Chapter 79 – Morning Negotiations
Early-morning sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds, casting warm golden stripes across Bruce's apartment floor. The air still carried the aroma of coffee and scrambled eggs.
Grace stood by the entryway, giving her suit a final check in the small mirror. Bruce held her briefcase, ready to walk her down to her car.
"Sleep well?" Bruce handed over the bag and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"Mmm-hmm." Grace turned and gave him a soft smile.
Bruce had barely returned the smile when the cordless phone on the side table erupted in a shrill, insistent ring, shattering the peaceful morning quiet.
Bruce frowned. Who calls this early? He picked up the handset. "Hello?"
"Bruce! Harvey Weinstein!" The voice boomed through the receiver with that unmistakable, commanding rasp; Grace, standing several feet away, could hear it clearly. "Enjoy the premiere? Have enough champagne? Remember when I said 'we'll talk later'? Well, kid, later is NOW! No more stalling!"
Bruce exhaled quietly, mouthed "sorry" to Grace, pointed at the phone, then tapped his ear and shrugged helplessly.
Grace understood immediately: Harvey's trademark marathon phone call had begun. She hurried over; Bruce, reading her mind, pulled his car keys from his pocket and pressed them into her palm. "Take the car. Drive safe."
Grace nodded, stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, mouthed "Good luck," then slipped out with her briefcase, closing the door quietly behind her.
Bruce watched her leave, then turned his full attention back to the call. Harvey's voice continued hammering away.
"...I've got a project that's bleeding out and needs a script doctor! The current draft reads like a bad diner menu written by a drunk! Monday deadline! First draft! On the director's desk! Non-negotiable!" Harvey paused for breath, then dangled the carrot. "Six figures minimum! Wide theatrical release! An opportunity most writers would murder for! You in or you out?"
Bruce stepped onto the small balcony, watching Grace unlock his Ford Taurus down below and slide into the driver's seat.
The engine started; the car pulled into the light morning traffic of Greenwich Village. The simple domestic scene helped clear his head. He turned, leaning back against the railing, voice steady. "Mr. Weinstein, I've always appreciated Miramax's efficiency, but—" his tone sharpened slightly, "—you calling at the crack of dawn can't just be about one rush rewrite job, can it?"
A low chuckle came through the line, amused at being read so easily. "Smart kid! I like dealing with smart people—saves time!" Harvey's voice warmed to an almost seductive pitch. "The Hateful Eight! Once Upon a Time in Hollywood! Miramax is ready to go all-in on both projects, give you creative freedom like you've never experienced! Sign a First-Look Deal with us—we'll be partners, share the glory together!"
"Partners?" Bruce echoed softly, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Mr. Weinstein, I'm genuinely grateful that Miramax was the first studio to believe in my work. But 'partnership' and 'ownership' aren't the same thing." He took a breath. "I respect what we've accomplished together. But—now or in the future—I won't tie myself exclusively to any company unless it's a truly equal partnership, like on Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels where I was writer-director-investor, sharing both risk and reward."
He paused, then laid out his position clearly: "And honestly, I can't be a script doctor. My head's already full of original stories that deserve to be told. Whatever I write next, as long as Miramax makes a fair offer, I'll be happy to bring it to you first."
"As for The Hateful Eight and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood?" Bruce's voice carried absolute conviction. "A savvy businessman like yourself, having seen the box office numbers and buzz for Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, can definitely recognize their commercial potential. Fast-tracking those projects is in Miramax's best interest—not something you should dangle like bait to buy my 'exclusive loyalty.'"
Then Bruce played his trump card—a polite but firm reminder: "Don't forget our contract stipulations. For every script Miramax purchases from me, if substantial development hasn't begun within two years of signing, the rights automatically revert back to me. Mr. Weinstein, I'm confident you won't let the company waste million-dollar assets sitting on a shelf."
The other end went silent—a heavy, calculating silence. Bruce could practically picture Harvey's face, jaw working, eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation.
Several seconds later, the expected explosion didn't come. Instead, a low laugh—tinged with grudging respect—rumbled through the line.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" Harvey's laughter filled the receiver. "Well, well, Bruce White! I'll admit it—I underestimated you, kid." The amusement faded, his tone turning businesslike—almost energized by facing a worthy negotiator. "Fine. Enough of the hard sell: you win. From now on we discuss collaboration, not contracts. But—"
Harvey's voice hardened, brooking no argument: "You've got to promise that any hot scripts you develop will be offered to Miramax first, with fair market terms. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
"Deal," Bruce answered without hesitation.
"Excellent!" Harvey sounded genuinely pleased. "Then I'm waiting—and that claim about having a head full of great stories better not be bullshit. Talk soon, kid."
Click. Dial tone. Bruce slowly set the handset down as the sounds of the city filtered back through the window. The invisible tug-of-war was over.
The mental chess match with Harvey had drained him; Bruce desperately needed coffee.
He headed downstairs and pushed open the door to Central Perk.
The café was relatively quiet this early, but the usual suspects were already there—Monica, Chandler, Ross, and Phoebe clustered on the orange couch, while Rachel, wearing her apron, refilled a customer's mug at a nearby table.
"Well, well, look who finally emerged from the love nest," Chandler drawled with his trademark smirk. "Director Bruce gracing us with his presence? Must've had quite the evening with Ms. Grace, hmm?" He loaded the word "evening" with obvious innuendo.
Monica glanced up with a mischievous grin. "Exactly—where is Grace? Still upstairs? Want me to run up some muffins for breakfast in bed?"
Bruce rolled his eyes, walked to the counter, and told Rachel, "Large black coffee, please." Only then did he face the peanut gallery. "Grace left for her law firm an hour ago. And as for you people—" He gestured at the wall clock behind the bar. "Shouldn't you be at work, or is Central Perk officially paying you to be permanent furniture now?"
"Work?" Chandler clutched his chest dramatically. "Such a harsh word! My heart and soul belong to this couch and this mediocre coffee!"
"Crap! I've got to get to the Museum!" Ross suddenly exclaimed, gathering his books.
"Oh no! My massage client's appointment—I'm gonna be late!" Phoebe jumped up.
"Right, my shift starts in ten minutes." Monica set down her cup and stood.
The couch area emptied in seconds, leaving only Bruce and Rachel behind the counter. She slid the steaming mug toward him with a knowing look. "Wow, Grace really must've worn you out last night—you need this jumbo-sized caffeine IV?"
"It wasn't Grace—it was Harvey."
Rachel's teasing smile froze. She turned toward the espresso machine. "Wait, what?"
Bruce laughed, realizing her confusion. "I just spent the last forty minutes on the phone in a verbal boxing match with the head of Miramax—strictly business."
He'd barely finished explaining when the café door suddenly burst open with a loud bang!
[500 Power Stones → +1 Bonus Chapter]
[10 Reviews → +1 Bonus Chapter]
Enjoyed the chapter? A review helps a lot.
P1treon: Soulforger (20+advance chapters)