Chapter 10: Nicole, Left in the Wind
The car rolled to a gentle stop along Sunset Boulevard.
Nicole was still gazing out the window, quietly planning what she might do next.
Snap. Snap.
"Hey—wake up. We're here."
William glanced at Nicole Kidman's profile. He had to admit—
in person, Nicole was even more striking than she appeared on screen.
Especially her translucent complexion.
It carried a faintly unhealthy pallor—but it only made her look more delicate.
"Ah… already?" Nicole asked.
There was a trace of tension in her voice—and an almost imperceptible hint of regret.
Regret that time had passed too quickly, leaving her without enough space to think things through.
But life was often like that.
It rarely gave you the luxury of time when choices mattered most.
She took a deep breath and unfastened the seatbelt that had been holding her tightly.
Turning to William, she said softly,
"Thank you for bringing me home tonight."
She nodded politely and released the belt.
Yet she didn't get out right away.
She waited.
Waiting to see if William would make a move.
Life, after all, was a massive gamble.
Until the cards were revealed, you never knew whether a choice would lead where you hoped.
That was why every decision had to be made carefully.
Tonight, Nicole chose not to act.
She handed the initiative over to William.
But William turned out to be far more composed than she expected.
A few seconds passed.
He didn't move.
Finally, Nicole opened the door and stepped out.
The moment she did, William didn't hesitate.
He didn't wait.
He didn't say goodbye.
He started the engine and drove away, disappearing down Sunset Boulevard.
Nicole had assumed that no matter how rational he was, he would at least linger—
exchange a few more words, say farewell, leave behind the impression of a gentleman.
After all, she had always been confident in her beauty, her skin, her presence.
But instead—
William left without a second glance.
Leaving her standing alone, hair tousled by the night wind.
She stood there in silence for nearly half a minute.
Then suddenly, she laughed.
"Nicole Kidman… what's wrong with you?" she murmured to herself.
"Getting this worked up over an unknown director with no reputation at all."
She didn't even have a single proper film to her name—
only those Sacred Valley productions, the kind that barely counted as respectable.
Have you lost your mind?
At the height of her youth, Nicole Kidman couldn't make sense of herself.
She didn't understand why she had acted like a completely different person tonight.
She gave a self-mocking laugh, shook her head, and turned to enter her apartment building.
What she didn't know was that, across the street, on the second-floor balcony of another apartment, a woman was leaning against the railing with a glass of red wine in hand, watching William's Chevrolet with amused interest.
After memorizing the license plate, she set the wine aside.
"Interesting… very interesting," she murmured.
"Nicole riding home late at night in a stranger's car. Hmph."
She couldn't see William's face clearly, but from the hand resting outside the car window, she could tell one thing for certain—
The person who had driven Nicole home was a man.
"Maybe… this is an opportunity."
She drew in a slow breath, watching the taillights disappear around the corner.
"Hey, Katherine—what are you looking at?"
Another young woman, just as fresh-faced and attractive, stepped onto the balcony and leaned against the railing beside her.
"Look across the street," Katherine said, pointing at Nicole, who was fumbling for her keys.
"Holy crap—isn't that Nicole Kidman?" Jennifer exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes," Katherine replied calmly.
"The lead actress of Dead Calm. A rising star in Hollywood."
There was a hint of calculation in her tone, as if something were already taking shape in her mind.
"Sigh… when do you think we'll get to star in a movie like that?"
Jennifer looked longingly at Nicole across the street.
"I think it'll be soon," Katherine said mysteriously.
"Huh?" Jennifer tilted her head.
"I just found an opportunity," Katherine replied.
She went back inside, retrieved a notepad and pen, and wrote down the license plate number she had memorized.
"What's that?" Jennifer asked, peering over.
"A license plate?"
"No," Katherine shook her head.
"It's the starting point of our road to Hollywood."
---
Meanwhile, William slowly parked his car in front of a run-down apartment building located at the border between Santa Monica and Highland.
Movie stars?
As long as his plans didn't go wrong, he was confident that one day countless Hollywood actresses would be lining up for his attention.
Which meant—
him making the first move was essentially impossible.
He turned off the engine, grabbed his keys, and stepped out.
Although Santa Monica technically counted as part of the greater Hollywood area, it was only on the fringe.
The streets here were nowhere near as clean or polished as Sunset Boulevard.
Drugs.
Chaos.
Homeless people.
All of it was common.
That said, the area wasn't too dangerous yet—
mainly because it hadn't gone through the riots of '92.
Fourth floor.
Apartment 404.
Looking at the number on the door, William's thoughts drifted.
1995. Netscape's IPO.
In his previous life, he'd read countless novels that mentioned it.
The beginning of America's internet myth—
a bubble that would peak in 2000, before bursting spectacularly.
Just like Japan now, teetering on the brink of collapse.
Once the bells rang in early 1990, the financial tsunami would come crashing down on Japan's markets.
William shook his head.
Too early to think about that.
First—
he needed his first bucket of gold.
Once he had that, just riding the internet bubble and Japan's economic collapse would be enough to leave him swimming in profits.
He inserted the key, lifted the door slightly, then twisted the lock.
"Fuck—this damn door," he muttered.
"When's the landlord ever going to fix it?"
As he stepped inside and closed the door, a voice drifted in from the living room—spoken in English, but with a thick Russian accent.
"Heh. Instead of waiting for the landlord to fix it, you'd be better off just moving out, Brit."
On the sofa lay a blonde woman with gray eyes, dressed lightly, a book on economics resting in her hand.
Yekaterina Sergeyevna Ivanova.
William's roommate.
A Russian.
"Katya," William said dryly,
"what exactly did the British ever do to you? You really hate them that much?"
She closed her book, turned to look at him, and replied calmly:
"Nyet. I don't hate the British.
I simply don't like you."
William shrugged, unfazed.
He walked straight into his bedroom, closed the door, and collapsed onto the small sofa.