Creeping light of early morning cut through the silk drapes of the Owlwood master bedroom.
Duke sat upright against the plush headboard, still dressed in a simple cotton t-shirt and pajama pants, a mug of strong black coffee resting on the nightstand.
The mansion was completely silent since it was so early but the ring of the bedside telephone shattered the quiet.
Duke reached out, expecting the someone from the studio or perhaps an over-caffeinated Robert Evans calling to discuss the Oscar results.
Instead, the line came with the voice of Lynda.
"I saw the morning papers, Duke," she said, her voice devoid of greeting. "I saw the front-page photographs of you and the Hemingway girl stepping out of that limousine. How could you do this to me?"
Duke let out a slow breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he attempted to construct a logical explanation.
"Evans entirely set the whole thing up, Lynda," Duke explained, trying to appeal to her understanding of Hollywood machinery. "It was damage control. The industry trades were circling. If I had walked onto that red carpet alone, the gossip columns would have spent the next couple of months saying that I was secretly gay or something else, you know how the media is."
Lynda was absolutely not having it, "You are a grown man, Duke Hauser," she countered sharply. "Nobody on Paramount forces you to do anything you don't want to do. Robert Evans works for you, not the other way around. Don't blame this on Robert Evans good name."
She pointed out the flaws in his logic, noting that he could have easily chosen to walk the carpet alone, brought a male friend or studio executive, or simply ignored the gossip columns.
"Did you even once bother to try calling me back after our last conversation?" she asked, the hurt bleeding briefly through the anger.
Duke paused, "No, Lynda. I didn't but I was completely buried in production slates and pre production of my own film."
"Lynda, listen to me," Duke commanded, "I made a calculated public relations decision to protect the image of the studio on its biggest night. It's been 2 months since the fight, if you just had come back for the Oscars, this wouldnt even be happening."
Lynda let out a laugh that echoed through the receiver. "That is the problem, Duke. You treat every single relationship like a corporate business decision. You didn't come to Arizona to see me because that would require you to admit that you were wrong."
Duke's jaw tightened, "I was not wrong about the violent nature of those domestic terrorists," he stated firmly, refusing to yield a single inch on his ideological principles.
Lynda's response was immediate, shifting the focus directly back to the photograph. "And I suppose you aren't wrong about Margaux Hemingway either?" she accused, her voice rising in pitch. "Did she also sleep over?"
"She stayed over-" Duke said before getting interrupted.
The line went dead.
Duke sat still in the bedroom, he slowly lowered the phone back onto its cradle.
He refused to chase a woman who demanded he apologize for everything and anything.
An hour later, Chef Juan, the dedicated chef, Duke had hired was behind the marble island.
Duke sat on a tall wooden stool at the edge of the counter, fully dressed in trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms.
Spread out before him were the Hollywood trade papers, their headlines talking about Universal's sweep with The Sting.
Chef Juan gently placed a warm, ceramic plate directly in front of the studio head, sliding a silver fork wrapped in a linen napkin beside it.
The plate held a freshly baked, salty German pretzel, scrambled eggs with sharp, aged cheddar cheese, and thick-cut bacon.
Duke looked up from the columns of industry analytics, offering the chef a smile.
"This looks spectacular, Juan. Thank you," Duke said, he picked up his fork and began to eat in silence, his eyes staring at the text on the newspaper.
The rhythm of the kitchen was interrupted by the soft sound of bare feet against the hardwood floor.
Margaux Hemingway entered the room, wearing an oversized white button-down dress shirt that clearly belonged to Duke, the long hem falling to her mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up past her wrists.
She stretched her arms over her head, offering a sleepy yawn, pretending to have just woken up from slumber.
Duke's eyes went up from his newspaper, noting that her hair was already brushed, and she was wearing a subtle layer of natural-looking makeup.
He saw through the performative domestic routine, but he kept his expression neutral, chewing a piece of the salty pretzel.
Margaux leaned against the marble counter, offering a smile as she tried to effortlessly initiate a warm, morning conversation.
"Those scrambled eggs smell absolutely amazing," she said, "Is that a homemade pretzel on your plate?"
Duke simply offered a nod, his eyes dropping back down to the newspaper.
He wasnt interested enough to engage in playful domestic banter.
Margaux didn't let the cold reception deter her, she walked over to the stove, poured herself a cup of coffee, grabbed a small plate of fruit, and sat down on the stool directly across the marble island from him.
She began asking questions about the Oscar parties, the logistical work required to run a major studio, and about his personal favorite films.
She was visibly, trying incredibly hard to deeply connect with him on a substantial level.
Duke continued to offer her nothing more than polite, one-word answers. He was never rude or cruel to her, but he remained closed off.
He quickly finished the last bite of his breakfast, wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, and stood up abruptly, signaling the end of the interaction.
The morning California sun was burning away as Duke walked out the front doors of the mansion, his suit jacket draped casually over.
Russell stood by the open rear door, his frame perfectly still, but his eyes betrayed a slight flicker of unease.
Duke approached the vehicle and looked inside. Margaux was already sitting in the center of the backseat, fully dressed for the day in a fashionable outfit that Duke didn't know where she even got it from.
She offered him an unbothered smile. "I thought I would join you for the morning commute, I would love to finally see the inside of a real, working movie studio."
Duke let out a small sigh, he didn't have the emotional energy required to argue with her or force her out of the car, so he simply tossed his jacket onto the seat and climbed in beside her, pulling the heavy door shut.
As the Cadillac smoothly left the tall iron gates of Owlwood behind and turned toward Hollywood, Margaux launched into trying to showcase her deep cinematic knowledge. "I was reading in the trades last night that Paramount actually produced Sunset Boulevard," she said, leaning slightly closer to him.
"That was directed by Billy Wilder, right? I heard you're a big director too, who is better you or Billy Wilder?"
Duke couldn't help himself, a laugh escaped his chest, "You're comparing me with Billy Wilder? Did you practiced these questions in front of the mirror?"
Duke looked at her with a slightly softer expression, chuckling at the fact that Margaux would compare him with such a legendary director.
Margaux blushed, a lush of bright pink coloring her high cheekbones. "Maybe," she admitted, her smile faltering just a fraction. "Is that really such a bad thing?"
Duke shook his head, still smiling. "No, Margaux, it isn't something bad. But you don't have to pretend to be a film historian to impress people. I don't need a film scholar sitting next to me right now. I just need a quiet head to face the day."
The car approached the iconic gates of the Paramount Pictures lot, Duke turned to her, offering a compromise.
"If you genuinely want to properly see the working lot, I highly recommend you take the official studio tour," Duke offered smoothly. "They will show you the Exorcist soundstage, the exterior backlots, and the historical prop warehouses."
Margaux's eyes lit up, completely misinterpreting the polite gesture as an invitation for a date. "You'll come and walk the tour with me?" she asked eagerly.
Duke immediately shook his head, "No. I have a financial meeting waiting for me. But the tour is excellent. Ask directly for Tony at the front desk, he's been guiding the VIP trams around this lot for 4 years now."
The Cadillac pulled to a smooth stop just past the main security checkpoint.
Duke stepped out first, offering his hand to politely guide Margaux to the departure point where a motorized tourist tram was currently waiting for the morning crowd.
She stepped onto the tram, taking a seat in the back row. Duke offered a polite nod of farewell, then turned his back and walked toward his office building.
Inside Duke's office, Duke sat behind his desk, centered in the leather chair of Don Vito Corleone, his eyes locked onto the man sitting across from him.
David Griffin, the polished, confident CEO of Vanguard Petroleum, sat rigidly in the leather guest chair, looking nervous, his hands gripping the armrests tightly enough to whiten his knuckles.
Griffin cleared his throat, trying to project a sense of authority that he clearly did not feel.
"Duke, we absolutely need to have a very serious conversation regarding Armand Hammer's latest acquisition offer," Griffin began, his voice tight.
Duke remained still, "I specifically gave Hammer my non-negotiable price during the Governors Ball,"
"One hundred million dollars, entirely in cash. The entire company is his if he meets that specific number."
Griffin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a drop of sweat breaking out across his forehead. "That is precisely the problem, Duke. He is countering your proposal with a offer of forty million dollars mix of stock and cash."
"And... well, I have been taking several meetings with the executive board at Occidental over the past few weeks. They have officially offered me a lucrative new position as their Senior Vice President of Domestic Acquisitions if this specific merger successfully goes through."
Duke stared at the man, "So," Duke said slowly, "you want me to sell my highly profitable company at a massive financial loss so you can secure yourself a much better corporate job?"
Griffin immediately pushed back, trying to justify his backchannel negotiations. "I want what is fundamentally best for Vanguard," Griffin argued, his voice rising in pitch.
"The global oil crisis is rapidly winding down. The small, independent stripper wells we rely on simply will not continue to pump at these high inflated profit margins forever. Taking forty million dollars in liquid cash right now is significantly better than walking away with a mere fifteen million dollars in two years."
"Just one short month ago, Vanguard was internally valued at nearly two hundred million dollars," Duke countered, dismissing the short-term panic with a wave of his hand.
"I do not sell valuable assets at a fire sale simply because the immediate commodities market experienced a temporary dip."
Griffin shook his head in frustration. "You are being stubborn, Duke. This isn't the movie business where you can manufacture a hit. This is the volatile global commodities market."
Duke leaned back into his leather chair, his mind filled with his advantage that Griffin could never possibly comprehend.
"Oil is absolutely not my primary business," Duke stated, his voice calm.
"Making movies is, but because of the studio's cash reserves, I can easily ride out this economic downturn for years if necessary, until there's another global oil shock."
"The entire Middle East region is a powder keg. When it inevitably explodes again, the price of crude will skyrocket, and Vanguard will instantly be worth upwards of three hundred million dollars."
Griffin looked at him as if he were completely insane. "You are wildly guessing here, Duke. One good deal, doesn't make you an expert in commodities"
Duke smiled, "I may not be an expert, but i am well informed, David."
The debate of the office was shattered by the ring of Duke's private telephone line.
Duke picked up the receiver, his eyes never leaving Griffin's face. It was Armand Hammer himself.
"Hauser," the older billionaire barked through the line, skipping all pleasantries. "Eighty million dollars. That is my final offer. Take it right now, or I immediately hang up this phone and move on."
Duke looked directly at Griffin, who was shaking his head.
Duke ignoring him entirely. "Eighty million dollars, Armand entirely in cash," Duke negotiated smoothly. "No corporate stock options. A direct wire transfer into my primary holding accounts within seventy-two hours."
Hammer didn't hesitate for a single second. "Agreed completely. My corporate lawyers will contact your legal team before noon."
The line clicked dead.
Duke slowly lowered the receiver back onto its cradle.
Griffin sat stunned, his mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief.
"He voluntarily came up an entire forty million dollars in a single sentence," Griffin whispered, shocked by the negotiation swing. "How in the hell did you know he would jump that high?"
Duke offered a dismissive shrug. "Because Hammer wanted to own my rights to speculate on certain oil fields too, he doesnt care about the stripper wells as much as you think."
"He probably only offered 40 million, thinking you would influence me into taking that deal."
"What are you going to do with eighty million dollars in cash?" Griffin asked.
Duke leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "I am going to pay down institutional debt. You're fired by the way" Duke explained
The wooden door had barely clicked shut behind the disgraced CEO when it flew open again.
Robert Evans breezed directly into the quiet office.
"Dino De Laurentiis just called the main switchboard, Duke," Evans announced loudly, completely ignoring the serious atmosphere lingering in the room. "He wants to officially sign the long-term producing deal today. He is flying his corporate lawyer directly in from New York City on a private jet right this second."