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The jet touched down at midnight.
Raphael stepped out of the gate and spotted Jessica waiting right at the exit.
She wore a light-gray trench coat, hair loose and flowing, flashing that million-watt smile.
The second she saw him she hurried over and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.
"Ready for this?"
Raphael slid an arm around her waist.
"What do you think?"
Jessica laughed, looped her arm through his, and steered them toward the car.
"Come on, let's get home and rest first. The brand teams have been blowing up my phone—they want us for fittings."
They drove straight back to the cliffside mansion in Malibu and crashed hard.
The next morning they were up early, climbing into the car and heading toward Beverly Hills.
Oscar red carpet night was the biggest spotlight of the year. Every luxury house fought tooth and nail to get their clothes on the biggest stars.
Raphael and Jessica both had sponsors—Dior and TAG Heuer for him, Chanel and Bulgari for her.
But Jessica had something else on her mind.
"Rafe, I want to try Jean Paul Gaultier."
The name clicked instantly in Raphael's head.
"Jean Paul Gaultier?"
He'd been swimming in this Hollywood shark tank for two years now; he knew the players.
"Yeah, him," Jessica nodded. "Nicole Kidman's wearing him this year. They say his stuff can pull off elegant and bold at the same time. I want to try it."
Raphael had zero objections.
"Done. I'll have Philip reach out."
Half an hour later Gaultier's team showed up at a private couture studio exactly as requested.
By the time Raphael and Jessica arrived, the designers were already waiting.
Gaultier himself wasn't there, but he'd sent his head assistant—a sharp French woman in glasses.
Jessica tried on piece after piece until she landed on a deep-sea-blue gradient silk gown.
The fitted corset top hugged her hourglass figure perfectly, while the skirt cascaded like liquid, catching the light in a thousand tiny star-like sparkles.
The French woman circled her twice and gave an approving nod.
"This one is perfect on you—melancholy that still shines. Exactly the vibe the Oscars need this year."
Raphael's look was way simpler.
A classic black peak-lapel tuxedo, crisp white shirt, black bow tie.
Dior's tailor took a few quick measurements, scribbled notes, and promised they'd start prepping next year's suit a full twelve months in advance—something about the fabric being insanely demanding.
To Raphael it all sounded like rich-people theater, but he just smiled and let them do their thing.
For jewelry they'd already locked in Harry Winston.
The house was thrilled to partner—especially since Ben Affleck's date, Jennifer Lopez, was wearing them the same night.
Jessica kept it clean: classic diamond drop earrings and a hidden-setting diamond bracelet.
The white stones flashed against the deep blue gown like moonlight on water.
The necklace, of course, was the Bulgari sapphire piece Raphael had given her.
"Shoes?" Jessica asked the stylist.
"Pointed satin pumps dyed to match the exact blue of the dress."
"Clutch?"
The stylist produced a tiny Judith Leiber evening bag covered in crystals.
"This will be the perfect finishing touch tonight."
Jessica inspected it, smiled, and nodded.
Accessories locked in, they moved on to shoes, bag, hair, makeup—everything one by one.
By the time they were done it was already seven in the evening.
They stepped out of the studio and Jessica slipped her arm through Raphael's again.
"Hungry?"
He looked down at her.
"A little, but I can't eat much."
"I'll make you something low-cal when we get home. Guarantee you'll hit that red carpet in perfect shape."
Jessica rose on her toes and gave him a sweet kiss.
They climbed into the car and headed back to Malibu.
March 23rd, two in the afternoon.
Inside their suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt, makeup artists and hairstylists were already buzzing.
Jessica sat in front of the mirror, eyes closed, letting the artist work.
2003 makeup was all about clean skin with focus on the eyes.
The artist gave her signature blue eyes a soft smoky treatment and finished with a nude lip that kept everything soft and romantic.
The hairstylist turned her long dark-brown hair into loose, flowing waves, side-parted so it spilled over one shoulder—pure old-Hollywood glamour.
Raphael was already dressed, lounging on the sofa flipping through a magazine.
Black peak-lapel tux, white shirt, black bow tie. Dior had delivered the finished piece a week earlier—obviously bespoke.
"You done yet?" he asked.
Jessica shot him a glare in the mirror.
"Relax. Red carpet doesn't start till four."
Raphael checked his watch.
"It's two-thirty. You've still got an hour and forty-five minutes."
She ignored him and let the hairstylist keep working.
At three-thirty the limo pulled up right on time.
Raphael helped Jessica in, then slid in from the other side.
The black Lincoln Town Car rolled smoothly toward the Hollywood & Highland Center.
Outside the windows the vibe felt different this year.
Streets around the Kodak Theatre were blocked by police, three helicopters circled overhead, and officers stood every dozen steps.
In the distance you could see protest signs at the intersections—anti-war crowds.
Jessica watched through the window for a second, then turned to Raphael.
"Iraq…"
He squeezed her hand.
"Has nothing to do with us."
If every celebrity felt guilty every time America started a war, they'd all be strapping on dynamite and storming the White House.
Jessica didn't say anything else—just held his hand a little tighter.
The car kept moving, passed the checkpoint, and stopped in front of the Kodak Theatre.
Because of the war, the Academy had removed the grandstands and press pits on both sides. The usual roaring crowds were gone.
All that remained was a short stretch of red carpet from the car door to the entrance.
A handler opened the door.
Raphael stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand like a gentleman.
Jessica took it and stepped onto the carpet.
The second the deep-sea-blue Gaultier gown caught the breeze, the skirt lifted and fluttered before settling again.
On the press side the flashes exploded like fireworks—click-click-click raining down nonstop.
The two of them walked the carpet side by side.
It was barely fifty yards long. No screaming fans, no wall of cheers—just reporters shouting from every direction.
"Raphael! Over here!"
"Jessica! Look this way!"
"Closer, please!"
They paused in front of the iconic Oscar backdrop.
Jessica turned slightly, one hand lightly on Raphael's arm, the other relaxed at her side, letting every photographer catch the full flow of the gown and the sparkle of her Harry Winston diamonds.
After the official photos they stepped inside the theatre.
A temporary interview zone waited just to the right. Hosts with microphones stood ready.
The first one up was an ABC reporter, a blonde woman with a professional smile.
"Raphael, Jessica—how are you feeling tonight?"
Raphael kept his polite grin.
"Great. Just being here is an honor."
The reporter nodded and followed up.
"Any thoughts on the situation in Iraq?"
Raphael had known the question was coming.
"We pray for peace, but tonight we're here to celebrate the magic of film."
She asked a few more quick things and let them pass.
Jessica noticed several guests stepping out of cars holding "No War for Iraq" signs.
She hadn't brought a sign, but she'd pinned a small peace ribbon to her dress—the stylist had suggested it last night as "the most restrained fashion statement of the evening."
Looking around now, it felt exactly right.
Before entering the auditorium they still had to clear a full security checkpoint.
Staff ran metal detectors over them; even Jessica's tiny Judith Leiber clutch got opened and checked.
Once they were cleared, an usher led them to their seats.
The Kodak Theatre glittered with gold and lights, but the anti-war mood made the whole room feel heavier than usual.
Raphael scanned the crowd and saw nothing but A-list faces he'd heard about for years.
To their left sat the Chicago crew—Catherine Zeta-Jones, nine months pregnant, rocking a stylish Versace maternity gown.
A few seats to the right was Nicole Kidman from The Hours, elegant in black Christian Dior, looking like a sculpture.
Before the show started, Raphael took Jessica around to say hello to their mutual acquaintances.
Meryl Streep stood nearby chatting with Julianne Moore.
Jessica walked over respectfully.
"Ms. Streep, I'm Jessica Alba—huge fan."
Meryl turned, gave her a warm smile.
"I saw your Dark Angel. Very impressive."
Jessica's smile lit up even brighter.
Raphael watched from the side, fighting back a grin.
In this life, because a certain greedy fat man had been sent to hell early, people like Meryl would probably stay on their pedestals for a long time.
"Rafe!"
Ari appeared out of nowhere, fist-bumped him, then leaned in with barely contained excitement and whispered,
"Welcome to Vanity Fair!"
At five-thirty the lights dimmed.
Host Steve Martin stepped onstage and opened with a line that had the whole room laughing.
"Welcome to the Oscars… or as I like to call it, the most expensive bomb shelter on Earth."
The laughter cut through some of the tension.
The awards ceremony officially began.
Best Supporting Actress, Best Supporting Actor, Best Foreign Film—one award after another, applause rolling through the room.
When they reached Best Actress the entire theatre held its breath.
Clips played on the giant screen. Nicole Kidman in The Hours wore that fake nose and was completely unrecognizable.
The presenter opened the envelope.
"Nicole Kidman."
Thunderous applause erupted.
Nicole rose, hugged everyone around her, and walked to the stage.
Jessica clapped along, then leaned over to whisper in Raphael's ear.
"That fake nose is hideous. I'd rather never win one than have that thing glued to my face."
Raphael nodded in total agreement.
"Baby, you are one hundred percent right."