"Martin, everything's taken care of?"
At nearly the same time, over at Miramax headquarters.
Harvey Weinstein looked up with a smile at Martin Lewis, who had just arrived.
He was lounging on his beloved red couch, a cigar smoldering between his fingers as usual. Wisps of smoke curled up, dimming the once-bright room into a murky haze.
"Yeah, it's done. The guy will keep his mouth shut."
Martin took a sip of water from the coffee table, then shook his head. "We've been expanding too fast these years. Anyone can join now, which means the quality of our members is all over the place."
"The guy who handled it this time joined only three months ago. Barely trained, made some mistakes in execution. But it's fine — his whole family's been living off our aid. As long as he keeps quiet, his kids stay safe. And honestly, he doesn't even know we exist. We layered the job three or four times — the person who gave him the order was in Moscow."
When Lewis heard that one of his operatives had been caught, he immediately started working his "magic" — literally — erasing every trace of the operation.
Breaking into a house for intel? Totally normal in their world. Those who play with magic don't care about laws. Courts need facts and evidence; magic just needs someone to declare guilt.
"I say you're a witch — you burn."
"I say you deserve a beating — you stand there and take it."
You feel wronged?
laughs "Sweetheart, I know your suffering better than you do."
But no matter how lawless these so-called great magicians were, when it came to their own people, they at least spoke civilly.
So once Lewis confirmed it was his own screw-up, he lifted his glass toward Harvey.
"Sorry, Harvey. I messed up your plan."
"Oh—my dear Martin—you're far too polite—"
Harvey waved him off. "Compared to the organization's grand cause, my business is small stuff. I'm grateful you even used your people to help me."
"To tell you the truth, not taking Isabella down might actually be better for me."
"I've handed out too many promises this year. Balancing them's a nightmare. So really…"
"I should thank you for giving me a convenient excuse for failure."
He raised his glass too, and their cups clinked with a clear ding.
They both burst into laughter.
Truthfully, when Harvey learned that Lewis's people had failed to steal Isabella's intel, he was furious. But he couldn't show it — not in front of Lewis.
It wasn't just because Lewis wielded magic — he was Harvey's ultimate trump card in Hollywood.
If your patron screws up your plan, what can you do? You just swallow it.
So Harvey swallowed it.
And then, amid the chaos, he realized maybe this could even work out for him.
It gave him a new angle for the Oscars race.
Now he could campaign however he wanted — win or lose, no one could blame him.
He'd tried. He'd even used magic. The plan just got ruined by some stupid thief.
And when that thief turned out to be from the Shadow Corps under Daolong's command, any Oscar hopeful who lost could only sulk in silence.
Harvey started to see the beauty of it: he could go black on black.
If no one could accuse him of slacking, he'd just keep taking their money — campaign halfheartedly, pocket the funds.
If someone won, great — he'd claim the credit.
If not, well, blame Isabella for it.
Either way, plenty of that Oscar money would end up in his pockets.
No harm in making a little gray cash — everyone in the business does it.
Oscar campaigning is a dirty game anyway. The respectable stars don't talk about it. They don't even dare investigate.
Heh.
As for whether Warner would strike back for Isabella? He doubted it.
He didn't wield magic, but he had magic behind him.
And technically, he hadn't laid a finger on Isabella.
If gathering intel was a crime, everyone in the industry deserved the chair.
After some small talk, the two went to lunch.
When Lewis left, Harvey returned to the office, took a nap, and later invited a few friends for a yacht trip — complete with beautiful company, of course.
He wasn't about to go anywhere without women.
A little cosplaying, a little enchanted tobacco — life was good.
Until the next day.
When they docked, he saw two lines of uniformed officers waiting at the pier. His brow furrowed instantly.
"You are…?"
Before he could finish, his yacht staff asked first.
The two men in front flashed their badges — not a quick flick, but long enough for everyone to see.
Golden eagle emblem. FBI.
The crew froze and backed away immediately.
As the agents boarded, Harvey finally learned who they were.
"Mr. Harvey Weinstein, we're with the FBI. We've received a report from Disney that you transferred company funds into personal accounts, causing major financial losses to the Disney Group."
"They've provided evidence. So…"
"We'll need you to come with us."
One agent handed him the warrant — all black and white, perfectly legal.
Harvey squinted.
"I don't understand," he said, feigning confusion.
"Maybe there's a misunderstanding. I'll call Disney or my lawyer, we can clear this up. Can I make one phone call?" He pointed toward his phone.
The agent shrugged. "Your brother's already being questioned."
"So maybe don't call anyone. It'll only make you despair."
Harvey's lips tightened. Outwardly calm, his heart was hammering like mad.
Before he could think, another team stepped up — IRS.
"Mr. Weinstein, if you don't want to go with the FBI, you can come with us. Disney also gave us evidence of large-scale tax evasion."
"I didn't evade taxes!"
Harvey jumped up, panicked. "I always file on time!"
"Oh, really?"
The IRS officer smiled. "Let's jog your memory then. The Lord of the Rings made $871 million worldwide in 2001, right? You and your brother Bob had a 2.5% profit share."
"2.5% of 871 million is 21.775 million. Even accounting for delays and splitting it, your reported income last year should've been over ten million each. But it wasn't."
"Maybe, you'll say, the money went to another company — sure, but then you'll need to explain to this FBI gentleman why Miramax, a Disney subsidiary, has copyright revenues showing up in companies outside Disney Group."
"So, will you come with us voluntarily, or dive overboard and swim for it?"
"Your charge will get you ten years, minimum."
"My advice — walk."
Click. The agent thumbed his holster open.
Harvey instantly raised both hands. "I won't run! I won't run!"
"I'll cooperate! I'll cooperate fully! No weapons on me! I'll go! I'll confess everything!"
The agents exchanged amused looks.
They cuffed him.
And as one of them pulled him up, he whispered in Harvey's ear:
"Mr. Weinstein, Mr. Robert Iger and Mr. Barry Meyer both send their regards."
"They want you to know — you won't get away with bullying the princess."
Harvey's eyes went wide.
He was stunned.
Moments ago, his surrender was just a tactic — wait for Amnesty International to intervene, pay fines, move on.
Corporate crimes, tax dodging — trivial stuff in his world.
Even if Disney was mad, they'd settle.
But if Warner was behind this…
Then it was war.
He'd underestimated how much Isabella meant to Warner.
His legs gave out. He knew he was done for.
"You said what? Harvey's been arrested?"
Two hours later.
Pacific Time, January 8, 2003, noon.
Renee Zellweger was at home, getting ready for a party that afternoon.
She froze.
Even when her lipstick slipped and smeared across her cheek, she didn't notice.
She just stared at her assistant in the mirror — the thirty-year-old was nodding frantically.
"Yeah! Renee! Just this morning! The IRS and FBI together! They say Harvey and Bob Weinstein embezzled Disney assets and committed massive tax fraud! They've been arrested!"
Renee trembled.
She didn't believe it until her assistant opened Yahoo in front of her — and there it was, headline news.
The article was short, less detailed than what her assistant said. Hardly any comments. But to Hollywood, that quiet little headline was a nuclear bomb.
To Renee, the sky had fallen.
It was Oscar season.
And the Weinstein brothers were the biggest power brokers in town.
And now they were arrested? Who could believe that?
More importantly—
"Oh, shit!"
Renee shot up from her chair, grabbed the laptop, and smashed it on the floor.
"That son of a bitch Harvey!"
"Of all the times to get caught — now?"
She went berserk.
Ripped the cloth off her vanity — crash — money and jewelry clattered everywhere.
"Damn it!"
"He took all my money!"
"I gave him everything I earned!"
"How the hell did the IRS catch him?!"
"Aaaaahhh!"
She pounded the vanity, sobbing. Tears splashed onto the floor — regret in liquid form.
She'd known Harvey for years.
Her acting career had been rocky — dreamed of it at eighteen, got her first break only at twenty-four. So when opportunity came, she clung to it.
She met Harvey in '99 during Nurse Betty. He dropped by the set, saw her in a nurse's outfit with a plaid apron, and started flirting.
She was thrilled.
And yeah, she knew what kind of man Harvey was.
Didn't matter.
Hollywood was full of animals. Calling some of them "animals" was even generous.
And Harvey ran the Oscars.
So, she played along. The nurse outfit was actually… comfortable.
After meeting him, she landed Bridget Jones's Diary.
It was a massive hit — and she even got an Oscar nomination for Best Actress.
Which was insane — that film was pure fluff.
A romcom. IMDb under 7, Rotten Tomatoes critics under 80.
The most praise went to Hugh Grant, not her.
But even that, Harvey made into Oscar bait.
When that happened, Renee would've believed Harvey if he told her all six thousand Academy voters bowed at his feet.
He didn't say that, though. He just said Chicago would get her the statue.
So two years ago, she took the role.
And she'd obediently handed over every penny she'd earned through the years to Harvey.
All she'd wanted was that golden statuette.
But all that…
was in the past now.
Once the IRS had its eye on Harvey, even if he didn't die, he'd be skinned alive.
Because in America, you can rob, you can deal drugs, but you cannot evade taxes.
"F***ing squid!"
"How could that guy possibly be evading taxes?!"
Zellweger couldn't wrap her head around it.
A second later, she jerked her head up, eyes fixed straight on her assistant.
Then she lunged forward, gripping the young woman's shoulders.
"Harvey couldn't have evaded taxes, right?"
"He couldn't have, right?"
"You're lying to me?"
"You made that website too?"
Her hysterical interrogation made the assistant swallow hard. Under her boss's glare, the young man sighed.
"Renée… I heard this has something to do with Disney and Warner."
"Why?" she shouted.
She needed answers—now.
"Because… Harvey pissed off someone he shouldn't have."
The assistant spilled the gossip he'd dug up himself.
And when Zellweger learned Harvey had actually tried to go after HP—tried to go after Hermione Granger—
her whole body trembled, her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the floor.
Harvey hadn't been sentenced yet, but she could already see how it would end.
To the public, they looked glamorous.
To capital, they were nothing—less than nothing.
And a nothing trying to strike at capital?
That was someone begging to die.
"Nicole… I know it's hard, but that's the truth…"
Meanwhile, across Hollywood, in another mansion—
Nicole Kidman was just as unable to process the news from her agent.
Because Harvey had told her too that this year, she had the best shot at the Oscar.
The Hours had three female leads, but Julianne Moore and Meryl Streep weren't competing for Best Actress.
That meant Miramax would pour every "For Your Consideration" dollar into her.
And that logic made perfect sense.
Moore and Streep were both revered actresses. If they released a film, the judges would instinctively take notice.
So if Miramax didn't submit them, the judges would naturally wonder: why not? Why make way for Nicole Kidman?
That curiosity alone would draw attention to her performance.
And even if it didn't, there was always lobbying.
All the PR team had to say was—"Julianne Moore and Meryl Streep were so impressed by Nicole Kidman's performance, they decided not to compete."
Once that narrative hit the circuit, Nicole's votes were locked in.
As for the reasoning?
Half of the 6,000 Academy members were useless anyway.
They couldn't tell good acting from bad.
Cutting them out would probably make the results more accurate.
(George Lucas said that.)
So when Harvey had done that much to pave her way to the Oscar,
Nicole Kidman had been deeply grateful.
And when Harvey told her that Renée Zellweger would be her "sacrifice" for this year's Oscars,
and asked her to star in Cold Mountain to help Zellweger win next year's Oscar—
she'd gladly agreed.
But now…
The Oscar nominations weren't even announced yet—and Harvey was gone?
"I don't believe it!"
"You're lying, aren't you?!"
"Harvey's Michael Eisner's man! How could Disney turn on him?!"
Nicole's knuckles whitened around her Nokia phone, veins bulging, as she screamed into the receiver.
She couldn't accept it.
See, Miramax joining Disney had been Eisner's move.
Back then, the Weinstein brothers had been invited into Disney by Eisner himself.
He wanted them to replace Jeffrey Katzenberg and keep profits up.
Eisner had known firing Katzenberg would hit Disney's bottom line,
but he couldn't just bring in another animation guru—
no one knew the animation business like Katzenberg did.
If Eisner had hired another animation specialist,
the shareholders would've immediately realized his feud with Katzenberg was personal and petty.
And worse, it would've made him look insecure—like he couldn't fill the hole Katzenberg left.
That could've gotten him kicked out.
So instead, Eisner brought in the Weinsteins to boost profits elsewhere.
And Harvey delivered.
His first year at Disney, he gave Eisner a twentyfold return—
The Piano.
A $7 million investment, $140 million box office.
As long as Harvey had helped Eisner make money, Eisner would never touch him.
So Disney took Harvey down?
Nicole Kidman couldn't believe it.
"Calm down, Nicole! Calm down!"
Her CAA agent shouted into the phone. "We've already checked into it!"
"Even Eisner's shocked!"
"Because it wasn't him! It was Roy Disney and Bob Iger!"
"You know about Disney's internal war, right?"
"Eisner can barely protect himself! How's he supposed to protect Harvey?"
"This is clearly Roy and Iger teaming up to wipe out Eisner's influence inside Disney!"
"So—stop clinging to Harvey! Even if he gets out, it won't be before this year's Oscars!"
"Your Oscar campaign's in chaos—we have to regroup!"
The shouting hurt Nicole's ears,
but she didn't move the phone away.
Leaning back on the couch, she covered her mouth and began to sob.
Maybe the agent sensed her despair—or just felt guilty for saying too much—
because after a pause, Nicole whispered, "We… might not have any other way."
"Why?"
"Because… I already gave him all my money…"
She wept harder. "I gave Harvey five million dollars… I have nothing left… if he's gone, no one else can help me campaign… I can't afford it…"
Her agent went silent.
Being a movie star was expensive—especially for a woman.
Jewelry, dresses—sure, everyone knew about those.
But the real costs were accountants, lawyers, PR teams.
A-listers had to maintain entire mini-corporations around them,
and every role was essential: accountants for the IRS, lawyers for lawsuits, PR for the press and public image.
And actresses needed them even more than actors did.
Their careers could collapse overnight under bad publicity.
So yeah—if Nicole said she was broke, she probably couldn't stay in the game.
Her agent finally spoke, sounding more like a friend now.
"Nicole… you don't have to be too upset about this."
"Because no one else's Oscar campaign is going smoothly either."
"Yes, really. Even without Harvey, the others aren't doing great."
"And the reason…"
The CAA agent hesitated, then said quietly:
"I heard Harvey was taken down because he picked a fight with the wrong person."
"You know The Voice, right? He tried to go after Hermione Granger from Harry Potter."
"He wanted to destroy Isabella Haywood the way he destroyed Roman Polanski."
"And Warner was furious."
The sudden gossip left Nicole Kidman speechless.
When she finally processed it, she started trembling again—
half from fury at Harvey—
Why the hell would you pick a fight with the powerful, you idiot?
—and half from jealousy toward Isabella Haywood—
Must be nice having capital on your side. The moment someone annoys you, they're finished.
And while Kidman and Zellweger were losing it,
a lot of others stayed quiet.
Because power moves like this couldn't stay secret for long—
and everyone needed to see how brutal you could be to fear you.
So, Harvey tried to mess with the wrong person and got wiped out?
Even those who'd profited from him kept their mouths shut.
Queen Latifah, Catherine Zeta-Jones—they all stayed silent.
Maybe just accepting their bad luck.
Of course, where there's grief, there's glee.
Oscars weren't run by Miramax alone.
Every year had plenty of contenders.
With the Weinsteins gone, everyone else smelled blood.
"Well, well, well, who'd have thought Harvey would finally get what's coming to him?"
"That arrogant bastard finally hit a wall!"
"Hahahaha!"
Roman Polanski, who'd been crushed by Harvey before, was ecstatic.
From France, he called up Pathé and announced he was going all-in for Oscar glory again.
No one could stop him now.
"Hello, Adrien? Yes, it's me…"
Diane Lane, long admired but Oscar-less, perked up too.
She rang up Fox.
"Right, Harvey pissed off the wrong people, didn't he? So maybe this is our chance?"
She figured this year might be her best shot.
"Oh, James—I'd like to talk about Far from Heaven…"
Meanwhile, Julianne Moore called Focus Features founder James Schamus.
Sure, she'd worked with Harvey plenty,
but who puts all their eggs in one basket?
Harvey wanted her to step aside for that Nicole Kidman?
As if.
Nicole Kidman, that little pretender—why should she give up the Best Actress award for her?
"Yeah—it's me. I'm calling about 8 Mile's Oscar campaign…"
"You know how hip-hop's been craving mainstream respect, so…"
Eminem was talking to Universal about his Oscar run too.
One whale dies—
and a thousand things are born.
With the Weinstein brothers gone, chaos reigned.
Everyone wanted to seize the moment.
Everyone.
And while every contender geared up to crush the competition,
Isabella Haywood's name quietly circulated everywhere.
Her picture—sweet, harmless little girl—was on every desk.
But anyone with half a brain could feel it:
the danger that surrounded her.
Because Harvey Weinstein had been destroyed just for going after her.
"So… should we be calling her Warner's little princess now? Or Disney's?"
At Paramount headquarters,
chairwoman Sherry Lansing smiled faintly as she flipped through a file.