[Edward POV]
"AHHHH!"
A feminine shout startled everyone in the living room. I quickly rushed to the bedroom it came from and burst into the bathroom.
"What happened?" I asked Barbara, the one who screamed. The rest of the girls trailed close behind me.
Wearing only a towel wrapped around her body, Barbara clung to me and sobbed, "I've gained two kilos!"
Haley turned to Selena and whispered, "How much is that in pounds?"
Selena shrugged. "I don't know."
The American-born girls couldn't understand why the European one was crying.
"She gained over four pounds," Taylor said after checking her phone. She gasped as though Barbara had just announced a terminal illness.
"It's normal to gain some weight during lockdown," I tried to comfort her, but the others overheard and panicked.
"Move!" Taylor rushed to weigh herself, then screamed when she too had gained.
Selena, Haley, Ness—one after another, they all stepped on the scale. Each of them let out a shocked cry when the numbers ticked higher, even though none of them looked any different.
"Maybe it's muscle. It's muscle weight, right?" Selena's voice trembled with hope.
Taylor raised an eyebrow. "When did we work out?"
"We kinda did. With Eddy," Haley offered weakly.
The girls fell silent, then turned on me with accusing eyes.
"You did this!" Taylor jabbed a finger at me.
I laughed. "Wait, did all of you gain weight? Maybe it's the scale that's wrong."
Their eyes widened. "Yes!" Selena exclaimed with relief.
"The scale must be broken," Ness added.
Just then, Willa joined, fresh from the spa.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
Haley explained, "The scale's broken. It scared Barbs."
"Oh. Broken? That explains it. It said I lost a pound earlier. I thought I was getting results." Willa said it casually.
The room fell silent. Everyone stared at her.
"What?" Willa asked, genuinely confused.
I grabbed her hand before the mob formed. "Come with me if you want to live!" I shouted, dragging her out.
"Get her!" Taylor barked.
We escaped, laughing madly. I played around with the girls until it was time for me to head to work.
At the Canvas set, we were already shooting the 20th episode, though only six had aired on Netflix.
Two new actresses approached me as I entered. Both wore muted Fallout uniforms, their faces smeared with dirt to show the struggle of post-apocalyptic survival. I'd based them on Tiga and Suna, whom I missed.
Lucy, a blonde twenty-year-old with the fresh prettiness of a young Scarlett Johansson, held her script and stepped forward first.
"Mr. Newgate, I have some questions about today's scenes."
"Shoot," I said, sipping coffee.
Jisoo, a Korean American newcomer, stood politely beside her, waiting her turn.
Lucy frowned. "Why does Jaime need to surrender to the tyrant? I thought this story was about empowerment."
"The story's about survival," I answered flatly.
"Yes, but don't you think it's misogynistic to say a woman can only survive in the apocalypse if she gives up all her agency?"
"Again. The story's about survival. This isn't California, and it doesn't reflect our current society. The tyrant is an actual villain, not some misunderstood anti-hero. Your character has to decide if losing agency is worse than the entire shelter being eaten alive."
I leaned closer. "And like I've said before—this show is about the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few. Survive. Survive. Survive. If you don't think survival is universal, maybe you should check your privilege."
Lucy's lips parted, stunned. She looked like no one had ever told her that word in her life.
I turned to Jisoo. "What about you?"
"Nothing about misogyny. I just want to know when my character finally meets yours. It's been teased for eighteen episodes."
"Two more," I told her with a smile. "At the tyrant's camp."
"So they'll meet at the finale?"
"Yes."
Jisoo nodded excitedly.
Lucy, still flustered, blurted out, "I can relate to survival! I'm not some rich nepo baby. My dad's a dentist!"
I hid a smirk. Of course she thought that was humble. A dentist in Beverly Hills probably made more than the average family saw in five years.
I realized she wasn't even speaking for herself—she was parroting agency talking points, convinced she was a star now.
She'd signed with a big agency after joining the show, and fame had gone to her head. She'd even tried flirting with me a few times, but I ignored her advances and kept things professional.
It's weird how fame always gets to their heads. She was quite pleasant at the beginning.
I sipped on my coffee again and returned to my trailer.
"I need to hire less people from California after this." I muttered.
The era of social justice and virtue signaling was coming by pretty soon. I'd hate to be a part of that movement.
Since Me Too already came earlier in this universe, nudged by me, the Hollywood apologist were already starting making the all female Ghostbuster movie and more flawless girlbosses projects.
I think someone was blackmailing them, holding their dirty dealings about their head.
I didn't mind female lead movies, as long as it's good. I hated getting into a movie, and suddenly it turned into a lecture.
There's a difference between political art and just straight up talking down to the audience. Like the Black Widow movie in my previous life.
It showed child trafficking at the beginning. That was political art, it wasn't in your face messaging, but showing something real that made people think about the issue.
It started well, then it turned into … well…
Speaking off the Black Widow movie…
-Christen Forger Duplicate-
"So, what really happened back at your place that night?" Scarlett asked, her voice a teasing purr as she adjusted the golden dress clinging to her curves.
The gown shimmered under the ballroom chandeliers, a deep neckline daring attention, the slit along her leg cutting high with every subtle sway of her hips.
We were in the middle of shooting a ballroom sequence, where Natasha Romanoff infiltrates a Russian diplomat's party to uncover whispers of a black-market weapons deal.
I only shrugged, leaving her question dangling unanswered.
Scarlett, of course, thrived on the mystery, her tongue darting briefly across her lips as though she had uncovered some secret she wasn't supposed to.
"I'll make you tell me what happened, one way or another." She vowed.
Unlike my Canvas shoots, this was the full Hollywood machine. We were filming on one of Disney's sprawling Marvel sets, and the scale was… bloated.
Crew scurried like ants across the polished floors, camera rigs hovered from steel cranes, and production assistants yelled into walkies every five seconds. The staff count was quadruple what I normally worked with.
They even had personal chefs assigned to the top-billed actors, food that went half uneaten, and non-recyclable props built only to be smashed a scene later.
Waste disguised as spectacle. No wonder Marvel's budgets swelled past reason—they worshipped excess.
I glanced at Lucas Till, who was supposed to be rehearsing his lines but instead looked like a boy playing dress-up in a tux. When I caught his eye, he flashed me that wide, affable grin.
"Yeah. I'm ready!" he said before I could ask.
The studio hadn't been thrilled with my choice of Lucas, but they couldn't fight me on it directly.
He was young, handsome in that clean-cut, teen-heartthrob way, and—more importantly—he could carry Mr. Immortal across several films without visibly aging out of the role.
He also had just enough muscle definition to look the part, the kind of superhero whose body came from real workouts, not just VFX lighting.
In the scene, Natasha Romanoff was supposed to make her entrance first. The camera would track her bare back as she slipped past the guards, her every step deliberate, a serpent in silk.
In her earpiece, Fury's gravelly voice would name the target, reminding her of the stakes.
She would ask if Barton was in position—not because she needed backup, but because Barton had promised he'd be there.
Fury's answer, blunt as always, "Barton was already overseas, shadowing Chitauri tech leaking onto the black market in China."
And that was when the hesitation hit her. If not Barton, then who?
The camera would catch her glance, her doubt flickering beneath the mask of the spy.
And right on cue, Lucas Till's Craig Hollis—Mr. Immortal—with his fuzzy blond hair, stepped into the frame. He wore a tuxedo that fit just a little too sharply, bowing with boyish charm and an almost clumsy grace before extending his hand.
"May I have this dance?"
It wasn't the entrance of a seasoned agent. It wasn't Barton's arrowed precision. It was lighter, uncertain—naive. And that was the point.
"I told you I don't take care of newbies," Natasha muttered, scolding Fury through the hidden mic in her earpiece, even as Craig's hand lingered, waiting.
"The great thing about this one is, you don't have to take care of him," Fury replied with that gruff edge. "He needs experience. I trust no one better to give him that." Then the line went dead.
Natasha sighed, slid her hand into Craig's, and allowed herself to be pulled into the dance.
"Cut," I called out, stepping forward from behind the monitor.
Scarlett broke character instantly, head tilting in mild annoyance. "What's wrong?"
"I think you misunderstood the scene," I told her, moving between the cameras. I gestured for Lucas to stay still and took Scarlett's hand myself.
"Lucas, you need to lean harder into the naivety. Both of you aren't just dancing—you're baiting a predator. You're trying to catch the Russian's eyes. Not just any Russian—the oligarch."
Their faces turned curious, watching me as I demonstrated.
"There's a sadistic tendency these people have," I explained, lowering my tone, "wanting to own something that belongs to others."
I shifted into position as Lucas would, clumsy but earnest, and then locked eyes with Scarlett. Her lips parted slightly, taken aback when I pulled her in close, the heat of the performance tangible even in rehearsal.
"Your eyes, Lucas. They need to look like you're falling in love with her. And Scarlett, you have to mirror it—because the bad guy, after reading his dossier, is weak to this. Naivety sells. He loves messing with naive girls."
Scarlett's cheek colored faintly as I held the gaze.
"So laugh at his jokes, soften your stance, let your guard down. In the wide shot, it looks like romance. But in the close-ups, the audience sees it's a technique. Got it?"
After I finished explaining to the actors, I returned to the director's seat, but before I could start the scene again, a sub producer approached me. He was someone from the corporate world, not a creative.
"What if instead of doing all of these, we start the scene in the hotel room where both of them have already caught the bad guy and interrogated him?" The producer said, slightly sweaty.
"I'm guessing you don't like how the woman used her femininity as a weapon? Unfortunately, this scene is fixed since it played off from the opening scene." I told him calmly.
"We're aiming for a more family friendly content. Many parents will–"
"It's not family friendly. That's how it works. You can't do infiltration scenes and filter out all the dirty manipulation going on behind it."
"What if–"
"Shut the fuck up and let me work." I cursed, looking at him with a serious expression.
My intimidation factor caused him to freeze up, like he was a prey being stared at by a predator.
The staff became uncomfortable by the confrontation, and the sub producer left with humiliation.
I sighed and said, "We'll take a 30 minute break before starting again."
Noticing that the actors wouldn't be able to focus with what they just saw, I paused the production and went to get some coffee.
Scarlett approached me and said, "That's intense."
"After today, we will use Edward's film crew instead. I don't want to use Disney and Marvel's film crew for this movie anymore." I said with a sigh.
"What were you thinking?" Scarlett teased sarcastically.
I shrugged and said, "They are available, and I want to start the movie early. Now, I finally understand why they are available. They sent me not the B or C team, but the F team."
Scarlett laughed at the joke, and she touched my hand slightly. Rumors began to swirl and 'Christen Forger' became a topic of controversy in the tabloids again.
…
[Edward POV]
"Three times in three weeks. Wow, they must've really not liked him." I muttered as I read the articles attacking the new director.
Claire and Frankie were on the video call together with me.
Frankie said, "Compared to you who seemingly build your brand and career from almost nothing, people don't really like a rich guy coming out of knowhere and being put at the top of the industry ladder."
"Hmm… I guess he does seem privileged." I muttered in understanding.
"Do you think he needs more films on his resume first?" Claire asked Frankie.
Frankie said, "That will still be hard, but if he created something like the Netflix movies a couple of times more, he might lessen the aversion people have of him."
"And also, we need to find out who leaked his background." I muttered. "This wouldn't have happened if the piece about his family wealth and connections wasn't dug up."
Frankie sighed and said, "Apparently the sins of the father are a big deal for the public. His dad is a famous exploitator and had suppressed a lot of people in Paraguay to build his business. He even did the same to Brazil."
Frankie added, "He did donate a lot of money to charity and tried to fix his family's mistakes, but people think he's still benefiting from the wealth built on exploitation, so they didn't want him in Hollywood to make movies for them to watch."
The trends on social media happened naturally instead of someone trying to nudge the hatred into his direction.
Execs in Hollywood didn't really care about the people's voices. They knew he was rich and…. That's it. There's really no other factors for his acceptance to the community here.
"Hmm…" I thought about it for a second before I decided on something drastic.
…
The girls, Vader, the kittens, and I sat in front of the TV together and watched the breaking news.
The conference hall was already chaos by the time CNN cut in live.
Flashes of light exploded like fireworks, every reporter trying to catch a piece of Christen Forger's downfall.
"There's a lot of controversy about my family's background," Christen began, his tone calm, steady.
There was no PR team at his side, no handlers—just him.
Instantly, a voice shouted from the crowd, "Did your father monopolize land in Paraguay and force small farmers to sell?"
"Yes," Christen answered without hesitation. "He did. Entire communities were pushed out because of his expansion. Families who grew their own food were forced into poverty, and their land became plantations for our exports."
The cameras clicked faster.
Another reporter rose, firing her question like a bullet. I recognized her—she was from Mad Dog.
"What about the forced relocations in Brazil? Testimonies say thousands were displaced for your family's cocoa fields."
Christen nodded. "It's true. Entire villages were bought out or threatened into moving. My father wanted the land cheap, and he got it. Those people lost not just their homes, but their heritage. That blood is on our family's hands."
Gasps rippled across the hall.
The next reporter barely waited. "And the political bribes? Your father funneled millions into local governments to cover up labor exploitation and environmental damage. Is that also true?"
"Yes. He bribed ministers, police chiefs, and governors. Forests were burned illegally. Rivers poisoned. Workers underpaid or silenced. All of it happened. And I was born into that fortune."
The room erupted into shouts. Some reporters yelled for proof. Others demanded to know if he was complicit.
"Oh my god." Haley gasped in disbelief. "Edward, if you're really friends with that guy, people will be suspicious of you too."
I smiled and said, "Wait for it."
Christen raised a hand, silencing the reporters. His eyes were sharp, and his expression didn't waver even a little.
"My father did those things. I won't hide it. I won't excuse it. And if you want to hold me accountable for benefiting from it, then fine—hold me accountable. That's why I stand here today."
He took a breath, then continued.
"I cannot erase the past. But I can refuse to profit from it any longer. Effective today, I will donate everything I own—every dollar, every asset. My remaining stake in the company will be handed to the Ohara Foundation, so it may be repurposed for charity. My house will be sold. My personal wealth—$750 million—will also go to the Foundation. I will keep nothing."
A stunned silence fell across the hall.
"What the hell?" Taylor fell into deep disbelief.
Christen leaned into the microphone. He showed his bank account, with over $750 million in it.
Then, live on air, he donated all of it to my Ohara Foundation.
"Check my accounts. They're empty. Even the salary from the Black Widow movie I'm working on—I will donate all the same."
One reporter was confused. "Why are you doing this?"
Christen smiled and said, "I was inspired by Edward Newgate, who gave away $13 billion to help cure Alienpox. If he could sacrifice everything for the world, then I couldn't just sit on my ass and do nothing."
The flashes slowed, the crowd frozen by the audacity of his confession.
In my living room, Taylor whispered, "He's crazy."
Selena muttered, "That's either the dumbest or bravest thing I've ever seen."
I just watched the screen, arms crossed, as the silence of the press corps gave way to a flood of questions that no longer sounded like accusations, but something closer to awe.
The responses online were also overwhelmingly positive. Some were skeptical and thought he had money stashed somewhere, but Christen Forger really didn't.
And I didn't feel bad about any of this. His family had been part of the Illuminati, with a checkered—leaning more toward evil—past.
I was curious to see what would happen if someone really did this. I'd seen a couple of similar plots in 90s movies, but never in reality.
Suddenly, I received a phone call. I expected it to be a reporter, so my assistant picked up first—but instead, it was someone unexpected.
My face paled, and I turned to the girls.
They noticed and became concerned. Barbara asked, "What's wrong, Eddy?"
"Um… my mother's coming."
"WHAT?!" the girls yelped at the same time.