When she arrived home, her limbs felt like lead weights and her eyelids drooped with exhaustion, but a smile played across her lips as she reflected on her accomplishments in the first quarter of the year. The crisp March air carried the scent of early spring flowers as she collected her mail, fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. Inside, she spread the envelopes across her mahogany dining table, each one containing a check that validated her countless hours of emotional labor on set:
Lion King - £500,000 (her voice bringing Nala to life with such nuance that critics wept)
Heavenly Creatures - £600,000 (the role that had left her emotionally drained for weeks)
Léon: The Professional - £120,000 (a challenging character that still haunted her dreams)
Mathilda - £150,000 (the director had doubled her fee after seeing the dailies)
Forrest Gump - £1,000,000 (her smallest role, ironically her largest paycheck)
Her manicured finger traced the total: £2,370,000. Not bad for March, she thought.
Now it was time to search for a sanctuary where her wealth could flourish untaxed and her brilliant mind could expand across acres of private land. She spread glossy real estate brochures across her desk, lingering over photographs of Wyoming's sweeping prairies and jagged mountain silhouettes. The state's zero income tax policy gleamed like a beacon, promising financial freedom that California's ravenous 11% top bracket would devour in 1994. She envisioned a sprawling laboratory nestled among Wyoming pines, where her grandmother Hedy's inventive spirit could finally manifest through her own hands, undisturbed by paparazzi or studio demands.
She would be free from Los Angeles—that glittering facade where silicone smiles masked ruthless ambition and air kisses exchanged at Chateau Marmont contained more venom than affection. She despised how the city's palm trees stood like sentinels over an empire built on broken dreams, though she tolerated its superficial embrace only because each red carpet appearance filled her Swiss bank accounts with zeros that stretched to the horizon.
She stared at the bank statements, the checks, the glossy brochures, and realized with a sudden pang that her life was about to accelerate beyond any hope of personal control. The roles were getting bigger, the expectations higher, the margins of error slimmer—she would soon need a small army to keep her on course. Her mind, ever analytical, began to draw up requirements as if casting for a new ensemble: She needed someone to manage her increasingly Byzantine schedule with military precision, someone who could sort her mail and screen her calls with the sensitivity of a diplomat and the paranoia of a Cold War spy. There would be scripts to read, appointments to keep, and travel arrangements to coordinate. The studio executives were relentless; the press, voracious; the fans, sometimes frightening in their devotion.
Yet she was not so naive as to assume she could trust just anyone. L.A. teemed with climbers and sycophants, hungry to latch onto a star and take a ride up the Hollywood food chain. She needed a person not only competent but fiercely loyal, someone who'd take a bullet for her—a metaphorical one, at least, since she wasn't quite famous enough to warrant a real bodyguard. Not yet. And if she'd learned anything from her grandmother's stories, it was that no empire, however brilliant, could thrive without a trusted consigliere.
She made a list in her notebook, writing in her small, neat hand.
Requirements:
• Discretion (non-negotiable)
• Excellent driving record (I refuse to die in a Prius crash)
• Familiarity with European etiquette; bonus points for speaking French or Italian
• Ability to anticipate my mood swings
• Must like dogs
The last was crucial, for she'd recently adopted a surly Italian greyhound named Godard, whose only joy in life seemed to be giving her the side-eye from a velvet cushion.
She contemplated briefly hiring a bodyguard, if only for the statement it made. But she dismissed the thought: She was too young, too unassuming by Hollywood standards, and besides, she preferred the illusion of invulnerability that came from walking the streets alone, sunglasses low and stride determined. What she needed was a driver—a hybrid of Alfred Pennyworth and a Formula One pit crew chief, who could roll with her 5 a.m. call times and pivot at a moment's notice should she decide to take a last-minute road trip to Sedona or Big Sur.
There was a subtle thrill to the prospect of posting a job opening, of summoning candidates to her lair and sifting through them like a mad scientist in a casting call. She could already picture the applicants: former chauffeurs of defunct moguls, failed actors desperate to remain adjacent to the business, and, inevitably, a few eccentrics with résumés as baroque as they were dubious.
She chose her words carefully as she typed the listing for the UTA job board.
Seeking driver/personal assistant for high-profile creative professional. Ability to keep calm under pressure, flexible hours, and zero appetite for drama are a must.
She considered adding "no writers or actors, please," but left it unsaid—she would be able to spot them from a mile away.
With a single click, the post was live. She sat back, sipping a glass of sparkling water, and wondered whom the city would send her.