What position was it that came into play when Billy approached from a distance, and when the interludes themselves gave life to the moment? William Dommer was a shadow that drifted and breathed fire from the corner where he watched Amelia win the competition. When she passed by and when she performed her movements, he had forced his goddaughter to sell all her jewels to him, of course, as a form of manipulation that he would unleash when the time was right. She was beautiful, and everything about her suggested that very soon—very soon—a Miss Universe would be chosen amid so much pain and the incoherences of life. He knew that no matter how difficult or senseless life might be, the plan would work. Nothing mattered more than binding Billy to obligation, even when his granddaughter was an unhappy woman who cried every night. When he secured the future of the house, and when that house belonged to Billy's vision, he needed the boy who could achieve much with little to take over the sectors of any family that had humiliated the Rockefellers.
-—I think she's a complete fool.— William commented to Charles. The shadow settled in place while Shaw was trying with all his strength to do something, however small it might be.
-—Sir, may I speak with complete honesty?— Charles asked.
William extended his hand and made that small but forceful gesture, allowing him to move forward without fully dismissing him. Charles took an intimate step closer—one that lingered among whispers, where everything seemed to require quiet assistance. The corner, where all things appeared to drift toward a bad fate. Amelia made her offering: she practiced music, played a beautiful piece not meant for just anyone. She had been playing the piano since she was five, studying Latin, American history, and anthropology—what she believed to be a simple life.
-—It's simple, really. She just doesn't know her life is being guided. She doesn't understand the family's purpose. Every era's revolution creates a constant among people who believe they understand life differently. It happens in every generation for a reason—we only learn when we're older, when everything gathers at the doorstep of the end of life.— Charles commented.
-—It sounds accurate, almost precise.— William replied as the song ended. The dress was beautiful, yet full of doubt.
-—W-well, sir, that's just my opinion. It's not always the best stance.— Charles responded.
-—Don't underestimate yourself. Send a letter to Amelia—a fake one—informing her that she has been expelled from the Rockefeller family. Tell her that from now on, she may use her mother's name. Her card is blocked, and like a beggar,r she'll have her university paid for because a Rockefeller still appears in the records—the best way to throw money away.— William replied.
-—Of course, sir. I'll deliver the unofficial announcement.— Charles responded. He would carry it out, and the way he would do it would be humiliating. He could already see all her friends, the distant echo of third-party opinions watching—that was the method. Nothing loving, nothing born of the injustice he felt, which was the true sorrow.
-—Good. And humiliate her further—have her car seized.— William added.
Billy poured himself a glass of alcohol; he needed wine. His entire body was exhausted, and now time itself felt misaligned. He stared into the distance, somewhat indifferent.
-—My love, when you told me making money was easy… why didn't you tell me that losing it was hard too?— Monica commented. Holding her was what he needed, and that was the opportunity he had been waiting for—a turn, a tightening of the screw. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her head against his chest. There was something in that release, that intensity—her bright eyes—and he wanted nothing more than to hold her tightly.
-—That's how it goes. Money moves and ends up in other hands. But what did you do that made you lose it?— Billy asked. His touch grazed her skin, and that alone said a lot. She bit his arms and seemed to need to look into his eyes—deep black eyes that never wanted to look away.
-—I don't want to say.— Monica replied, pouting.
-—Well, you can always count on me in one way or another. I'll help as much as I can if it seems like you're having trouble. That's how business works.— Billy said.
They both fell into a pleasant silence. Nothing needed to be lived as an example, nothing needed proving—but one thing was certain: these were happy moments not everyone experienced every day, however painful life might be. And who could say how time passed with such relativity?
-—I don't want to talk about it. Shehe replied, striking his chest lightly. She was nervous, slightly unsettled by how difficult everything felt.
…
They departed from Italy to France, where Billy encountered Roberto Bertolucci from afar, the director seeming to live entirely within his own world.
-—I didn't know you also knew some French.— Anne-Carrie commented.
-—I could say… I have many secrets. And for a few days now, you seem to know some of mine.— Billy replied. He was fairly certain that in the coming months, people would discover that the films would strike like an anvil, landing a blow, right or wrong, but precise.
-—Well, good luck with your meeting. That director must have something special to pull you out of a wonderful nap. And don't forget the onion.— she laughed. —I'll do what I can—blow and blow until you finally cry.—
-—Then maybe we'll have a chance next time.— Billy said.
He took a quick step forward, intent on finding the man. What followed was a brief exchange, nothing intense.
A meeting meant to inspire the man to give his approval—the approval for a series of films that needed him, in their own way.
...