The influence of *Star Wars* was unreal, especially with this version helmed by Hollywood's hottest blockbuster director, Dunn Walker. A lot of countries had local film protection policies, so they'd dodged *Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace* during the summer rush, scared it'd steamroll their homegrown movies. That dragged down its overseas box office—by mid-October, it had only hit $450 million abroad. Add that to the $550 million from North America, though, and the global total finally smashed through the $1 billion mark. It was the second film ever, after *Titanic*, to pull that off.
When the news broke, it sent shockwaves through Hollywood and the American public. Disney's half-month smear campaign against *The Wedding Crashers* got obliterated in the blast radius of this atomic-level headline. You can bet 20th Century Fox had a hand in fanning those flames.
After Disney's two-week assault, the market suddenly went quiet. *The Sixth Sense* and *The Wedding Crashers* duked it out for fans' love on a level playing field, like nothing had ever happened. But Dunn wasn't buying the calm.
*Spider-Man*'s shoot was wrapping up, and the crew had rolled into New York for scenes at Times Square, the Manhattan Bridge, and Grand Central Station. They didn't bother hiding—stepping off the plane at LaGuardia, they were swarmed by over a hundred rabid fans waiting to cheer them in. These had to be Marvel diehards or Dunn's most devoted followers.
"Whoa!" James Franco's face flushed with excitement as he took in the screaming crowd. "I feel like a freaking superstar!"
Over the past two and a half months, he'd hit it off with Jessica Alba—especially after she fell in love with a portrait painting he'd gifted her.
"Jamie, you're so full of yourself," Jessica teased, smirking. "They're here for Director Walker!"
James pointed at two fans decked out in Spider-Man gear, not backing down. "They're totally here for me—I'm Spider-Man, after all!"
Jessica rolled her eyes, laughing.
James, a little embarrassed, leaned in and dropped his voice. "Hey, what's the deal with you and the director?"
Panic flashed across Jessica's face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come on, you can't fool everyone. You're in his room practically every night."
"James!" Her expression hardened. "Watch what you say!"
He was sharp enough to catch his slip and backpedaled fast. "Sorry, sorry—you know me, I'm an artist. We get a little unhinged sometimes. Don't take it personally."
Jessica shook her head lightly. "Just be careful next time."
James let out a relieved breath, giving her a long look as his mind churned. This girl… she's not cut out for the A-list. Look at the actresses who'd been with Dunn—they'd climb the highest peak and shout it to the world for the clout, the attention, the status boost. Jessica? She'd slept with him but acted like it was a dirty secret, tiptoeing around it. How dumb was that? Trading ambition for a shred of dignity? She'd already paid the price—same as most actresses, riding looks and hookups to the top—but playing pure now? She'd end up stuck in limbo, neither a saint nor a sinner, just another mid-tier nobody.
"Take Natalie Portman," James thought, shaking his head. "Big background, killer talent, still grinding at a top university. Going the pure route? That's no cakewalk."
He glanced over at Dunn, who was fielding questions from reporters.
"Director Walker, congrats—*The Wedding Crashers* just crossed $200 million worldwide!" The journalists were kissing up, desperate to keep him talking.
Dunn shrugged. "Two hundred million? I think *The Wedding Crashers* deserved better."
"Huh?" The seasoned reporters perked up—there was something juicy brewing.
A quick one jumped in. "Director, Bruce Willis took a swipe at *The Wedding Crashers* a while back—called the plot basic and the romance 'dumb and sweet.' Any thoughts?"
Dunn's face went serious, though his eyes glinted with approval for the sharp question. "Mr. Willis said that? Sorry, I've been tied up shooting *Spider-Man*—haven't kept up with the chatter."
The reporters deflated, disappointed. Was Dunn just dodging, playing it safe?
Then he pivoted. "But…"
Their excitement spiked—mics and recorders shoved forward. They knew it: Dunn Walker, quiet for too long, was about to drop a bombshell.
"Even if Mr. Willis said something like that, I'm sure he didn't mean it. He's a regular at the Golden Club, right? Those services… they're pretty intoxicating. If he had a few too many, said something wild, that's par for the course."
"Golden Club?" The reporters blinked, thrown. Some started muttering, "What's that?"
A savvier one lit up. "Director, you mean *the* Golden Club? That infamous strip joint in Atlanta?"
Dunn frowned. "Technically, yeah."
"Technically? What's that mean?"
He shrugged casually. "What really goes on in there? You'd have to ask someone who's been."
Boom! Absolute chaos! The reporters lost it—waiting three or four hours had paid off. This was gold! The Golden Club was about to be infamous.
---
Dunn had caught wind of Bruce Willis's Golden Club visits through some gossip rag. Curious, he'd sent George Paxton to Atlanta to scope it out. The report? Eye-opening. In Atlanta, stripping's legal, dancing's legal—cash-for-flesh transactions? Not so much. NBA players were the VIPs there, but Hollywood types popped in too. That's a crime.
Dunn didn't have hard proof Willis was a regular, but who cared? Celebs thrive on scandal. The public doesn't need facts—they'll run with the juiciest rumors, assuming the worst about the rich and famous. Screw up, pay up. Bruce Willis? Dunn was ready to carve him up.
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