At the filming base for The Princess Diaries, the massive soundstage buzzed with workers constructing the palace set for the Kingdom of Genovia.
Amid the flurry of activity, Leon tracked down director Garry Marshall.
Marshall, sporting a baseball cap and a casual jacket, was huddled with the art director, cinematographer, and others. He stood beneath a freshly built ceiling set, adorned with European-style frescoes, pointing at a design sketch and explaining his vision in a booming voice.
"No, no, no, the gold here can't be too flashy. It needs that 'polished by time' look, got it?" Marshall waved his arms for emphasis. "We're filming a princess, not a nouveau riche!"
Leon approached with a smile. "Morning, Garry."
Marshall turned, his face lighting up when he saw Leon. "Leon's here! Perfect timing. I'm going for warm elegance, but they almost turned this into a Vegas casino vibe."
Leon studied the sketch, then glanced at the set. "What if we add some deep red velvet drapes?" he suggested.
Marshall's eyes sparkled. "Let's try it. It'll tone down the bright gold and add that royal warmth we need."
The art director chimed in, "I'll get the props team on it right away!"
Just like that, Leon slipped effortlessly from last night's romantic lead to today's sharp, practical producer on set.
As the sun set, its golden rays streamed through the soundstage's towering windows, casting long shadows and bathing the bustling crew and the emerging palace silhouette in a warm glow.
Leon and Marshall finalized the last few tweaks to the key sets.
Rubbing his stiff neck, Leon felt the exhaustion of a high-intensity day of mental and physical work creeping in. But his face held a quiet satisfaction.
Watching the Kingdom of Genovia take shape from nothing filled him with a sense of creative fulfillment nothing else could match.
"Alright, Garry, let's call it a day," Leon said, clapping Marshall on the shoulder as the director debated fiercely with the cinematographer.
"We'll pick up the details tomorrow. Don't forget to give your brain a break—keeps the inspiration flowing."
Marshall looked up from the sketch, his eyes still gleaming with excitement but tinged with fatigue. He chuckled. "You're right, Leon. I got a bit carried away. Creating a little girl's dream world is just too much fun, isn't it?"
"Absolutely, a beautiful dream," Leon nodded. "See you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, Leon. Thanks for the suggestion—those red velvet drapes are a game-changer," Marshall called after him.
Stepping outside, the cool evening air was a refreshing jolt.
Leon slid into his car but didn't start it right away. He sat for a moment, letting the high-focus energy of the set settle.
His body was tired, but his heart was filled with a calm joy.
He started the car and headed toward his Beverly Hills villa.
On the way, he glanced at his phone. A few warm texts from Anne Hathaway asked how his day went and reminded him her parents were staying at her place for a few days.
Leon sent a gentle reply, telling her to enjoy her family time and that he wouldn't drop by tonight to intrude.
He understood the value of family time and respected Anne's space with her parents.
That delicate balance of closeness and distance was sometimes the necessary lubricant for a complex relationship.
Leon's thoughts drifted to Scarlett, the spirited actress still hustling for her indie film with Sofia Coppola at European film festivals. In their last call, she'd been thrilled, telling him she was coming back soon to gear up for the Golden Globes season.
January 2000's Golden Globes were a pivotal moment for her career—a chance to step into Hollywood's mainstream spotlight.
Time flew, and Leon felt a ripple of mixed emotions: a touch of longing and genuine pride in her bright future.
Back at his quiet, empty villa—a stark contrast to the set's lively chaos—Leon shrugged off his jacket and poured himself a small glass of whiskey. Just as he sank into the couch to unwind, his phone rang. It was his agent, Greg.
"Hey, Greg," Leon answered, a hint of anticipation in his voice. "This better be good news. My creative tank's running on fumes today."
He deliberately used "creative," a subtle nod to a double meaning only he understood.
"Leon!" Greg's voice exploded with uncontainable excitement. "The UK! The British Book Awards! You won't believe what just happened!"
Leon's heart skipped a beat. He walked to the bar, slowly pouring another splash of whiskey, keeping his tone steady. "Easy, Greg. Slow down. What's this about the British Book Awards?"
He nudged Greg to say the name he'd been waiting for.
"Girl with a Pearl Earring! Leon!" Greg was practically incoherent with excitement. "It's shortlisted! The British Book Awards just announced it! The UK literary world is losing it!"
"An American writing a novel about a Dutch painting making the shortlist for the British Book Awards? It's insane!"
"The publisher's editor even said if you were British, you'd be in the running for the Booker Prize!"
Leon's grip tightened on the glass. Though he'd secretly hoped and planned for this, hearing it confirmed stirred a complex wave of emotions.
There was satisfaction in achieving his goal, awe at his "memories" proving true again, and a faint pang of guilt for claiming a glory that might've belonged to someone else—though Tracy Chevalier didn't seem to exist in this timeline.
He took a deep breath, suppressing the feelings, and replied with a perfectly measured hint of surprise: "Really? That's unexpected. The British Book Awards… those judges sure have unpredictable taste."
He sipped the whiskey, the cool liquid and warm burn soothing his emotions.
"Unexpected? It's a miracle!" Greg roared on the other end. "We did it, Leon! You're not just Hollywood's golden producer—you're a serious literary author shortlisted for the British Book Awards!"
"This status! This prestige! We need to move fast!"
"Move?" Leon asked, though he already knew where this was going.
"The movie rights!" Greg declared. "We need to kick off the film project now, while the buzz is at its peak!"
"You're the author and the producer. It's the perfect combo!"
"Picture the tagline: 'British Book Awards shortlisted novel, brought to the screen by its own author!' It'll be huge!"
Leon paused, as if weighing the idea.
He stared at the amber liquid in his glass, but his mind flashed to another timeline: Peter Webber's film, Scarlett Johansson's Gretel, that iconic glance back, soft light and unspoken emotion.
"Greg," he said, his voice slipping back into the calm decisiveness of a producer.