Dunn had been to plenty of cocktail parties before, but this was his first time at an open-air beach one. The sea breeze, the music, the gentle waves, the rich red wine, and the lively girls… he had to admit, the French had a knack for throwing an artsy, eye-opening bash.
From a distance, Dunn spotted Natalie chatting warmly with Luc Besson, laughing and looking genuinely happy. Meanwhile, Sam Mendes, fresh off winning the Palme d'Or, was undeniably the star of the night. Just two months ago, he'd snagged Best Director and Best Picture at the Oscars, and now he'd added the Palme d'Or to his trophy shelf—a real man of the hour.
Unlike an awards ceremony, this celebratory party was buzzing with gorgeous, spirited French girls. Dunn couldn't tell who they knew or why they were there, but they were strutting their stuff, seemingly trying to outshine Nicole Kidman and Natalie Portman, the two Best Actress winners. Dunn, though, wasn't interested in those flirty, posing girls. It wasn't that they weren't pretty—they just weren't famous enough for him to care. To him, a woman's allure wasn't just youth, beauty, or a great figure; it was her status that really drew him in.
Take, for instance, the iconic French goddess—Sophie Marceau. She'd done a handful of Hollywood films in recent years, even playing leading roles, but she'd never quite broken through. Her subtle, artistic acting style was a hit in Europe, but in Hollywood? Not so much. The blunt truth was that Americans lacked the culture, depth, and artistic taste to appreciate her understated, refined performances. To them, a "vase" actress should be someone like Julia Roberts—sweet, simple, and obvious. No wonder Europe mocked them all the time!
After five minutes of dodging invitations from seven or eight girls, Dunn finally caught sight of Sophie Marceau's stunning figure. She was holding a glass of red wine, chatting happily with Maggie Cheung, another leading lady. With a grin tugging at his lips, Dunn grabbed a glass of wine and strode over, flashing a bright, confident smile. "Ladies, mind if I join in and hear what you two beauties are talking about?"
Sophie's eyes lit up with a flicker of surprise when she saw him, while Maggie's gaze was pure admiration. "I just got an offer from a French producer," Maggie said, "so I was asking Sophie for some advice. Director Walker, I'm a huge fan of your films!"
Maggie's husband was a French director, so it made sense she'd know Sophie. Dunn smiled. "Your performance in *In the Mood for Love* was incredible. Not getting Best Actress this time was just bad luck. I'm sure the Cannes Best Actress award will be yours one day."
"Thanks!" Maggie raised her glass to him, clearly delighted by the praise from this top-tier Hollywood director.
After a sip of his wine, Dunn said, "Sorry to interrupt, Maggie, but could I borrow Sophie for a quick chat?"
Maggie blinked, then caught on, a touch embarrassed. "Oh, sure, of course!"
Sophie Marceau, after all, had been dubbed the "perfect face" by the French media.
Once Maggie stepped away, Sophie's enigmatic eyes slid over Dunn, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Mr. Walker, I'm guessing you're not here to talk about movies, are you?"
"Oh?" Dunn kept his cool, smiling faintly. "What makes you say that?"
Her gaze lingered on his eyes as she took a small sip of wine, her lips curving into a captivating arc. "Men's eyes never lie."
Dunn chuckled. "Are all French people this philosophical?"
Her sparkling eyes flicked up at him. "It's not philosophy—it's human nature."
"Alright, then, Miss Marceau," he said, leaning in slightly, "what kind of human nature do you see in my eyes?"
"Raw," she replied, biting her lip. Her eyes seemed to mist over, like the dark, endless sea at night—deep, mysterious, and utterly enchanting.
Dunn didn't flinch, playing dumb. "Raw human nature? What's that supposed to mean?"
Sophie leaned in closer, her low-cut dress revealing a glimpse of her allure. She seemed a little tipsy, but Dunn knew she wasn't drunk. The mix of seduction and intoxication, her fiery red lips against her pale skin—it was enough to make even a seasoned player like him feel his heart race. In just a few words, she'd woven a spell of pure enchantment, outshining even Nicole Kidman.
"Mr. Walker, are you still pretending?" she teased.
"No, Miss Marceau, I genuinely don't get what you're hinting at."
Truth be told, Dunn was a bit nervous—not the same kind of nerves he'd felt with Kate Winslet during his first time or with Natalie Portman during her first love. This was different.
"How boring," Sophie sighed, stepping back with a faint, playful look in her eyes. "I thought you'd just own up to it."
"Own up to what?" Dunn grinned, enjoying her little game of cat and mouse.
She nibbled her lip, giving him a mock-annoyed glance before stepping closer. Leaning in, she whispered in his ear with a soft, accented voice, "You want… me, don't you?"
She'd skipped a word, but her breath against his ear made it clear. It was a crude, R-rated term—the kind that started with an "f" in American slang. Dunn's breathing hitched, and for a moment, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind right then and there.
He took a step back, forcing down the wildfire in his chest, and laughed. "I'll be honest—when I was a teenager, I loved your movies. You were… well, a frequent star in my dreams."
Sophie smiled like she'd won a prize, batting her mesmerizing eyes. "This is my homeland, France. Here, I'm the host, and you're the guest."
"So…" Dunn paused, locking eyes with her, "the host should take care of the guest, fulfill their needs, right?"
Her lips pressed together, but a spark of anticipation flashed in her eyes. "Quid pro quo, perhaps?"
"Hm?" Dunn froze, then it clicked.
Up until that moment, it had felt like a hazy, intoxicating dream. But her words shattered the illusion, snapping him back to reality. Quid pro quo? Of course—it was a transaction. Always a transaction.
In France, Sophie could play the gracious host and "take care" of him. But in Hollywood, on his turf, would he return the favor for this French visitor? All the charm, the allure, the flirtatious dance—it evaporated in an instant.
Dunn suddenly saw it clearly: the "land of art," the "city of romance," the "noble goddess"—it was all nonsense. The entertainment world was the entertainment world, plain and simple. Hollywood thrived on deals, and the French film scene was no different—full of trades and bargains. Even a national treasure like Sophie Marceau wasn't above it.
Snapping out of his daze, Dunn's mind settled into calm clarity. He smiled. "Sure, I'm all about quid pro quo."
Sophie relaxed into a smile. "Your place or mine?"
"My hotel," Dunn said without hesitation. "I've got two bodyguards—safer that way." Then he added, "Oh, and one thing: I believe in fair exchanges. Whatever someone gives, I give back in equal measure. I hope that's clear."
Sophie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her lips parting slightly. "Of course. You're my most honored guest—I'll meet your every request."
Dunn's eyes narrowed, a grin creeping up. "Really? Every request?"
She flashed a sultry smile. "I keep my word."