Bang—bang—bang—!
Standing at the firing line, Matthew held his AR-15 leveled at a target thirty ters downrange. He squeezed the trigger thodically, and the semi-automatic rifle spat out one round after another, each one striking the target with precision.
After firing ten rounds, Matthew lowered the rifle and removed his ear protection.
“A score of eighty-nine!”
An electronic voice announced from the scoreboard.
Charlize, dressed in athletic wear, walked over. “Nice shooting,” she comnted.
Matthew ejected the magazine from the rifle. “I practice a lot,” he said.
He grabbed a fresh magazine, slid it into place, and asked Charlize, “Want to give it a try?”
Charlize shook her head. “My wrist is still sore from the recoil.”
She crossed her arms. “I should have known better than to co here with you. I could be curled up in my room with a book right now.”
Matthew slamd the bolt forward with a sharp click. “You get rusty staying cooped up in your room all day.”
With that, he raised the rifle, took aim at the target thirty ters away—this ti without his ear protection—and fired in rapid succession.
Charlize watched his enthusiasm and took a few steps back, thinking that n really did have a strange obsession with things like guns.
They were in the VIP range of a gun club, and today, they had it all to themselves. When Matthew finished another magazine and reached for a new one, Charlize retreated to the lounge area and took a seat.
She watched Matthew, a man who seed to have boundless energy. He’d returned from the rcedes-Benz event close to midnight, and after the vigorous night they'd shared, he had still woken up early for a run before coming here to the range, showing no signs of fatigue at all.
The thought made Charlize stretch and yawn again. After all their tossing and turning last night, she was the one who hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep.
“A ninety-one!”
The electronic voice announced after another ten shots.
Charlize noted that his average score at thirty ters was now around nine points per shot, which was likely considered an expert level among amateurs.
The door to the VIP lounge opened, and a sturdy man in his forties stepped inside. Charlize turned and recognized him.
The man approached her and greeted her with a familiar smile. “Hey, Charlize.”
Rembering who he was, Charlize stood and smiled in return. “Hello, Nibora.”
Matthew heard Nibora’s voice, lowered his rifle, and walked over. “Want to get so shots in?” he asked.
Nibora grinned. “I’m one of the owners of this gun club now.”
“Oh?” Matthew asked, intrigued. “Expanding the business again?”
“Just keeping pace with you,” Nibora explained casually. “One of the main shareholders ran into so trouble and needed cash, so I bought his stake.”
He glanced toward Charlize and added, “Matthew, I was going to take you out to celebrate, but I figured I shouldn't interrupt.”
Matthew smiled. “It’s a good thing you didn’t. I’m broke—spent it all on the house.”
The Horner Manor was mortgaged to the hilt, with only the down paynt paid in cash. The upside, however, was that the massive loan would generate substantial tax deductions.
Of course, owning property like that ant paying hefty annual property taxes. In the United States, the rates varied wildly by state and county, typically falling sowhere between one and three-and-a-third percent. Crucially, the tax wasn't based on the purchase price but on the ho's current assessed value.
Cities like Los Angeles, Houston, and New York were places where property taxes were notoriously high.
Los Angeles was slightly better, with an average rate of less than one percent across its cities and counties. Beverly Hills, however, levied a relatively high rate on its luxury hos, and for a mansion like Matthew’s, the annual tax rate was one and a half percent.
This ant that on a $25 million property, the annual tax bill for the Horner Manor would co to a staggering $375,000.
And that wasn’t even considered high; property taxes in Manhattan could reach three percent.
The cost of hoownership in this country was steep.
The only saving grace was that as long as you could afford the property taxes, the ho was your private property in perpetuity.
That was the law. And while there were tales of disguised eminent domain grabs in the United States, Matthew didn't have to worry. No wrecking ball was ever going to touch a super-affluent neighborhood like the south side of Beverly Hills.
For years, Matthew had only a superficial understanding of Arica’s labyrinthine tax system, leaving the details to his lawyers and the accountants at PwC.
And now that his inco had skyrocketed, Helen was busy setting up new, legal tax shelters for him.
Nearby, Charlize yawned again. Noticing her fatigue, Matthew said to Nibora, “Let’s talk more tomorrow when I’m at the gym.”
Nibora nodded. “See you tomorrow afternoon.”
Soon, Matthew and Charlize left the gun club. In the parking lot, they climbed into his rcedes-Benz G-Class, and Matthew started the engine, pulling out onto the road leading back to Beverly Hills.
As Matthew gradually accelerated, Charlize asked, “Have you talked to Helen about the reason for our breakup?”
“I forgot,” Matthew admitted sheepishly.
Charlize frowned. “You need to talk to her.”
Now that they had the right pretext, they just needed to find the right ti to announce their split. Who knew what might happen if they let it drag on.
Matthew understood the subtle implication behind her words.
“Alright,” Matthew relented under her persistent gaze. “I’ll go to the Angel Agency and talk to Helen in person.”
...
After dropping Charlize off at the Horner Manor, Matthew called Helen to confirm she was in the office. Then he drove straight to Burbank, went to the Angel Agency, and recounted his conversation with Charlize.
Helen wasn’t fazed in the slightest. She simply crossed her arms, tilted her chin up, and beca lost in thought.
He took a seat in the chair across from her desk and waited patiently. When it ca to this sort of thing, Helen’s judgnt was far more reliable than his own.
After a good two or three minutes, Helen finally spoke. “That’s a good idea. It will have less negative fallout than the scenarios I originally ca up with.”
“After what Charlize said...” Matthew began, “I’ve been thinking about it, and she has a point.”
Helen raised a finger and wagged it. “She’s not just right, she’s spot on. Similar rumors have always followed Charlize. At worst, this just makes them more widespread, but for an actress at her level, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Matthew considered this and gave a slight nod. He’d had plenty of long talks with Charlize and knew the rumors were true—she wasn't one to languish after a breakup.
“And then there’s you,” Helen said, fighting back a smile and keeping her expression neutral. “You have a reputation in Hollywood and all over Arica as a tough guy. This sort of thing isn’t going to hurt your image.”
She added, “Frankly, even if people talk, it’s not the kind of thing that damages any man’s reputation.”
Matthew got straight to the point. “So, are we agreed on this?”
“Well,” Helen replied after a mont’s consideration, “I’ll talk to Charlize’s agent and her team first. And I’ll need to clear it with rcedes-Benz.”
“Sounds good.” Matthew knew there were multiple parties involved, and this couldn't be rushed.
Helen warned, “Don’t go rogue on this until I give you the green light.”
Matthew nodded. “I know.”
This wasn’t just his and Charlize’s private drama. Their teams were involved, as were two major brands. Going off-script would only make a ss of things.
Helen changed the subject. “I spoke with Akiva Goldsman yesterday. He thinks he can have a script ready in three or four months, and as expected, he’s dead set on you for the male lead.”
“Let’s wait and see the script first,” Matthew said imdiately.
“That’s what I figured,” Helen said. Then she added, “Regarding 300, I’ve recomnded Jack, Zack Snyder, and David Ellison as executive producers, and I’ve been in talks with Walt Disney Pictures.”
Official contact had been established between the two parties ever since Matthew had ntioned the project to Robert Iger that night.
“Jack?” The na sounded familiar to Matthew.
“The bearded assistant who used to work with Ridley Scott,” Helen reminded him.
Matthew’s mory clicked into place.
“Okay, one last thing.” Helen shifted topics again. “I’ve lined up a watch endorsent for you.”
Reviews
All reviews (0)