Lisa had threatened to walk away three times before the plane even landed in London.
By the fourth betting slip, she had stopped with the threats and slipped into a quiet, deadly silence—the kind that made Harry realize he'd be hearing about this for the rest of his career.
Meanwhile, Harry had never seemed more at ease.
He was lounging in a private room that overlooked a bustling bookmaker's floor, the air tinged with the scent of carpet cleaner and old money. His sleeves were rolled up, his jacket tossed aside, as he calmly slid papers across the table. The numbers weren't wild or guessed; they were calculated. Arsenal to win. Arsenal to stay unbeaten. Arsenal to crush away games that pundits were still calling "tough fixtures."
The clerk hesitated for a moment.
"Sir," he said cautiously, "these odds—"
"Will change," Harry interjected. "I'm aware."
Lisa pressed her fingers against her temple. "You're betting fifty million dollars on a team with no European history."
Harry didn't even glance up. "I'm confident."
"This is not confidence. This is—"
"Lisa," he said softly, finally locking eyes with her, "trust me."
That was the part that drove her crazy. He delivered it just like he always did. As if the outcome was already set in stone and everyone else was just trying to catch up.
By the end of the afternoon, the bets were all in. The numbers were mind-boggling. The risk, on paper, downright ridiculous.
Lisa stopped paying attention.
Harry stood up, stretching, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The debt. The pressure. The never-ending juggling act between ambition and cash flow. For the first time since acquiring DC, the numbers felt clear again.
And then he turned—and almost bumped into a familiar face.
"Harry Jackson, we had met a year ago. There was a premier in Dream Theatre," said Peter Safran, blinking in disbelief.
Harry grinned. "President of Brillstein Grey. Or should I say, soon-to-be producer?"
Peter chuckled cautiously. "Word gets around quickly."
"You've been eyeing production for a while," Harry said. "Just haven't found the right reason to dive in yet."
Peter studied him, curiosity replacing his initial surprise. "And you're here… placing bets?"
"Getting some funds," Harry replied with a lighthearted tone.
They moved to a quieter spot, drinks arriving almost instantly. Peter opened up about his frustrations—management limits, creative boundaries, the urge to create something instead of just facilitating it.
Harry listened.
Then, when Peter took a pause, Harry reached out with an olive branch.
"I have a studio," he said. "And for what I see in the future, I need more men. Capable men. Men who can think ahead. Ambitious, like you."
Peter leaned back in his chair. "And you really think I'm one of those? Ambitious?"
"If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be having this conversation with you."
-----
February pulled Harry back to Los Angeles, whether he wanted to go or not.
The Oscars campaign was in full swing, and Blind Man's Gambit had quietly become a constant presence— unavoidable.
Harry found himself in a Fox conference room with James and Toni, folders spread out across the table.
"We're pushing for nominations in music," Toni said, tapping on one page. "Original score and song. Zimmer's work is really gaining traction."
James chimed in, "Direction. Screenplay. Best Actor for Daniel. Supporting Actress for Cate."
Harry nodded, flipping through the lists of competitors.
Then he paused.
"Where's Weinstein?"
James hesitated for a moment. "They're… distracted."
Harry leaned back slowly.
Of course.
The Weinstein brothers were deep in negotiations, navigating around Disney, getting ready for the split that would shake up Miramax's future. Their focus was split. Their grip was loosening.
For the first time in years, the Oscars battlefield wasn't completely tilted in their favor.
Harry couldn't help but smile faintly.
-----
The red carpet felt different this time.
Last year, Harry had walked it alone—hands in pockets, face composed, eyes trained forward like a man in a hostile environment. He had been new then. A curiosity. A producer-director people were still trying to recognize.
This year, his hand was laced with Anne Hathaway's.
The effect was immediate.
Cameras pivoted. A murmur rippled through the press line, swelling into shouted questions and overlapping flashes. Anne squeezed his hand once, grounding him, and leaned in just enough that only he could hear.
"They look excited," she said softly. "They're already thinking about tomorrow's gossip."
Harry exhaled slowly, a half-smile forming despite himself. Anne looked radiant—elegant without trying, confidence carried lightly. He was acutely aware of how young they both looked under the lights, and how quickly that youth had become a headline.
"Harry! Anne! Over here!"
"Mr. Jackson—first Oscars as a nominee!"
"Blind Man's Gambit—did you expect this?"
He raised a hand in acknowledgment, pausing where the photographers clustered thickest. Anne turned naturally with him, practiced already in the choreography of public attention. He caught her glance—amused, encouraging—and then something unexpected pulled his focus past the press line.
People were holding up signs.
Handmade posters. Sharpie ink. Folded paper.
HARRY JACKSON.
BLIND MAN'S GAMBIT.
One even read: Was Aaron Blind?
Harry slowed.
"Anne," he said quietly. "Do you see that?"
She followed his gaze, her eyes widening just a little. "I think," she said, smiling, "those are for you."
The realization hit him harder than any review ever had.
Fans.
Not industry acquaintances or executives pretending admiration to curry favor. Actual people calling his name.
He hesitated, then gently let go of Anne's hand.
"I—give me a second."
She nodded immediately.
As he stepped toward the barricade, the group erupted into excited chatter. Security stiffened, but Harry raised a calming hand.
"It's fine," he said. "I just want to say hello."
At the center of the group stood a tall, wiry young man with glasses slightly too big for his face, clutching a worn copy of a printed screenplay—clearly homemade. He looked like he hadn't slept.
"You're Harry Jackson," the young man blurted, voice cracking with excitement. "I'm Shaun."
Harry smiled. "Hi, Shaun."
Shaun swallowed. "We—we started a fan club, for you. Online. After the first week. There's, um—thirty-seven of us now."
Harry blinked. "My fan club."
Shaun nodded vigorously. "Blind Man's Gambit changed how I think about movies. About perspective. About—about seeing."
Harry felt something tighten in his chest.
"That's… incredible," he said honestly. "Thank you."
The group leaned forward, emboldened now. Two women near the front exchanged looks, then one of them—bold, laughing, flushed—called out, "Harry, marry me!"
The other raised her hand. "No, marry me!"
Laughter rippled through the group—and then abruptly stopped as Anne appeared just behind Harry, eyebrow raised, lips curved in a very polite, very unmistakable smile.
The women froze.
Shaun cleared his throat loudly. "Uh—right. I also was one of them who watched Providence on the first day."
Harry laughed, genuine and unguarded, then took a pen offered to him and signed a few posters, a ticket stub, even Shaun's screenplay printout.
"Good luck tonight," Shaun said earnestly. "We really hope you win."
Harry met his eyes. "Just being here is already more than I imagined."
As he stepped back, Anne slipped her hand into his again.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yeah. Just… didn't expect that."
She smiled up at him. "Get used to it."
They moved on, the carpet stretching ahead, the noise swelling again—but something had shifted. He felt… welcomed.
Inside the theatre, the air hummed with anticipation.
Blind Man's Gambit.
Four nominations.
Best Supporting Actress.Best Screenplay.Best Original Music.Best Editing.
No Best Actor nomination for Daniel—a surprise that still lingered in the room, unspoken but felt. Harry caught Daniel's eye across the aisle; Daniel shrugged with a crooked grin, already at peace with it.