Four Seasons Hotel.
Harvey Weinstein squeezed his bloated body into the couch.He was watching TV.
A trailer for 127 Hours was playing.
"Fuck," he cursed, "that little bastard Martin looks like he's going to succeed again!"
Though the trailer was only about four minutes long, Harvey's sharp eye could already tell—this film had award potential.
What surprised him even more was Martin's directorial skill. It was polished—far beyond what one would expect from a first-time director.
Damn genius.
At that moment, a blonde head suddenly popped up from under his belly.
Harvey frowned and pushed her back down. "Keep going, Mira Sorvino. If you want good roles, you have to earn them."
He leaned back into the sofa again, trying to ignore his nausea while his mind wandered.
Could this cooperation with News of the World be trusted?Could they really use that batch of intel from '04 on women close to Martin to deliver a serious blow?
Harvey shook his head.Unlikely.
Martin wasn't some regular entertainment star, nor a politician. A typical sex scandal wasn't enough to destroy him.
Still—if it could disgust him, even for a while, that was worth something.After all, Harvey's loathing for Martin had, by now, fully overcome his fear of Martin's influence.
The kid was acting like a monster again.
Just then, Harvey's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. It was his wife—Georgina Chapman.
He nudged Mira. "Keep going. But don't make a sound."
Then he answered."Hello, darling. Everything okay?"
"Harvey, are you still in New York? The Scream 4 crew asked when the promotions will start."
"Yes, yes, still in New York. Got some work to wrap up here. Have Bob start the campaign without me. It's all just the usual stuff. I'll fly back soon."
Georgina Chapman, 30, born in England, was a designer, actress, and director. She graduated from Wimbledon College of Art and co-founded the high-fashion brand Marchesa.
Her family was wealthy—her father, Brian Chapman, a successful businessman in the UK.
To be honest, no one quite understood how someone like her ended up married to that fat pig Harvey.They'd started dating in 2004, even before he'd divorced his ex-wife.
Recently, though, Georgina had been unsettled.She'd received tapes—videos and photos—containing highly unflattering footage of Harvey.
After hanging up, she made up her mind: she would fly to New York immediately.
Grand Kempinski Hotel.
Martin had just finished watching TV when he received a call. He got up, grabbed Gordon, and left the room.
Not long after, a man wearing a baseball cap quietly approached their door.He used his body to block the hallway security cameras, and the cap's brim concealed his face.
After fiddling for a few moments, the lock clicked.He slipped inside.
A few minutes later, he emerged again.
Into his collar mic, he said, "It's done."
On the flight, Georgina Chapman sat with her eyes closed, lost in thought.
What exactly was the sender of the tapes hoping to achieve?If they held a grudge against Harvey, wouldn't it make more sense to leak them to the media?
Why send them to her?
Then again... maybe the goal wasn't exposure. Maybe it was to force her to divorce him.
Or maybe—just maybe—the sender simply wanted to mess with Harvey psychologically.
If that was their plan, she thought with a smirk, it was poorly calculated.
She hadn't just married Harvey—she'd married into his network.Yes, her father was rich, but she had two brothers. She'd never inherit the bulk of the estate. Just enough to live comfortably.
Georgina had ambition.
Since the age of sixteen, she'd dreamed of building a fashion empire to rival Hermès, Chanel, Burberry. She had worked tirelessly toward that goal.
As long as Harvey remained connected in Hollywood, she had no reason to leave him.
In fact, these videos could become leverage.A way to discipline that troublesome husband—and gain more say in their relationship.
With that thought, the anxiety in her chest began to ease.She felt calm again.
Yes—Georgina Chapman was destined to be a powerhouse in the fashion world.
After landing, she headed straight to the Kempinski Hotel, not even waiting for daylight.
The sender of the tapes had left a handwritten note, specifying a room number at the Kempinski.
She wanted answers. She would find the sender and discover their real motive.
At the hotel, a waiter exited a standard guest room, his face twisted with disdain.
"Ugh… six grown men crammed into one room. You guys are fucking poor, yet insisting on staying at the Kempinski? Why not find a cheap motel?"
Inside, the six men ignored him.They hadn't come here to relax.
As soon as the door closed, they popped open their suitcases and swiftly assembled surveillance gear.
Minutes later, a monitor lit up—divided into four camera feeds, showing the living room, master bedroom, guest room, and bathroom of Martin's suite.
"The signal's clean. Image is sharp," said Eric excitedly.
Joyce and Harper stared at the screen.
"I wonder if we'll get any surprises tonight," Adelaide murmured.
Harper chuckled. "If we manage to catch Martin in a steamy scene with a female star, our end-of-year bonuses will explode."
"Idiot," Joyce snapped. "If we get something that juicy, we're not sending it to the papers. We blackmail Martin. The guy's a global A-lister—he could cough up tens of millions just to keep it buried!"
The others' eyes lit up.
If this worked, they could all retire early.
"Enough talk," Eric said, "Martin's back. Joyce—start the audio feed. Let's test the sound."
Joyce walked to the window and pressed a switch.
Eric and Adelaide slipped on their headphones.
After a burst of static, Martin's voice came through, clear and strong:
"After the premiere, I've got a meeting with someone from Blue Sky Studios. Gordon, call Drew and let her know where to meet."