Chapter 129: The Last Favor
Las Vegas shimmered beneath the desert night, neon lights flickering like restless stars.
Inside Robert Redford's trailer, Michael Ovitz sat quietly on a leather sofa,
watching the man who once defined Hollywood charisma sit before him, visibly drained.
"Robert," Ovitz began gently, "you need to tell me what's going on."
Filming on Indecent Proposal was more than halfway through —
a crisis now would be catastrophic for Dawnlight Films.
Redford rubbed his temples, his voice low and hoarse.
"I can't sleep without pills anymore, Mike.
Every night I'm exhausted, and every morning I wake up feeling worse.
I just... can't focus."
Ovitz studied him in silence for a few moments, then nodded.
"Take a break. Christmas and New Year are right around the corner — use that time to recover."
"I'll handle the insurance company," he continued calmly.
"And I'll speak with Aaron Anderson myself. I'll convince him to pause production for a week."
---
That same evening — Christmas Eve — the grand ballroom of the Dream Hotel in Las Vegas glittered with champagne and sequins.
Hollywood's elite mingled under crystal chandeliers, laughter floating through the air.
But at one corner table, the mood was anything but merry.
Aaron's expression darkened.
"Pause production for a week?" he repeated sharply, staring at Ovitz.
The Indecent Proposal set had been struggling for days,
and not a single person had dared to inform him.
If not for one of his own producers stepping in, the entire issue might have been buried.
The director, the crew, even the producers —
they were all orbiting around Redford, granting him every privilege.
Ovitz, unflinching, met Aaron's gaze.
"You and I both know Robert is essential to this film.
If he's burned out, forcing him won't help anyone.
A week off will give him time to recover.
CAA will coordinate with the insurance company, the crew, and the production team.
When Robert's back, he'll make up for lost time — we'll finish on schedule."
Aaron exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening.
He knew the game: delays meant payouts,
and Ovitz's real job wasn't saving the movie — it was keeping Redford loyal to CAA.
A pause now could unravel everything — the marketing, the schedule, the budget.
And if costs ballooned or quality slipped,
CAA certainly wouldn't be the one taking the blame.
Aaron's stare was cold but steady.
"Fine. We'll pause for a week," he said at last.
"But when he comes back, every scene from last week gets reshot.
And the lost days — he makes them up. No excuses."
Ovitz finally allowed himself to breathe.
As long as Aaron agreed to the break, the situation was salvageable.
"Don't worry, Aaron," he said, placing a hand on the young producer's shoulder.
"Robert's a professional. Once he's rested, he'll bounce back.
Indecent Proposal will turn out just fine."
Aaron merely nodded, then stood.
"I hope so," he said quietly.
Without another word, he turned and left the ballroom.
---
As Ovitz watched him disappear into the glittering crowd,
he knew something with absolute certainty.
That was it — the last favor between Aaron Anderson and CAA.
Their long-standing partnership had run its course.
The Indecent Proposal set was crawling with CAA's clients,
leaving even Aaron — usually the most dominant presence in any production — struggling for control.
And deep down, Ovitz knew what would come next.
Aaron Anderson had never liked the "CAA package deal" model,
where every director, actor, and producer came pre-selected by the agency.
After this?
He'd never accept another CAA project again.
In Hollywood, few names rose faster than Aaron Anderson.
The industry called him the prodigy producer — the youngest and brightest mind to reshape how studios thought about power.
Michael Ovitz could only shake his head.
"I can't tell anymore," he murmured to himself. "Maybe this time… we've lost him."
---
On Christmas, word spread across the Indecent Proposal set in Las Vegas —
production would be suspended for one week.
Back in Burbank, at Dawnlight Films, Aaron was already reshaping the company's plans.
"You did well," he told Don Steele, his trusted senior producer.
"When Indecent Proposal resumes, you'll represent Dawnlight and oversee the entire shoot.
"If anything serious happens, you call me directly.
And once that's done — I want you fully involved in Scent of a Woman."
Don Steele — forty-five, sharp, professional, once an executive at Columbia Pictures —
nodded firmly.
She and Brad Grey had joined Dawnlight together,
but even among Hollywood's toughest, Aaron's brilliance made everyone else fade into the background.
"There's one thing that worries me," she admitted.
"If Redford doesn't recover after this break… can he even finish the film?"
Aaron frowned, silent for a moment.
He knew the truth — the earlier they replaced Redford, the less damage.
But with two-thirds of the film already shot, the cost of replacing him would be enormous.
"Scent of a Woman is scheduled to start filming at the end of January," Aaron said finally.
"By then, Indecent Proposal should have wrapped — at least, under normal circumstances.
"But just in case…"
he looked up, eyes calm but calculating.
"We'll postpone Scent of a Woman until I'm certain.
If Redford can't finish, we'll reshoot everything with Al Pacino in his place."
The words hit Don Steele like a jolt.
Reshooting all of Redford's scenes would cost at least ten million dollars.
And Dawnlight would have to shoulder every cent.
Still, Aaron's tone made it sound like a strategic adjustment — not desperation.
If Redford recovered, all would be well.
If not, the studio would endure the loss — but Aaron would keep control.
---
That afternoon, Jack Wells stepped into Aaron's office.
He could tell at a glance — Aaron's mood was dark.
"It's Indecent Proposal, isn't it?" Jack said, closing the door behind him.
He shrugged. "What did you expect?
It's a CAA package. Every single person in that crew answers to them, not us.
When you've got a star like Redford, everyone bends to his schedule.
The studio barely gets a say."
Aaron let out a quiet laugh.
"Client-first — that's the CAA philosophy.
But lately, their ambition's outgrown their reason.
Even Ovitz has started believing his own myth."
He leaned back in his chair, voice low and certain.
"CAA may think they're the sellers, but in this business, we're the buyers.
Studios pay for the films — not the agents.
A jewelry box only has value because of the gem inside.
Without it, it's just a box."
Jack chuckled. "That's like the seafood markets back in Venice.
You remember? They'd bundle the fish together with rope — and charge extra for the rope.
But if those guys ever thought they could sell rope at the price of fish…
they'd get punched in the face."
Aaron smiled faintly. "Exactly.
And right now, CAA's starting to believe their rope is gold."
The smile faded just as quickly.
The truth was, Dawnlight's cash reserves were running dangerously low.
After the ongoing expenses of Indecent Proposal and the prep work for Scent of a Woman,
they had less than ten million dollars in liquid assets.
Sooner or later, they'd have to go back to the banks.
But Aaron Anderson wasn't worried.
Money could always be found.
What mattered was control —
and he'd already decided never again to let a film of his fall under CAA's leash.
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