"Aargh!" I huffed out loud as I raised the barbell above me.
"You can do it, Troy. Just two more reps. Come on!" Ben, my personal trainer, shouted right next to my face.
With great effort, I brought it down to my chest before raising it back up again. On the way up, my arms felt like they would give out at any moment. The burn in my chest was intense. I almost gave up…
"No, you won't!" Ben barked. "Don't be a pussy—do it right. Raise it high, right this instant! It's the last one."
That did it. I shouted something incoherent again and straightened my arms, then brought the bar back down to my chest, and finally pushed it up one last time.
This time, Ben didn't yell. He helped me rack the bar back in place.
"I fucking hate you," I panted. "Asshole."
"No, you don't," Ben quipped. "Or I wouldn't be here."
That...was true. I'd worked with multiple trainers before, but I preferred Ben because he believed in tough love. I hated him during my workouts, but he somehow got the best results out of me. It was a shame he was so averse to moving to London.
"How much did I lift just now?" I asked.
"225 lbs." He grinned and offered me a hand to sit up.
I matched his grin and took his hand, sitting upright on the bench. 225 was a new personal record for me this year. Last year, I'd lifted 250 once, but that became almost impossible after losing all that weight. With my new calorie-rich diet, I was gaining it back fast.
Just then, Cynthia—Ben's wife and my nutritionist—came over and handed me my post-workout smoothie.
"My special blend for you, Troy. I tried a new flavor today."
I gave her an appreciative nod before taking a sip.
"This is good," I noted. "I love chocolate… and is that banana? This is way better than the butterscotch you gave me yesterday."
"Thank you!" Cynthia beamed.
Then I got up from my seat and said, "As much as I'd love to continue this, I have a guest to attend to." I turned toward the man who'd been standing just a few feet away, quietly keeping an eye on me the whole time.
"You could've joined me if you wanted," I said as I walked toward the exit of my home gym and motioned for him to follow.
"No, thanks," Andrew Cohen, my financial manager, said immediately. "I prefer running."
"You do?" I asked, genuinely confused. "Where are you running then? In your dreams, maybe?"
I pointedly glanced at the beer belly Andrew was proudly showing off under the casual T-shirt he was wearing. I had made this a rule that anyone coming to my home won't wear a suit because suits are so pretentious for everyday life. Even more so in a hot city like Los Angeles.
"Haha," he said blandly. "That's hilarious."
"Did you just quote my own song at me?" I laughed.
He paused for a beat before admitting, "Not intentionally, but sure."
As we walked through the living room, we passed my dearest boy Loki, who was resting near the couch. The moment he saw me, he perked up and bolted over, running circles around me before pausing to glance longingly outside.
I chuckled and bent down to rub his head. "Just give me some time, Loki. Then we'll go out and play as long as you want."
Loki, smart as ever, seemed to understand that we weren't heading out just yet. He hit me with those puppy-dog eyes, and I almost gave in. Almost.
"How old is he?" Andrew asked curiously.
"Five," I said, still rubbing Loki's head. "Come on, Andrew. Let's get this meeting over with."
I led him to the study, which was set up exactly for this purpose. Andrew handed me a stack of papers and then sat back in his chair, a cocky grin playing on his face as I looked over the documents.
"This is amazing, man," I said, genuinely impressed. "I was wondering why no one in the media talked about my billionaire status. But this…"
I looked down at the company structure he'd handed me. Try as I might, I couldn't make heads or tails of it. The entire setup was far too complex for my understanding.
"Your dad called me before you turned eighteen," Andrew explained, clearly taking pity on me. "He asked me to devise ways to hide your real net worth, and I did. So, before you could legally attain that much wealth under your own name, I created multiple companies and trusts on your behalf. Some are registered in Delaware, some offshore in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland—and even used your private island to create a company in the Virgin Islands. A total of twenty different entities have been set up for you."
"And why is that?" I asked, confused. "Why not just one?"
"Because the SEC requires you to disclose leadership if you own at least five percent of a company's shares. This way, your stake stays below that threshold. I already transferred your CDOs and all your stock holdings into the separate entities. So, technically, you're no longer a billionaire. You are, but it would be very difficult for people to find out. That's why the media hasn't picked up on it."
"Hmmm." I hummed aloud. It was still a lot to take in, but I was starting to get the gist. "And I see you got all of this audited?"
"Of course," Andrew nodded. "The auditors were thorough—especially when it came to the restructuring."
As much as I wanted to blindly trust Andrew, I knew better. A few years ago, when my net worth had crossed $100 million, I'd hired Deloitte—the biggest accounting firm in the world. I signed an agreement with them to audit all my books regularly, but with one very specific clause: if any major fraud was found after their clean report, which led to financial losses, then they'd have to reimburse it in full. It was an unusual demand, and most firms wouldn't even entertain it. But Deloitte did, because I was paying them an outrageous amount to ensure they would do their best.
"Good job, Andrew," I said, nodding in satisfaction.
"Thank you," he replied. "One question left. What do you want to do with the rest of your liquid cash? After merging all your trust funds, residuals, and current accounts, you've got roughly $700 million in cash. That is even after paying off your manager for all the new companies you set up or your film productions."
"That's… way too much cash to do nothing with," I said thoughtfully.
Investing it all short-term would trigger massive taxes. But locking it up long-term wasn't ideal either, not with the market crash I knew was on the horizon.
Then my eyes drifted toward Andrew's BlackBerry lying on the table. And just like that—it clicked. The iPhone hadn't been released yet. That meant Apple stock was about to explode.
"Buy call options in Apple," I said confidently. "Set them to mature before the end of the year—December, ideally."
Andrew squinted, thinking it over. "How many options do you want me to buy?"
"As many as you can," I replied without hesitation.
He thought for a moment, then said, "Two things: One—we won't be able to buy that much. Realistically, it'll max out between $400-500 million. Two—if you do this, we'll have to pay 35% of the gains to the U.S. government in taxes. No way around it. You can't shelter it through your foundation or other means. Doing so would be considered tax evasion."
"Pay the taxes," I said firmly. "I don't mind. Just, no evasions."
Andrew nodded, satisfied with my answer.
"As for the remaining amount…" I trailed off, brainstorming.
I thought back to which companies were about to tank. One immediately came to mind.
"Buy put options for AIG," I said, just as confidently.
"Why AIG?" Andrew asked. "It's a very stable company."
"Just do it, man," I said. "First, exhaust all the cash on Apple. Only after that, short AIG. And unlike Apple, buy two-year options for AIG—even if the premiums are higher."
"Alright," Andrew nodded. "I'll handle it."
Once he left, I leaned back in my chair, processing everything.
Call options for Apple were a bet that the stock would go up. Put options for AIG were the opposite—a bet it would fall. The beauty of options was that you didn't need to fork over the full investment upfront. Just a premium. Those two moves alone, timed correctly, could earn me more money than most people would see in their entire lifetimes.
But here's the thing—I didn't want just financial freedom. I didn't want to be comfortable. I wanted power. Independence. Creative control. I didn't want to rely on studios deciding what I could or couldn't do.
To change that, I needed something big. Like a studio of my own. And for that, I needed capital. A lot of it. Nothing built capital faster than well-timed derivative contracts.
BARK.
Loki stood at the door, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive. He must've seen Andrew leave.
I laughed and got up. "Alright, you convinced me, you little asshole. Come on, let's run."
At the word run, Loki's eyes lit up. We dashed toward the exit together. The Oscars could wait. Loki couldn't.
(Break)
"The Oscar for Best Supporting Actor goes to… Alan Arkin for [Little Miss Sunshine]," Rachel Weisz announced from the stage.
I shot to my feet, clapping loud and proud. Alan Arkin was a class act—one of the greats. It's couldn't have happened to a better guy. And it goes without saying that he was so fun to work with.
A few seats down, Eddie Murphy looked less than thrilled. That's the game, though. You don't always win. His performance was great in [Dreamgirls], but Alan in [Little Miss Sunshine] was on another level. Realistically, the race was between Alan and Eddie all this time, I was just a spectator. Both had great career narratives behind them, and neither had won till now. Meanwhile, I was the total opposite of that.
As Alan walked past the front row toward the stage, he stopped by and hugged me.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You deserve it," I said, pulling back. "Now go get that trophy."
He grinned and headed up to accept the award.
As he launched into his speech, I finally sat back down.
"You should've won it," Mum said beside me during the ad break. "You were so much better than him."
I shook my head. "I don't think so."
"She's right," someone else chimed in.
I turned toward the speaker—early thirties, crisp tux, slicked-back blond hair. Handsome, confident. None other than Leonardo DiCaprio himself, one of the greatest actors of the 21st century.
"Thank you, Leo," I said with a smile. "But it's never really about who's the best. It's all optics. Who do people want to see up there giving a speech? Who's got the more compelling career arc? I won four Oscars last year—and I didn't even campaign hard for this one. So yeah, it was obvious I wasn't winning tonight. If that weren't the case, you should've won way back for [What's Eating Gilbert Grape]. Still think that's your best performance."
Leo nodded with a quiet, appreciative grin. "Thanks, man. But unlike me, you actually won for your best work—[The Sixth Sense]. That film still gives me chills. And the way you leveraged that win to further your career? Crazy smart. Your role selection is next-level. Honestly, I feel like I should be taking notes from you."
Before I could answer, Ellen DeGeneres appeared beside us—ad break over, camera already zooming in.
"Well, well, well," she said with that signature grin. "Look who we have here. Ladies—gird your loins—because here come the two most handsome men in the industry: Leo and Troy!"
The audience erupted in laughter and cheers. Ellen turned to me and offered a mic. "Hi!"
"Hey!" I greeted back, taking it.
"I heard you've become quite the producer these days," she said playfully. "With [Little Miss Sunshine] getting so many nominations tonight."
I nodded, still not sure where this was going.
Ellen fanned herself with a folded script in her hand. "Whew, is it just me or is it getting hot in here? Oh, what do I have here? A script I wrote. Maybe you'd like to take a little look?"
I chuckled and took the script. "Sure, I'd love to."
"Great!" she beamed. "Mind reading the first page for the lovely people at home?"
"Alright," I said, flipping it open—then immediately clocked the setup.
"'Leonardo DiCaprio was sitting in the front row at the Oscars. Ellen, hosting the show, walked up to him. Leo, ever the naughty boy, pulled Ellen onto his lap and started making out with her.'"
I glanced up—sure enough, Ellen had plopped herself right onto Leo's lap, wiggling her eyebrows. The crowd roared with laughter.
"You sure this is a real script?" I asked, grinning.
"Oh, it is," she nodded solemnly. "Keep going—the next part is gold."
I looked back down. "'Ellen and Leo are making out.'"
I turned the page. "'Ellen and Leo are making out.'"
Page after page, same line: Ellen and Leo are making out.
The crowd was in hysterics. Ellen kept making kissy faces at Leo, who looked increasingly awkward with each passing second. I could barely keep a straight face.
"What's the meaning of this?" I asked, holding up the ridiculous script. "You two just make out? Who'd want to watch that?"
"Who says it has to release?" Ellen shot back with a mischievous smirk. "We can just enjoy making it while making out."
"I don't think either of you would enjoy that," I said seriously.
The crowd exploded. Applause and laughter echoed across the Dolby Theatre.
Ellen stood up from Leo's lap, mock-offended, and snatched the script from my hands. "You don't understand art! I'm sure Marty would make a movie with Leo and me—right, Scorsese?"
Martin Scorsese, sitting just a few rows behind us, gave her a huge thumbs-up like he was giving notes on a masterpiece. The audience roared again.
Ellen theatrically tossed the script onto Marty's lap and headed back to the stage. "While Martin Scorsese deliberates over the future of cinema, here's our next presenter…"
As the lights refocused and attention shifted, I leaned over to Leo. "You know, I'd love to see you make out with her. Honestly? I'd pay good money for it."
Leo recoiled with an exaggerated shiver. "No, thank you. Not even for a hundred million."
I laughed. "You sure? Might help your Oscar campaign."
He shot me a mock glare as I laughed freely at his expense
A few minutes passed as the ceremony rolled on. Then Leo leaned closer and whispered, "Troy… You going to any parties tonight?"
"The Governor's Ball," I replied.
"Of course," he said. "I meant after that. You know… an after-party. You're 18 now, aren't you?"
"I… am," I said cautiously. I'd heard the horror stories. The real after-parties weren't anything like the glamorous headlines. They were… wild.
"I'm headed to this exclusive one later. A few friends, some other actors, and producers. Should be fun. Wanna come?"
I hesitated. It was an invitation most people would kill for—but I wasn't most people.
"Come on," Leo nudged. "Good crowd. Great music. And don't forget—hot girls. Lots of hot girls." He lowered his voice because both of our mothers were sitting beside us. "You want a threesome, foursome, just name it. Given who you are, girls will throw themselves at you. You can name your wildest of kinks, and they'll fulfill it. At least try it out once. You'll love it."
I have to say, Leo was an excellent salesman. I tried to play it cool when I said, "Okay, I'll check it out."
He gave me a knowing smirk, like he saw right through me and clasped my shoulder in brotherly fashion. "Attaboy. I'll find you at the Governor's Ball with the details."
I nodded just as the lights dimmed again. Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton walked out on stage to present the final award of the night.
Then came the moment I hadn't expected.
"And the Oscar for Best Picture goes to…" Jack Nicholson paused dramatically. "[Little Miss Sunshine]!"
For a beat, I froze.
Then I was on my feet, heart pounding. I threw my arms around Mum in pure joy. The cast and crew surged forward, exchanging hugs and cheers as we made our way to the stage.
I wasn't officially a producer—I had financed the film, but my name wasn't on the plaque. Still, standing there among them as the team accepted the award, hearing the applause, watching the confetti fall—it didn't matter. It felt like I had won.
As the producers gave their speech, I looked out at the crowd, then back at the stage.
Two years in a row.
Two of my films, back-to-back, had won the biggest prize in cinema. And the best part was that none of the two film did that in the original timeline, so it was all because of my presence that things were different now.
As the ceremony came to an end and people started leaving for the Governor's Ball, I couldn't help but feel more than a little excited about the upcoming after-party Leo had invited me to.
_________________________
AN: Visit my Pat reon to read ahead, or check out my second Hollywood story set in the 80s.
Link: www(dot)pat reon(dot)com/fableweaver