottle of water. "The walls here are way too expensive."
Uma sat quietly in a corner, her gown pooling at her feet, calmer than usual.
"You don't look nervous at all," she said, studying Link.
"Being nervous won't change anything," he replied. "The ending's already written."
"Written?" Quentin blinked. "You mean Eastwood?"
"No," Link shook his head. "I mean people's hearts."
He glanced toward the half-open backstage door, where flashes lit up the night.
"What are people watching right now?
They're watching a story—a crazy director from the slums of Los Angeles, a producer and a group of actors Hollywood had cast aside.
They broke through the gate and ripped open the curtain of the rules.
So tell me—how should that story end?"
Quentin froze for a few seconds, then grinned. "Damn. I wish I could write a script like that."
—
The awards ceremony began right on schedule.
Inside the massive Lumière Theatre, stars glittered—but the air was heavy with tension.
Second by second, the awards were announced.
Best Actress went to Gong Li for The Story of Qiu Ju. The camera swept past Uma Thurman, who applauded gracefully, though the light in her eyes dimmed just a little.
Best Actor went to the lead of The Best Intentions. Travolta and Jackson were both passed over. They exchanged a look and shrugged helplessly.
Best Director…
Quentin Tarantino's name was not called.
It was like someone had pulled the spine out of his body. He collapsed back into his chair, the fire in his eyes nearly extinguished.
Harvey's smile froze. Under the table, his hand clenched into a fist. What the hell is the jury doing? Balancing things out? Are they really going to give the big one to—
Even Link felt his heartbeat slip out of rhythm. His face remained calm, but no one saw how his fingers had turned pale where his hands rested on his knees.
At last, it was time for the final and most important award—
The Palme d'Or.
Jury president Clint Eastwood walked onto the stage alongside French cinema icon Catherine Deneuve.
The entire hall went silent—quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat.
Deneuve opened the envelope, glanced inside, smiled, and handed it to Eastwood.
Eastwood took the card and swept his gaze across the audience.
Clearing his throat, he spoke in his trademark low voice and read the name that would decide everything:
"The winner of the Palme d'Or is…"
He paused.
That second stretched on like an eternity.
"Pulp Fiction!"
Boom!
The Lumière Theatre exploded.
Quentin froze for three seconds, then let out a wild scream and jumped up, hugging Samuel L. Jackson so hard he nearly knocked him over. Bender was in tears, barely able to form words.
Harvey's facial muscles twitched as he broke into a wide grin, arms opening as if ready to embrace all the glory in the world.
Link stood up too, his heart pounding. He looked at Quentin, then at the equally overwhelmed Bender, and shoved them both forward.
"Go! Both of you! Get up there!"
Quentin and Bender exchanged a look, as if only just realizing what had happened, then stumbled together onto the stage.
Up there, Quentin accepted the heavy golden palm from Eastwood. He was so excited he dropped an F-bomb, rambling through a chaotic list of thank-yous. Down below, Harvey kept smiling, waiting for the big, final acknowledgment.
But then Quentin suddenly stopped.
He shoved the trophy into Bender's hands, grabbed the microphone, took a deep breath, and stared straight through the crowd—locking eyes with Link in the audience.
Panting, his words coming in bursts, Quentin said, "Two years ago, I was still working at a video store… arguing with customers! Then this weird guy walks in and asks me… what a Quarter Pounder is called in Paris!"
The crowd burst out laughing. Quentin's tears fell anyway.
"He slammed the script on the counter and said, 'This belongs to you!' Damn it, in that moment, I felt like I'd been waiting for him my whole life!"
He handed the mic to Bender. Bender's hands shook so badly the trophy nearly slipped.
"And me?" Bender said, voice thick with tears. "Two years ago, I was sitting in a café reading a magazine…" He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "That crazy guy walked up and said if I didn't give him three minutes, I'd regret it for the rest of my life—because I'd missed Pulp Fiction."
He choked, then laughed. "Looking back… he really was crazy. And a genius."
Standing side by side, they raised the trophy high and shouted toward the audience:
"That crazy guy is—Link!"
The spotlight snapped to the back rows.
Link stood in the shadows, forced into the glare of dozens of lights. He didn't speak. He just raised his fist and pumped it hard once.
Down below, Harvey's smile stiffened, his applause slipping out of sync.
The hall was already boiling over.
At that moment, all of Cannes knew his name.