DOS Ch-338

“Congratulations on the movie!” Conan O’Brien said with a wide grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief as the audience applauded. “[Easy A] is easily my favorite female-led movie of the year.”

“Thank you!” Emily replied, her smile warm and genuine as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “As soon as I read the script, I just knew I had to do it.”

Conan nodded thoughtfully, glancing at his cue cards before looking back at her. “You reunite with Troy Armitage, your long-term friend and collaborator, for this movie. What’s the deal here? I think you two have formed a cartel or something.”

Emily laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “I wish I could form a cartel with Troy. Working with him is hands down the easiest thing I can do. It happens very rarely when you’re with a scene partner who makes it so effortless to exchange lines. I know some actors who leave as soon as their lines are done, or ask their stand-ins to take their place. But Troy delivers every take in person.”

Conan leaned forward in his chair, curiosity written all over his face. “When did you two decide to make this film?”

“I approached him for the role when the funding fell through,” Emily confessed. “As I said, it’s very easy for me to work with him, and his role wasn’t that big, so he agreed to do the film as a favor to me, along with producing it. In return, I agreed to star in his next ensemble film that we’ve already shot, and you can expect it to hit theaters next year.”

Conan shook his head in exaggerated disappointment, his shoulders slumping theatrically. “You mean to say we’ll have to tolerate you two for another film? Hell no!”

The audience burst into laughter, filling the studio with a wave of amusement.

“So,” he continued after the laughter died down, straightening up in his chair and flashing his trademark grin, “tell the audience more about the movie [Easy A] and what they can expect from it.”

“[Easy A] is loosely based on The Scarlet Letter, but set in modern times,” Emily explained. “It shows how a single lie can spiral into something totally out of control. It’s easily one of the best films of my career so far.”

(Break)

I closed the YouTube video showing Emily’s interview with Conan, the screen fading to black as the autoplay countdown began.

This was the first film of mine in years that I’d chosen not to promote overtly. I’d attended the premiere with my mother, walking the red carpet beside her under the flashes of a hundred cameras, but that was all. I’d avoided every interview request and sidestepped every question, letting the PR team do their job promoting [Easy A].

Only time would tell whether the film would be a bigger success than the original. On second thought, that was a given. Emily was already a superstar in this timeline, thanks to [Twilight]. My presence, even in a supporting role, certainly wouldn’t hurt the box office.

Pushing that thought aside, I opened the next clip. Unlike the previous video, this wasn’t a long YouTube interview but a short TikTok video. One I’d already watched more times than I could count.

“I dedicate this award to the love of my life, my partner in crime, the father of my children, Troy Armitage,” Scarlett said, her voice trembling slightly with emotion as she stood at the podium, the award trophy clutched in her hand. Her eyes glistened as she looked out at the audience. “You gave me something that no award body or jury ever could. Thank you for being who you are. And most importantly, thank you for taking care of the kids so I could come here.”

My heart melted all over again as the clip restarted from the beginning. Scarlett, who’d won the Best Actress award at the Venice Film Festival, had begun her speech by thanking me. She’d gone on to thank others as well, including the cast and crew, but no one seemed to care about that part. Some fan had edited that portion out and posted it on TikTok, isolating just the moment she spoke about me. Needless to say, the speech had gone viral within hours.

Comments flooded the video in an endless stream.

@Mrtssss: Seeing her speak about Troy is so wholesome. These two make me believe in love all over again.

@peteredwards: I swear, if they ever break up, I’ll sue them for breaking my faith in relationships.

@Mitchliam: Scarlett and Troy complement each other so well. I can’t wait to see them act in a movie again.

@Sylvestorn: I was at the festival and watched [Black Swan]. I was shocked by the end. Scarlett is out of this world. This is easily her best work to date, even better than [Lost in Translation]. If she doesn’t win an Oscar for this role, I’ll lose all trust in the academy.

I locked my tablet, the lock screen showing briefly what was, to me, the most beautiful photo ever taken.

Atlas and Damian rested peacefully on Scarlett’s and my chest, respectively. Their wide, curious eyes stared up at us as if trying to understand the world they’d just entered. Scarlett rested her head against my chest, her expression soft and serene as she looked down at them. I leaned my chin against her head and kissed her hair, breathing in the familiar scent that grounded me.

It was a purely candid moment that Mum had captured one afternoon. The lighting wasn’t perfect, and the image was slightly out of focus, but none of that mattered. For me, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

I turned my gaze toward the window of my private jet. Far below, the endless ocean stretched in every direction. The view was breathtaking, yet I couldn’t bring myself to appreciate it.

My family was back home.

Scarlett and Mum took turns looking after the kids between Scarlett’s relatively light publicity schedule for [Black Swan], but at least she got to be there with them every day. She got to hold them, hear their cries, watch their tiny expressions change with each passing moment.

sigh

“Oh come on!” Benji groaned from the seat across the aisle, watching me with barely concealed exasperation. “I get that you miss being home, but you knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to do [Game of Thrones]. You even knew about the kids’ arrival.”

“You’re right,” I admitted, leaning back into my seat and rubbing my temples. “It’s just that… it was so easy to make a schedule when the kids weren’t here. But now that they are, it’s agonizing to leave them behind.”

Benji studied me for a moment before deciding to change the subject.

“So, have you read the final script of [Game of Thrones]?”

I nodded. “I have. Jim and all the writers have done a great job with it. The scope is massive, and the characters feel alive. Although I’m pretty sure once they reveal the budget, the news and critics will call me stupid for investing so much money into a TV show.”

Benji inclined his head in agreement, his expression thoughtful. “To be fair, even I think spending $200 million on a TV show is too much. But I get it. You need something big for Netflix’s first original TV show. And for that reason, you can’t compromise on quality.”

That wasn’t entirely true. We could’ve easily worked with a much smaller budget and gradually increased it as more people watched the show. The problem was none other than James Cameron.

The man simply didn’t do things by half measure. He’d insisted on building elaborate, fully realized sets for King’s Landing, Winterfell, and several other major locations instead of relying heavily on digital environments. Massive courtyards, towering stone walls, and intricate interiors had been constructed from scratch, each detail crafted to feel authentic. And it wasn’t just the sets. The production values across the board had been pushed to extraordinary levels because of his involvement.

Thank God Jim wouldn’t be coming back for the second season. Without him, we could finally bring the costs back under control.

“Most of that cost is a one-time investment,” I said, glancing at Benji. “It’ll get split over multiple seasons.”

“If you make multiple seasons,” Benji shot back immediately.

“We will,” I replied with absolute confidence. “Even if we don’t recover the costs through increased Netflix subscriptions from the first season, I’ll still greenlight the next two seasons.”

Benji frowned, clearly unable to follow my logic. “Why? Why not stop after one?”

I shrugged casually. “Because I want to watch the Red Wedding in live action.”

Benji stared at me for a moment before shaking his head slowly. “You might be the first billionaire to make a TV show just because he wants to see his favorite scene in live action.”

I laughed. “We billionaires have one thing in common. We all have our quirks. But if you really think about it, it’s not the quirk itself that stands out. It’s the fact that we can get away with it because of our wealth. If you did something crazy, like shaving your eyebrows, people would call you insane. But if I did the same, I’d probably start a trend. In fact…”

Benji immediately gave me a wary look, his eyes narrowing. “Please tell me you’re not shaving your eyebrows just to prove a point.”

I laughed freely at that, shaking my head.

“Maybe one day,” I said. “But not when I’ve got back-to-back projects lined up.”

He let out a long sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back into his seat. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he straightened again.

“By the way, I got an email from someone called Jenny. She’s a new hire on the set of [Game of Thrones]. She said she wanted to have a chat with you before rehearsals begin.”

I frowned slightly, searching my memory. The name felt familiar, lingering just at the edge of recognition. I ran through the production roster in my head, mentally flipping through departments and recent hires.

Then it clicked.

(Break)

(Flashback)

Jenny looked skeptically at the job offer in her hands before lifting her gaze to the woman sitting across from her.

Kathy Kloves met her eyes calmly, her posture relaxed yet authoritative. As the adoptive mother of Troy Armitage, and arguably one of the most powerful women in Hollywood at the moment, she carried an unmistakable presence. The office itself reflected that power. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawling studio lot below, while the decor was simple yet extremely high-class.

“I still feel like this isn’t a real job offer,” Jenny admitted, her voice tinged with disbelief as she glanced down at the printed document again.

“I assure you it is,” Kathy said with a reassuring smile. “My son came up with this idea and presented it to me. I don’t know if it’ll be feasible long-term, but we really wanted to try it out with [Game of Thrones]. I’ve done my research on you, and I think you’d be perfect for this role. You already do stunt and movement coordination on sets. Now, you’ll do intimacy coordination as well.”

Jenny nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of what was being offered. “I’ve navigated intimacy scenes before, but it mostly involved choreographing them technically,” she said carefully. “How exactly do you want me to approach these scenes?”

“Our topmost priority is the safety of our performers,” Kathy said firmly, her tone leaving no room for ambiguity. “While also making sure it doesn’t compromise the director’s vision. Your first responsibility would be to interview all actors before they’re hired and explain exactly what’s expected of them. If there’s any sex scene or nudity, you’ll discuss it with them in detail beforehand.”

She paused briefly before continuing.

“The directors have already been informed that intimate scenes can’t be changed later on a whim. If they require any changes, they’ll need written approval from the actors at least forty-eight hours before the shoot.”

Jenny leaned forward slightly, her professional instincts taking over. “What if a particular actor isn’t comfortable with a certain scene? Suppose there’s a topless scene for an actress who doesn’t want to do it. Should we replace her?”

Kathy steepled her fingers thoughtfully before replying. “In most cases, no. If it’s just a scene or two they’re uncomfortable with, we can hire a body double. But if that level of nudity is central to the character or appears frequently, it would be simpler to cast someone who’s comfortable with those requirements from the beginning.”

“Makes sense,” Jenny said with a small nod. “What next? Let’s say we have the cast ready, and we’re preparing to shoot.”

“Then you’ll make sure the actors fully understand what’s expected of them in each intimate scene,” Kathy explained. “And remember, an intimate scene isn’t limited to sex scenes. It includes any level of nudity or even kissing. It could be as simple as removing a shirt or as complex as a fully choreographed sex scene involving multiple performers.”

Jenny’s expression tightened slightly, the magnitude of the responsibility settling in.

Noticing that, Kathy’s voice softened.

“You won’t be alone in this,” she assured her. “You’ll hire a small team whose sole priority will be to create and maintain a safe environment on set.”

That eased some of Jenny’s worries. But one important question still lingered in her mind.

“What if someone says they don’t want an intimacy coordinator?” she asked.

Kathy considered the question for a moment.

“Get it from them in writing,” she said. “Have them confirm that they don’t require your involvement. But even if they say that initially and later change their mind, you must remain available to them. Always.”

Her voice grew quieter, but more earnest.

“If you do a good job, and our performers respond positively, we’ll gradually expand this role to every film and TV production under Phoenix.”

Jenny looked down at the offer letter again, her fingers tightening slightly around the paper. She knew, in that moment, that she wasn’t just being offered a job.

She was being offered the chance to help reshape the industry itself.

(Flashback End)

I offered my hand to Jenny O’Malley, the stunt and movement coordinator who’d recently taken on the additional role of intimacy coordinator for [Game of Thrones].

She shook it firmly, her grip professional but slightly nervous.

“I’m a huge fan, Troy,” she said, a hint of excitement breaking through her otherwise composed demeanor.

“I hope I’ll be able to say the same when you’re done with your job here,” I replied with a playful smile.

She laughed at that, the tension easing slightly.

After a brief pause, her expression turned more serious. “While I’m taking this job very seriously, I don’t think people will accept intimacy coordinators on all film sets. Like any change, there’s bound to be pushback.”

I considered her words for a moment before shaking my head. “I don’t think so. You’re underestimating how afraid producers are of being sued or worse after the #MeToo movement. Give it three or four years, and intimacy coordinators will be standard across the industry.”

She nodded slowly, clearly seeing the logic in that.

Without wasting time, she opened the script of [Game of Thrones], Season 1, Episode 1. The pages were already marked with sticky notes and annotations, evidence of her preparation.

“Let’s begin with the first scene,” she said, glancing down briefly before looking back at me. “In this scene, you’ll be in a bathtub, and you’ll step out fully naked. Are you comfortable with that? I tried to find your nudity waiver, but couldn’t locate it anywhere, so I wanted to confirm it with you personally.”

I had to resist the urge to laugh. She was simply doing her job, and doing it thoroughly.

“I didn’t have a specific nudity waiver,” I said matter-of-factly. “I’m not particularly shy, and I usually give directors the freedom to shoot whatever they feel is necessary to make the story realistic, even full frontal if required. And if I strongly disliked something, I could always request adjustments in post-production, so it’s not a concern.”

I leaned back slightly in my chair before continuing.

“The same goes for intimate scenes. I’d prefer them to feel as natural as possible rather than overly choreographed. Talk to my co-stars, find out what they’re comfortable with, and I’ll work within those boundaries.”

Jenny stared at me for a few seconds, clearly surprised by my openness. Then, as if remembering who she was talking to, she regained her professional composure.

“Alright,” she said, making a note on her script. “We’ll aim to keep the choreography as natural as possible. However, we do need to discuss this particular scene carefully, because it enters sensitive territory. I need to make sure you’re fully aware of how it may be perceived by audiences.”

Her tone wasn’t judgmental. It was careful. Responsible.

As the discussion continued, covering boundaries, expectations, camera positioning, and performer comfort, I couldn’t help but feel impressed. Initially, I’d considered signing a waiver declining the services of an intimacy coordinator altogether. My past life experience as a porn performer had made me comfortable navigating such scenes without assistance.

But at the last moment, I’d decided against it.

Partly out of curiosity. Partly out of respect for the process.

If Jenny and her team were having these kinds of conversations with every actor on [Game of Thrones], then it meant the environment would be safer, clearer, and more professional for everyone involved.

And that was something I could fully support.

(Break)

Emily stared at the numbers on the report, her eyes scanning the figures again and again as if expecting them to change.

They didn’t.

At first, disbelief filled her mind. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. This was her reunion with Troy after [Brick] and [Echoes of You], two films that had defined an era for their generation. Audiences had grown up watching them together. Of course, they’d show up in droves to see them share the screen again.

Still, she’d never expected this.

Commercially, the film had exceeded even the most optimistic projections. Critics had heaped praise on [Easy A], awarding it an impressive 89% positive rating on Rotten Tomatoes, with an average score of 7.9. Metacritic gave it a score of 80 out of 100, indicating generally favorable reviews.

But the most important metric was the audience reaction.

CinemaScore had given the film an astounding ‘A’ rating on a scale ranging from A+ to F, a clear sign that viewers loved it.

And that love had translated directly into box office success.

Made on a modest production budget of just $8 million, [Easy A] had grossed $167 million domestically, more than twenty times its cost. Internationally, it had added another $149 million, bringing its worldwide total to $316 million.

Nearly forty times its production budget.

Emily leaned back in her chair slowly, letting the magnitude of it sink in.

The best part, at least for her, was the backend deal she’d negotiated. She’d secured 5% of the film’s gross profits, a clause that had seemed optimistic at the time.

Now, it had turned into a windfall.

Her backend earnings alone amounted to approximately $6 million. Combined with the $2 million she’d received upfront, her total compensation for [Easy A] came to a staggering $8 million.

For a single film.

And yet, even that paled in comparison to what Troy’s company, Phoenix, had earned. After distributing shares to co-producers, investors, and other stakeholders, Phoenix still walked away with roughly $100 million in profit.

While most other actors would be salty about the studio making so much more money, Emily could see the bigger picture. The studio had taken a risk on a modestly budgeted film, trusted the material, and believed in their audience. Not to mention, they had so many permanent employees to pay salaries to.

And the audience had rewarded them beyond anything they’d imagined.