Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm Chapter 80: Behind Closed Doors

Miramax President's Office

Bob Weinstein tossed the newspaper onto the desk, his expression conflicted.

"Although Shakespeare in Love is a historical film, it is, as its title suggests, primarily a love story—a conventional, slow-paced, old-fashioned one. Compared to the other nominees, it pales in almost every respect. Yet, it walked away with both Best Picture and Best Actress. This speaks less of rit and more of Harvey Weinstein's unparalleled PR skills—and the Academy's diminishing credibility."

"This is one of the milder critiques," Bob said cautiously. "Harvey, don't you think we may have pushed too far this ti?"

Harvey Weinstein, leaning back in his chair with a cigar between his fingers, exhaled a thick plu of smoke. His smirk was unbothered.

"Too far? Nonsense. Every Oscar season is followed by dia complaints. The old n at the Academy couldn't care less, as long as their pockets are lined. Back in the day, The Shawshank Redemption lost to Forrest Gump, and people raged. Did the Academy budge then?"

Bob wanted to retort that Forrest Gump's quality wasn't even in the sa league as Shakespeare in Love, but the smug look on Harvey's face stopped him.

Harvey flicked ash into the tray, then leaned forward, his tone turning sharp. "When is Gwyneth coming in?"

"She called earlier. Said she was busy and couldn't make it today," Bob replied.

Harvey's expression darkened instantly. "That ungrateful b***h! Now that she's got her Oscar, she thinks she can snub ?"

He ground the cigar into the ashtray angrily but quickly composed himself, muttering, "No point causing drama with her. Spielberg's her godfather, and her family connections run deep. Let her be. She won't get another role from , though."

Shaking off his irritation, he asked, "What about Quentin? Is he making progress on that zombie-action script?"

Bob chuckled. "He's been holed up at ho watching Hong Kong and Japanese films nonstop. Said he wants to craft an action movie unlike anything Hollywood's seen."

"Bring him in," Harvey said with a grin. "Kid's brilliant, but he needs to get out and... inspired. Let's take him to the club tonight."

Half an hour later, Quentin Tarantino strolled into Harvey's office, casual as ever in his usual jeans and sneakers.

"Harvey, Bob, what's up?" he greeted, flopping onto the sofa.

Harvey tossed him a cigar. "We're hitting the club tonight. You in?"

"Always," Quentin replied, his face lighting up.

"How's the script coming along?"

"Haven't written a word yet," Quentin admitted. "But I've got a killer idea: A zombie revenge film. The protagonist is a woman who barely survives an assassination attempt on her wedding day..."

Harvey and Bob leaned in, listening intently as Quentin animatedly detailed his concept.

When Quentin finally paused, Harvey clapped his hands. "Brilliant. You're onto sothing. I'll have to introduce you to Martin soti—he's got a knack for crazy-good ideas, too."

Quentin raised an eyebrow. "Martin yers? The kid who wrote The Sixth Sense? I heard he's working on sothing new, and De Niro's already pitched it to Fox."

Harvey's expression soured montarily. He hated that Martin had bypassed Miramax for Fox, but he couldn't afford to alienate him.

"Maybe because we didn't push Oscars for him," Bob suggested.

Harvey waved it off. "I've been busy. Haven't checked in with him in weeks. I'll call him now."

Elsewhere, at a Twentieth Century Fox charity dinner

Martin yers hung up his phone, shaking his head.

"Harvey?" asked Diana, seated beside him in an elegant white gown.

Martin smiled. "Yeah. Just checking in. Let's not waste ti talking about him. Tell what you'd like photographed tonight—I'll make it happen."

Diana laughed, her eyes sparkling.

In the original tiline, Diana had tragically passed away in a car accident two years earlier. But thanks to Martin's intervention, she was alive, thriving, and one of his closest allies. Her connections had helped Martin expand his influence into Europe.

As they chatted, a man approached—a middle-aged figure with round glasses, a black turtleneck, jeans, and sneakers.

"Excuse ," the man said, politely greeting Diana before turning to Martin. "Martin yers, correct? Could we have a word?"

Martin glanced at him curiously. The uniform of the turtleneck and jeans made it obvious who the visitor was.

It was none other than Steve Jobs.

[•———•——•———•]

𝙥𝗮𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙤𝙣(.)𝙘𝙤𝙢/𝙂𝙤𝙙𝙊𝙛𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

✨ • 𝗘𝘅𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗔𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀: 𝙂𝙚𝙩 𝟲𝟬 𝙖𝙙𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚.