Page 97 of All That Glitters
Paris was waiting. Pierre, with his hypothetical scarves, was waiting. A life where she could love someone who might actually love her back was waiting.
The sun was clearing the horizon now, and the world was beginning to wake up. It was time. Time for the next chapter.
She stood there for one final, long moment, memorizing the sound of the waves, the feel of the cool air, the sight of the awakening sky over their ocean. She was saying goodbye to her childhood.
And as she turned her back on the water and walked toward the life that was waiting for her, she didn’t look back.
The Ivy was everything its reputation promised — hip, trendy, and way too expensive. Celebrities and power players lounged at carefully arranged tables under flowering vines and striped umbrellas, all pretending not to notice each other while secretly keeping score of who was seated where. Like Hollywood’s version of a high school cafeteria, the cool kids got the prime tables, while the lesser-knowns sat on the sidelines.
Tony felt like he’d been dropped into a foreign country without a map. He’d changed into his least wrinkled button-down, but he still felt woefully underdressed next to men wearing linen suits that probably cost more than his truck. Actually, the table-cloths probably cost more than his truck.
He, Carrie, and Eli were seated at a prime table on the patio. Carrie, despite her own nerves, looked every inch the movie star in a simple but elegant sundress. She’d put on makeup for this, a subtle mask of confidence, but Tony could see the nervous energy thrumming just beneath the surface as she twisted the napkin in her lap. Eli, for his part, looked like a shark in his natural habitat, coolly sipping an iced tea as he scanned the patio for rivals and opportunities.
Morgan Fisher arrived, looking tan, silver-haired, and exuding an aura of calm, unshakable power. He wasn’t the same man Tony last saw firing a Taser at him outside his Beverly Hills mansion. This was the legendary producer, the man who could make or break careers with a single phone call.
“Eli, good to see you,” Morgan said, shaking Eli’s hand before turning his attention to the others. “Carrie, you were magnificent the other night. A true star.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fisher,” Carrie said, her voice steady despite the butterflies doing acrobatics in her stomach.
“And Tony,” Morgan said, a wry twinkle in his eye as he sat down. “Glad to see you not scaring the daylights out of me outside my home this time.”
Tony managed a weak, sheepish grin. “I’m glad to not be staring up at the sky in convulsions this time.”
Morgan laughed, a friendly, good-natured laugh.
The rest of the small talk was brief. A waiter appeared, orders were placed, and then Morgan leaned forward, getting straight to the point. “So, Eli tells me you two have been cooking something up. I’m intrigued. Tell me what you’ve got.”
This was it. Tony’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked at Carrie, giving her a small, encouraging nod. She took a deep, steadying breath and began.
“It’s called ‘The Monaco Job,’” she said, her voice clear and confident. “It’s a spy thriller, but at its heart, it’s a character study.”
She laid out the premise, the disgraced ex-spy, the honey trap mission, the arms dealer who sees through her facade. Tony then picked up the thread, diving into the character dynamics, the psychological cat-and-mouse game, the way she uses everyone’s dismissive assumptions about her to her advantage. They talked about the themes of identity, of playing a part for so long you forget who you really are.
They spoke with a shared passion, finishing each other’s sentences, building on each other’s ideas. They weren’t two people delivering a rehearsed pitch; they were two creators sharing a story they genuinely loved.
Morgan listened, his expression unreadable, just nodding occasionally. Tony felt a familiar knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He wasn’t buying it. It was too smart, too character-driven. He probably wanted more explosions.
When they finished, a silence fell over the table. Morgan steepled his fingers, his gaze thoughtful.
“I love it,” he said finally.
Tony and Carrie exchanged a look of pure shock.
“I don’t just love it, I think it’s brilliant,” Morgan continued, leaning forward with a newfound energy. “And you’re right, Carrie, this is the perfect vehicle for you. It completely subverts your established image. Audiences will go nuts.” He turned to Tony. “And the idea that he’s impressed by her mind, not her body? That’s fresh. That’s smart.”
He started riffing on their idea, building on it. “What if the reason she was disgraced was because she got too close to a target? She fell in love. So this mission isn’t just about redemption; it’s about her proving to herself she can do the job without letting her heart get in the way. Which, of course, makes her ten times more vulnerable when this new target starts treating her like a person.”
He was seeing it. He was seeing the gold. Carrie was practically glowing, a look of profound, teary-eyed gratitude on her face. This was happening. Her dream, the one she’d tried so desperately for so long to get someone to help her with, was actually happening. It took every ounce of restraint she had to keep from throwing her arms around Tony, right there at the table, for finally being that someone for her.
Just then, Tony’s attention was caught by movement at the restaurant’s entrance. The hostess was leading a woman to a nearby table. All he could see was her back, but the dark brown hair falling in soft waves, the way she carried herself… his heart stopped.
It looked exactly like Debbie.
His entire world narrowed to a single point. Every nerve ending screamed her name. He had to go. Now.
Carrie, ever perceptive, saw the look on his face. She saw the change in his posture, the desperate, gut-wrenching hope warring with his professional obligation. She understood instantly.
Morgan was still talking, deep in the story. “... and for the climax, we can have the race, but instead of her trying to stop him, she’s trying to help him escape…”
