Simon felt the heat in Madonna's gaze. He leaned in close, his breath brushing her ear as he murmured, "Second floor, fifth door on the left. Slip up there quietly later. And remember to strip completely before I arrive."
Madonna had not expected such bluntness. For a moment she seemed at a loss.
Only when Simon walked away as if nothing had happened did she hurry after him. Falling into step beside him, she slowed and asked, "Simon, you were teasing me just now, weren't you?"
Simon reached the buffet table, picked up a plate, and began selecting food. "Why would I tease you?"
Madonna paused, then looked at him with open disdain. "Then you're a real bastard. I thought you considered Sean a friend."
"Sean is a terrific actor and a guy worth knowing," Simon replied evenly. "But what does that have to do with you?"
Madonna bristled. "I'm his wife."
Simon glanced at her. "If you don't care yourself, why should I?"
Madonna faltered, stammered for a moment, then protested, "Sean and I have lost the spark. He... he even hits me sometimes."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Simon said with a shrug. "But that's between the two of you."
Madonna studied him for a beat. "I've just realized something, Westeros. You're cold straight through to the bone."
Simon responded without emotion. "Yeah."
Madonna felt an inexplicable surge of irritation and opened her mouth to retort, but Robert Redford approached with a fair-skinned woman beside him. "Simon—oh, and Maggie. Am I interrupting?"
"Not at all, Bob," Simon said with a smile, shaking his head before turning to the woman.
Redford gestured toward her. "Perfect timing for introductions. Simon, this is Melanie Griffith. She's my female lead in the picture."
Simon had recognized her immediately. Melanie Griffith—one of Hollywood's prominent actresses of the eighties, born into an acting dynasty. Her mother was Tippi Hedren, who had skyrocketed to fame in Hitchcock's The Birds. If history held, she would later have a daughter, Dakota Johnson, star of the Fifty Shades series.
At Redford's introduction, Simon extended his hand politely. "Hello, Ms. Griffith."
Melanie shook it, her voice carrying its natural baby-doll lilt. "Hi, Simon. Call me Melanie. I saw Pulp Fiction yesterday—it was incredible. Shame I didn't get a part in it."
Simon replied graciously, "Your performance in Brian's Something Wild was outstanding too. We might have a chance to work together down the line."
Melanie's tone brightened noticeably. "Really? Simon, I'll hold you to that."
Simon nodded. "Of course."
Redford watched them connect, raised his glass, and said, "You two talk. I'll go say hello to Miller."
As Redford departed, Melanie edged closer to Simon, idly swirling her wineglass while fixing her gaze on him. "Simon, how's the Batman prep coming along? Any roles in it that might suit me?"
Simon picked up his plate again and shook his head. "The script's still in progress. If something fits, I'll have someone reach out."
Noticing him selecting food, Melanie snatched the plate away. "Simon, why don't you show me around the grounds? This place is stunning. Here, I'll carry your food." She glanced at Madonna, who had been sidelined and looked distinctly displeased. "Maggie, want to join?"
Madonna eyed the man who could switch from aloof to charming in an instant and refused to back down. "Sure."
Before Simon could object, he was steered past the living room toward the backyard.
The estate spanned over 1.5 hectares, but the main and guest villas occupied only about two thousand square meters—less than a seventh of the total.
With guests present, every light in the house blazed.
Descending the villa steps, they faced a twenty-meter stretch of white marble pathway flanked by expansive lawns and bordered by shrubbery. Beyond it lay a curving staircase that branched left and right. Descending the shaded steps opened the view dramatically once more.
Madonna gazed at the enormous pool built along the estate's edge, perfectly positioned to overlook all of Cannes below. Even after years of fame and luxury, she could not help exclaiming, "This is incredible."
The thought that the young man beside her had simply bought such a mansion for a festival visit stirred her earlier resentment into renewed heat. If only I could land a man like that.
Simon stopped near the pool with the women, leisurely eating from his plate. After they circled to the far side and admired the city lights for a while, he said, "Ladies, shall we head back?"
Melanie returned to his side, saw him still eating, and seized the plate again with mild annoyance. "Simon, are we really less appealing than your food?"
As she spoke, Madonna closed in too.
Simon felt their bodies press lightly against him, rubbing subtly. An odd sensation washed over him—like he was the one being hunted. These two were consummate players, after all.
He stepped back, slipped an arm around each, and drew them firmly together. Melanie, slightly taller, assumed he wanted something kinky and giggled as she leaned in to kiss Madonna.
Simon retrieved his plate from Melanie's hand and regarded the entwined pair. "You two could console each other. I'll keep watch over there. Take your time."
Madonna watched him stride toward the villa, utterly unconvinced by his offer to stand guard. She muttered under her breath, "What a bastard."
Melanie's expression mirrored disappointment.
The young man who had just left had launched Sandra Bullock with last year's Run Lola Run, revived Meg Ryan with When Harry Met Sally over Easter, and now introduced the relatively unknown Australian Nicole Kidman to the world with Pulp Fiction's Cannes premiere. Counting the teens catapulted to fame by The Butterfly Effect and Death Comes, Simon Westeros was practically a star-making machine.
From a film family herself, Melanie Griffith had never lacked opportunities. Since debuting at twelve, she had appeared in over twenty projects, including works by directors like Brian De Palma, Jonathan Demme, and now Robert Redford.
Yet that very background made her appreciate how rare Simon's gift was. Even Woody Allen, coveted by actresses, offered prestige and nominations. Simon Westeros delivered genuine wealth and status.
Sandra Bullock and Meg Ryan, newcomers only a few years in, had leaped to A-list thanks to his films, commanding two to three million per picture now. Despite her decade-plus career and numerous credits, Melanie lacked a true commercial hit; her current rate was a tenth of theirs. For Redford's female supporting role, she had earned just fifty thousand.
Unfortunately, this particular young man did not seem easy to catch.
Perhaps the timing was off too. I was too eager.
With that, Melanie nodded casually to Madonna, gathered her skirt, and hurried after him. Having leveraged Redford to meet Simon Westeros, she would at least secure his private contact.
Inside the villa.
Janet, lounging on a sofa chatting with Natasha Kinski, spotted Simon returning with his plate. She poked Natasha in the waist triumphantly. "See? You lost. One thousand dollars, pay up."
Natasha glanced at her watch. "He was gone five minutes with those two women. How can you be sure nothing happened?"
Janet smirked. "If you're going to welch, just say so. My man couldn't possibly last only five minutes."
"Who's welching?" Natasha clutched her purse, hesitated, then admitted frankly, "I don't have it right now. I'll pay when I do."
Janet scowled. "Then why bet me?"
"I... I just wanted to make some money. My husband even canceled my credit cards."
Janet's eyes widened in outrage. "I thought we were friends. You were trying to take money from me?"
"Life's pressures," Natasha said with a careless shrug, sinking deeper into the sofa. "Also, I'll need to crash here again tonight."
"If you're so unhappy with that... well, that Egyptian businessman, just divorce him. Take a few roles, support yourself, live freely. Wouldn't that be better?"
Natasha tilted her chin toward Simon. "If you were unhappy with that guy, would you split?"
Janet answered instantly. "Simon and I are different."
Natasha did not argue. She scanned the room. "Hey, you're leaving after the festival, right?"
"Yeah?"
"Let me stay here. I want some time apart from him."
"No way."
"So stingy."
"I've already been plenty friendly letting you stay a night or two. I don't want to get dragged into your marital cold war."
Natasha glanced at the figure once again surrounded by women. "If he agrees, I can stay, right?"
Janet followed her gaze and nodded. "Yeah. Convince him yourself."
Guests began departing after ten.
George Miller, caught up discussing the next Mad Max sequel, did not leave until nearly eleven. Simon saw him out personally. Returning, he found the caterers and servers gone; the living room restored to order.
Then he noticed Natasha Kinski curled like a languid Persian cat on a corner sofa, idly flipping through a magazine. Fatigue shadowed her face; her beautiful eyes half-closed, as if oblivious to his stare.
After a moment, just as he turned to go, her voice rose. "Can I stay here?"
Simon paused, confirmed it was her, and smiled. "You've finally realized you should ask the owner?"
Natasha did not respond to the jab. She repeated, "Can I?"
Simon shrugged. "Guest room only."
Janet and Jennifer emerged from the kitchen just then. Hearing Simon's answer, Natasha turned to Janet. "He said yes."
Janet had caught the exchange and smiled at Simon. "Natasha wants to keep staying after we leave Cannes."
Simon understood and shook his head. "Sorry, that's not possible."
Natasha sat up straighter, fixing him with a stare. "You just agreed."
Simon did not argue. He shook his head again. "Regrettably, I've changed my mind."
Natasha paused, then said, "Westeros, don't forget—I'm a main competition juror this year."
Simon switched shamelessly. "Oh, I'll think about it. I'll let you know after the festival."
Natasha countered, "Then maybe I'll consider voting for you next time I serve as juror."
"That's your prerogative," Simon said indifferently. He stepped to Janet, scooped her up, kissed her cheek, and headed for the stairs. "Baby, I've thought of a fun bedtime story. I'll tell you upstairs."
Janet giggled. "Little rascal. Those women got you worked up, and now you're taking it out on me."
"It really is a bedtime story."
"Pfft."
Jennifer listened to their shameless banter, cheeks faintly pink. Once they were upstairs, she turned to Natasha. "Ms. Kinski, shall I prepare the guest room?"
Natasha nodded, rising to follow Jennifer upstairs, though worry still lingered on her face.