Chapter 196: His Greatest Work
In early March, Aaron was in Dawnlight Pictures' New York office, on the phone with Los Angeles. Dawnlight had just acquired 45 acres of land in Burbank, preparing to invest $100 million to build the Dawnlight studio complex.
The headquarters building in particular was already entering the design phase, with architects being invited to submit proposals.
Before long, Christiana Reali walked into Aaron's office.
"Aaron, there's a director named Quentin Tarantino waiting in the reception room. He wants to see you."
"Quentin Tarantino?" Aaron raised an eyebrow. "I haven't heard a word from that guy in months. Send him in."
Aaron had been keeping an eye on him. Ever since directing Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino had more or less vanished—appearing and disappearing without warning.
Christiana stepped out and soon returned with Quentin Tarantino.
The moment Tarantino saw Aaron, a wide grin spread across his unmistakable face.
"Aaron! I've got an incredible story. You have to take a look!"
As he spoke, Tarantino pulled several notebook-style booklets from his bag.
They were the first draft of a screenplay he had spent months writing by hand.
Aaron's eyes widened. He had seen the handwritten draft of Reservoir Dogs before—but this was on another level: hundreds of pages of barely legible scrawled handwriting.
"…Never mind," Aaron said quickly. "Just tell me about it."
Tarantino nodded enthusiastically.
"The project is called Pulp Fiction. It tells three interconnected crime stories set in the streets of Los Angeles…"
"Pulp fiction" referred to the pulp magazines popular in the mid–20th century, famous for their violence, sharp dialogue, and lurid storytelling.
Tarantino explained in detail:
The first story follows hitmen Vincent and Jules, who retrieve a mysterious briefcase and later encounter a pair of amateur robbers—"Pumpkin" and "Honey Bunny"—in a diner.
The second revolves around Vincent taking Mia, the mob boss Marsellus Wallace's wife, out for a night on the town.
The third focuses on boxer Butch, who wins his match and flees Los Angeles with his girlfriend Fabienne.
At last—Pulp Fiction existed.
Aaron felt a quiet sense of relief. This was Quentin Tarantino's defining masterpiece.
"The story works," Aaron said after listening. "And paired with your non-linear narrative structure, it's absolutely filmable."
He looked straight at Tarantino.
"Have someone type and organize the script first. Once it's polished, we move straight into production."
This handwritten draft still needed proper formatting and refinement. That alone would likely take two or three months.
"Got it," Tarantino said eagerly. "I'll cooperate fully."
He was also helping Oliver Stone adapt the script for Natural Born Killers, but he didn't think that would take too much time.
That evening, Aaron returned to his Upper East Side townhouse in Manhattan.
Aaron lay in bed with Christiana Reali in his arms.
"Earlier today, that director—Quentin Tarantino—he released a low-budget film last year called Reservoir Dogs," Aaron said casually.
"It uses a non-linear narrative. Very unconventional. The audience is small, but it's earned him a solid reputation in the indie film circle."
"He's brought me his second script now. When the time comes, I'll arrange a role for you in it. The guy has real talent."
Pulp Fiction had three separate storylines—and three female roles. Even if Christiana found it difficult to play the mob boss's girlfriend, Mia, the other two roles wouldn't be a problem.
In terms of looks and figure, Christiana had very little to fault—her only drawback was her lack of fame. But Pulp Fiction wasn't a big-budget project anyway. That didn't matter.
Christiana kissed Aaron lightly on the lips.
"Mm. I'll leave it to you. You seem to really believe in him?"
Aaron smiled faintly.
"More or less. Want to know where he finished writing that script?"
"Where?"
"In a brothel in Amsterdam. He stayed there for three months."
Aaron genuinely admired the man. Quentin had flown straight to the Netherlands—probably spent every dollar he made from Reservoir Dogs on Amsterdam's sex workers.
Christiana couldn't help laughing.
"Amsterdam? That famous city of indulgence… This Quentin Tarantino really is impossible to figure out."
Aaron ran his hand slowly over her smooth body.
"Focus on improving your English. Once you're fluent, I'll arrange a leading role for you."
"Or if there are any European–American co-productions, I can recommend you right away."
Christiana nestled closer into his arms.
"I'm not in a hurry. With you around, I know I'll get roles."
"You know—I was just an unknown actress back in France. Even Sophie Marceau only gets decorative roles in Hollywood. If I hadn't met you, I'd never have had a chance to come here."
"Don't worry," Aaron said, kissing her softly.
Beautiful features. A stunning figure. Christiana lacked fame, but her raw potential was unquestionable.
Rolling over, Aaron positioned himself above her and continued:
"I'm working with an investment fund to acquire Victoria's Secret. Once that's done, we'll design a large-scale lingerie fashion show."
"We'll create exclusive Victoria's Secret models—the Angels—and turn them into the most elite supermodels in the world."
"South American models, especially Brazilian women, are tall, curvy, and incredibly sensual. They'll be indispensable."
"If you're interested, you could start a modeling agency in Brazil—sign promising girls, train them, and bring them to the U.S. for shows and campaigns."
Christiana's breathing quickened.
"Victoria's Secret—I know it well. I've bought their lingerie before. Very sexy."
"A lingerie show sounds incredibly appealing. And it's not just Brazil—the entire Latin American region has countless young girls dreaming of coming to the U.S."
"Most of them can't get visas. If there's a legitimate opportunity, they'd rush for it."
Aaron nodded.
"Even better. I'll back you directly in setting up the agency."
"At least it's better than girls sneaking into the country and working illegally."
"In New York alone, there are countless undocumented immigrants—many of them young models, even minors."
"They're exploited by shady agencies, crammed into damp, moldy basements, earning next to nothing while chasing an illusion of opportunity…"