Australia's got that perfect light and clean air, so it's no shock the place keeps churning out ridiculously good-looking actors for Hollywood. Cate Blanchett (the elf queen herself), Nicole Kidman, Meryl Streep (honorary Aussie at this point), the Hemsworth brothers, Russell Crowe… the list goes on.
The Aussies basically own half of Hollywood, right up there with the British invasion. They bring the talent, the looks, and they clean up at the Oscars every year.
Tom was out in that perfect Aussie sunshine, shooting a movie, when his phone buzzed. He was actually trying to stay focused this time—no distractions, just work. But when he saw the name on the screen, he sighed and took the call anyway.
In Hollywood, the right friends are gold. You don't ignore them.
He held up a hand to the director—"Give me five"—then stepped into a corner.
"Buddy, you've got five minutes," he said. "I'm in the middle of a scene. You know I'm a professional, Hughes Redstone."
Hughes's laugh came through low and slippery, like a cat that already got the cream. "Then I'll keep it short. There's a young director named Joey Grant looking for funding. I'd appreciate it if you'd open the door for her at your company."
Tom grinned. "Hold up. Isn't this your ex? Still carrying a torch, or did you two never really quit each other?"
Hughes chuckled, giving nothing away. "Don't worry about that. I'll wire the money myself if it comes to it. Do me a solid?"
Tom's smile was bright, dazzling—the megawatt movie-star one—but his tone shifted hard. "An opportunity to do a favor for the grandson of Paramount's big boss? Man, how could I pass that up?" A beat. Then flat: "No."
Hughes sighed like he'd known that was coming. "Come on, don't be so serious all the time."
Tom didn't budge. "Not happening. When I put my name on a movie, it's my reputation on the line. If it tanks, nobody blames your ex—they say Tom Cruise lost his touch. I don't carry dead weight. If she's actually good, I'll invest without you asking. If she's not, all the money in the world won't fix my brand."
"Fair enough," Hughes said, backing off easy. "Forget I asked."
They shot the breeze for another thirty seconds and hung up.
That's Hollywood: best friends when the money lines up, strangers when it doesn't.
Still, Tom couldn't quite figure it. Hughes Redstone had the world on a string—great producer, connected as hell—why was he still going out of his way for a girl who'd clearly checked out years ago? That -American director must have some serious game. Shame she wasted it.
He went back to work and wrapped at sunset.
By the time he walked through the revolving doors of his hotel, twilight had settled in.
He did his usual scan for paparazzi—occupational hazard. Sometimes he needed them (he'd have his assistant tip them off for a photo op). Tonight he just wanted quiet.
That's when he noticed her.
A tiny Asian girl, the kind who could disappear in a crowd of three. Short, completely average-looking—even for Asian girls in L.A., who usually have that delicate, doll-like thing going on. Nothing about her stood out.
She was walking straight toward him.
His security tensed. "Ma'am looks like she's heading for Mr. Cruise."
They figured crazy fan, moved to intercept.
Joey stopped a respectful distance away, flashed a warm, easy smile, and said, "Mr. Cruise? Hi. Joey Grant. Jack Hansen told me I'd find you here."
"Jack Hansen?" Tom took off his sunglasses, squinting a little in the lobby light.
She wasn't nervous. Not even a little. She stood there calm, confident, eyes clear—like she belonged in the conversation.
Not at all what he'd expected from the tabloid trainwreck in his head.
"What exactly did Jack want you to talk to me about?" That trademark charming smile stayed in place—polite, distant, automatic.
Joey met his eyes without flinching. "The project I'm trying to get funded. I'm hoping you'll take a look at the script soon. I asked Jack for help because… I'm kind of on a clock."
Tom almost laughed. Jack was getting bold, giving out his location like candy. And Jack knew damn well Tom had zero interest in this girl or her movie.
Still, he kept it civil. "Look, Ms. Grant, I'm gonna be honest—I'm not really in the market to finance your film. I back directors who are hungry, who live for this. That's the indie spirit I believe in."
Something flickered in her eyes—hurt, maybe—but she didn't back down. "I get it. Right now I probably don't fit that description. But I'm still asking you to read the script."
Tom's smile warmed a few degrees, but the answer was still no. "I like to invest in people who know exactly what they want. I'm not sure you do."
Joey didn't hesitate. "I want to make movies."
He raised an eyebrow, half-teasing. "Let me guess—this is your dream?"
She looked him dead in the eye. "Yeah. It is."
The smile cooled. He'd heard that line from a thousand kids who hadn't put in a tenth of the work he had back in the day. "Talking to me about dreams feels a little premature."
Joey dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."
She figured that was it—conversation over.
Then Tom surprised himself. "You say your dream is making movies. What kind of movies?"
Her whole face lit up. "Independent ones."
He smirked. "So you're above the mainstream, huh? Too pure for blockbusters?"
Joey shook her head, suddenly passionate. "Indie doesn't mean small or niche. People think indie films can't have impact or make money, that it's just artsy kids playing pretend. That's bullshit. The big studios ignore them because they're scared of anything they can't control. But some of the best stories come from outside the system."
He remembered Robert Downey Jr. swearing he'd never do another indie after having to pay for his own lunch on set. Indie crews are broke—budgets usually under thirty million, most scraping by on a few million, patched together from anywhere they can beg it.
Tom's grin came back, amused. "So you're telling me you can make an indie that out-grosses a studio tentpole?"
"I'm not arrogant enough to promise that," she said. "I'm just asking for a chance. Read it. If it's good enough for you, great. If not, I'll live with it. But I'm running out of time, so Jack pulled some strings."
Tom made a mental note: Jack really believed in this script. Fine. He'd read it.
But the girl herself? All the partying, the DUIs, the string of garbage films—he still didn't respect that.
Joey kept her tone light. "I know my press hasn't been great. I'm not asking you to ignore it. I'm just asking you to judge the work."
He didn't respond to that. They weren't equals; he didn't owe her warmth. He'd already been politer than most A-listers would've bothered. Guys like Jude Law wouldn't even make eye contact with her these days.
He flashed the megawatt smile one last time. "Ms. Grant, I think I get the picture. I'll take a look at the script when I can. Have a good night."
"Thank you, Mr. Cruise."
He nodded and headed for the elevator.
The second he was gone, Joey's stomach dropped. She'd just blown her one shot to tell Tom Cruise how much she admired him—the fighter-pilot roles, the vampire, everything he'd built.
First time talking to her idol, and she'd played it safe.
She could tell he'd been polite on the surface, but inside he was looking down at her from the top of the mountain. Of course he was.
Until she climbed up there herself, she'd never get to sit across a table from him, drink tea, and talk about movies as peers.
That's what she was going to do: get to his level.
Not just to prove something to her idol.
But to chase the dream she'd almost let die.