Chapter 29: Don't Talk Yet—Drink
At that moment, Nicole Kidman held a glass in each hand.
The one beside the finger pressed to William's lips rested lightly against his cheek, sending a faint chill through his skin.
She gently swirled the glass, the ice clinking softly inside.
A faint smile curved at the corner of her mouth as she slid her finger between William's lips, murmuring softly,
"Don't talk yet. Come—drink."
As she spoke, she brought the glass to his mouth, using her finger to coax his lips open.
She was dangerously alluring.
No wonder even someone like Cruise—deep into his own strange beliefs—had once fallen completely for her.
Anyone would have struggled to resist.
The cold sparkling wine slid across William's tongue.
When he finished the drink, Nicole set the empty glass down on the nearby table.
Freeing one hand, she began to unfasten her clothing.
Then, lifting the second glass, she didn't drink it.
Instead, she slowly tilted it, letting the wine trace a path down the exposed skin of her body.
"Want some more?"
Her voice was slightly breathless now, desire unmistakable.
At that point, dinner was the last thing on William's mind.
He leaned forward, instinctively following the trail of cool liquid.
"Careful," Nicole murmured with a faint laugh.
"Don't get it on the clothes. I still need them tomorrow."
Between dinner and William, her choice was obvious.
---
Two hours later.
Nicole stood up, adjusted her clothes, and walked into the bathroom.
Moments later, the sound of running water filled the apartment.
William shook his head, unable to help muttering,
"What a dangerously tempting woman."
After a moment, he followed her into the bathroom as well.
---
An hour later, Nicole emerged wrapped in a night robe, cheeks faintly flushed, her expression relaxed and warm.
Her hair still damp, she walked into the kitchen and began preparing the ingredients laid out on the island.
After two rounds of intense physical exertion, she was visibly drained.
Her stomach growled in protest.
William emerged from the bathroom shortly afterward.
Ever since that first night, Nicole had kept men's pajamas and slippers at home.
What William was wearing now—every piece—had been prepared by her.
He stepped into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"Stop that—I'm cooking," Nicole chided softly, though without real annoyance, as she picked up the kitchen knife and began cutting the washed potatoes into chunks.
---
While the two of them lingered in quiet intimacy…
Sergei was driving William's car through the San Fernando Valley.
Although William had told him to return the notebook to Ramirez the next day, Sergei knew that if he wanted to avoid arousing suspicion, the sooner it was returned, the better.
He drove to the address Ramirez had registered with the company and arrived near his apartment building.
As Sergei scanned the area for Ramirez's car, Ramirez himself happened to come downstairs.
Sergei immediately lowered the brim of his cap and walked past him.
With his unremarkable appearance, Sergei barely registered in Ramirez's awareness.
Back in the car, Sergei watched as Ramirez got into his vehicle.
Despite the unexpected complication, Sergei showed no emotion.
He calmly started the engine and followed Ramirez's car in William's old Chevrolet.
After roughly twenty minutes, Ramirez pulled into an industrial warehouse.
To avoid attracting attention—from Ramirez or the several Latino men posted near the entrance—Sergei didn't stop nearby.
He drove another half kilometer before parking on the roadside.
After getting out, he observed the warehouse from a distance.
Circling the building, he waited for the right moment, then used a drainage pipe on the outer wall to climb up to a second-floor platform, moving with practiced agility.
Peering through a window, he saw what was happening inside.
A short man wearing a floral shirt and a white suit stood inside, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
Pointing at a collection of machinery behind him, he said:
"Ramirez, take a look—are these the right ones?"
"Yes, cousin," Ramirez nodded, reaching into his pocket.
Halfway through, his face suddenly drained of color.
"What's wrong?"
The man's earlier grin faded, replaced by something colder.
Ramirez wiped the sweat from his forehead and shook his head quickly.
"Nothing. I'll go double-check."
He hurried toward the equipment, pretending to verify serial numbers.
He dared not admit that the notebook was missing.
If José found out, Ramirez knew he wouldn't be killed—but his fate wouldn't be much better.
Forced to rely on his unreliable memory, he tried matching the equipment to what he recalled.
At first, the cameras seemed familiar enough.
But when he reached the more complex machinery, his mind went blank.
In the end, he had no choice but to nod and signal that everything checked out.
Seeing his undercover cousin confirm the equipment, José burst into laughter, flashing several gold teeth.
"Good job, hermano!
These were stolen from another film company's warehouse—my boys worked hard for them.
Once we grind off the serial numbers, they're yours to use.
So tell me—how's your training going?
Have you memorized the production process?
Can you handle filming on your own?"
Though José was smiling, Ramirez felt as though a wrong answer would earn him a bullet on the spot.
His body trembled as he nodded.
"No problem. I've got it all down."
He didn't dare say otherwise.
"Good!" José clapped him on the shoulder.
"I knew my favorite movie-loving cousin would make something of himself in Hollywood.
Here's what you'll do: tomorrow, go tell William you're done working for him.
With my name backing you, that coward won't give you any trouble."
With that, José led his men out of the warehouse.
Ramirez stood there alone, staring at the unfamiliar machinery.
Regret washed over him.
For the first time, he wondered how he'd ever let himself get talked into this mess.
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