Billy drew a deep breath and watched the winter winds blowing in from the north. He wore an elegant black suit with a white shirt tipped in orange, and a Vacheron Constantin Patrimony Minute Repeater on his wrist—black with platinum, immaculate, its open-heart design revealing the entire minute mechanism.
—That collection looks exquisite on you, darling. —Mónica replied.
—Well, they sponsor me now. They gave me every model they consider their most iconic—twenty for my wrist—and promised I'd be allowed to wear Audemars Piguet and Jaeger-LeCoultre as well. —Billy remarked, completely thrilled by how everything seemed to fall into place, imagining the photos tied to his suit and his watch, the way every appearance through the media was scrutinized with a magnifying glass. Billy sighed, realizing what a fortune it must have been to be famous in the '90s, when privacy was still possible by simply stepping away from the spotlight. Only in well-known places, big cities, or tourist paradises would photos be nearly unavoidable.
Privacy wasn't suffocating, though it was already showing certain strains. Each day the media grew more unruly. There were people tracking their movements up close, and photos occasionally taken from rooftops overlooking his property. Still, good security was all he asked for.
—Well, I think you struck an incredible deal. You negotiated a two-million-dollar sponsorship, gifting lines, and a luxury agreement to recreate Vacheron's ancient cultural jewels. —Mónica whispered, still a little excited by the power Billy wielded. One thing that never seemed to fade was Billy's skill in business and his talent for presenting himself as the perfect face of a brand. His wealth, his fame, and the elegance shaped by Italian wool suits.
Billy was the prime choice for galas or red carpet events; his presence alone effortlessly balanced class and fame. It was a quality reminiscent of a bygone era. Billy knew well that attire was the most important performance of a star, and wearing quality suits—no matter the type—was his cardinal rule.
—I think it's just clothing, —Billy laughed, winking at Mónica to persuade her out of getting involved with the complicated web of television and film that clung to fame with fervor.
But Mónica found her own timid way of stepping into it. While she usually posed in whatever fashionable dresses she had, this time she wore her own custom creation: sapphire-blue, dark with a lustrous sheen that seemed to give her life. Soft diamond-shaped cuts ran down her back, and thin layered panels aligned like delicate boxes, forming a gorgeous three-tier background that shifted through different phases—each one opening the door to fashion with force. Her sculptural body and meticulous self-care glowed in their own fervent style.
—I think it's too much for just a dress, —Billy replied, completely undone by the sight. Her body was extraordinary, her bust a stunning marvel, an undeniable magnet for every person in the room. The dress fell elegantly past her knees, moving with her in a soft, chasing breeze.
The French photographers snapped from every angle imaginable. No one could deny or overshadow true fashion; by tomorrow she'd undoubtedly grace every cover in France. Billy greeted those around him, savoring the reassuring notion that art always found its frontier.
Lux Animation was astonishing in its own way. A new children's film, Brother Bear, had been shaped under Billy's guidance and written so that three films could grow from its foundation. It told the story of Kenai and the story of Koda, evolving the characters in their own ways, a rhythmic growth rooted in the idea that every series needs a beginning and an end.
Many French directors contributed their part, while some business magnates sat in the audience—though many never entered the theater. They stayed negotiating in the lobby or sipping coffee, though their real commitment was to draw people into attending, all of them viewing animated cinema as something beautiful, a charming gathering around Lux Animation.
—I can't miss the movie, —Billy sighed. —But we'll talk about fine-dining restaurants next time.—
—I suppose there's no other option, —the man replied, holding Billy's gaze, losing focus only when he glanced at the models behind him—for good reason. No one could resist what was about to unfold.
Billy took Mónica's hand as the screening was about to begin. He climbed the stairs and saw a screen blending the best of 3D and 2D, a subtle, masterful work by the engineers who had breathed life into '90s animation.
…
Billy took a bottle of water as he watched the movie, popcorn at his side. The film entertained him in its own way; each character radiated strong and distinct traits. The entire movie felt like an invitation to revisit the space of films from the smallest details onward.
He had a good idea.
Now it only needed to be materialized, in his own way.
He admired how Kenai was forced to take responsibility for his mistakes, to understand that his recklessness required a price. It was not an easy task to bring to completion—not lightly, nor without contradiction. Kenai was a man imprisoned by his emotions who finally understood that a person must live with the weight of their responsibilities.
The story and the adventure always felt like a journey through a scarcely colonized America, where native people were wrongly labeled uncultured. The third film could show the arrival of the Europeans who, in that era, were Vikings—barely civilized, driven by killing, burning, and looting lands they never owned, waging wars defined by weapons and their own self-imposed titles.
Brother Bear had one of the best soundtracks—or so Billy believed—seeing how the songs varied yet somehow blended with the magic of a style known in the '90s: tender songs, like I Will Remember You by Sarah McLachlan, adding emotion; Toto performing great tracks that brought rhythm from different angles; and a mix of artists who lacked Phil Collins's unified presence across a single soundtrack, but still offered something a person could appreciate.
...