Chapter 27: A Personal Favor
Stepping out of Jennings's office, Wayne drove in stunned silence, piecing together the root of his troubles. It all traced back to one person he'd completely overlooked: Adam Goodman. Wayne had never imagined that their three-year rivalry would end with Adam calling in his father's favor—and turning a private feud into a corporate takeover.
"Son of a bitch!" Wayne slammed his palm against the steering wheel, furious at being bested by a spoiled rich kid. It wasn't cunning strategy—Adam simply dialed his dad's office and strong-armed every small distributor at Sundance into dropping Wayne's film.
Now that he'd finally grasped the source of the problem, he realized he'd have no choice but to sell Happy Death Day to Miramax. Even if Harvey Weinstein was a known racketeer, no one could deny he had the leverage to override Universal's orders. And when it came down to it, Wayne had to decide: endure Weinstein's predatory terms, or watch his film die on the vine.
Back at his apartment, Wayne kept the evening's fiasco from Naomi. After dinner, she settled onto the sofa in her loungewear—pink top, snug skirt—her relaxed confidence lifting his spirits. For a few blissful hours, her warmth and laughter made him forget the world's betrayals.
The next morning, sunlight poured through the curtains of Wayne's apartment. Naomi, freshly showered, greeted him with a box of pizza.
"Good morning," she teased. "Overslept much?"
Wayne yawned as he buttoned his shirt. "I guess I did. Thanks for the pizza." He joined her on the couch, scooping a slice. After a moment, Naomi ventured, "Do you really have no other way to get your film distributed? All this time—you've been fighting so hard—surely there must be another option?"
Wayne took a breath. "There is one last option: sell it at a loss to Miramax. Aside from them, no mid-sized indie company will touch it."
Naomi gave him a gentle look. "It's not fair. You've worked so hard."
He reached out and squeezed her hand. "It's Hollywood, Naomi. I've learned that every big studio plays these ruthless games. But I admire you—your resilience, your ambition, your willingness to gamble on your own talent. That's why you'll succeed, no matter what."
She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. In that moment, Wayne felt, for the first time in months, that he might just weather this storm after all.
But all of that—dreams, ambition, even admiration—could spell doom for lovers. Wayne had no desire to unwittingly become another one of Hollywood's infamous cautionary tales, wearing an invisible crown of horns. He had long noticed a pattern: the more famous a couple in the industry, the faster the divorce. The more public their affection, the sooner the breakup.
It was a rule as old as the industry itself—inescapable and merciless.
"If no company is willing to buy the film in the end, will you really sell it to Miramax?" Naomi looked at him intently. "Wayne, I know you. You believe in this film more than anyone else. You might not say it out loud, but I know you'd never settle for selling it at a loss… right?"
Naomi's gaze held both hope and urgency. She had a stake in this—Happy Death Day was her only shot at a decent entry on her résumé. If the film didn't get distribution, it would all have been for nothing.
"I don't know, Naomi," Wayne said quietly. "Right now, I honestly don't know. But there's one thing you're wrong about. My bottom line is a lot lower than you think. If it comes to it, I won't let this film be reduced to just a college project. I'd rather sell it for scraps than let it die."
Just then, Naomi raised her finger to her lips, signaling him to be quiet. Wayne looked puzzled, but Naomi closed her eyes and listened carefully.
"I think I hear your phone ringing," she whispered. "At first I thought I imagined it, but it's been going for a while. Someone might be looking for you—go check it out."
Now that she mentioned it, Wayne could hear the faint sound of a phone ringing through the wall.
He slipped on his shoes, and the two of them hurried back to his apartment. The moment they opened the door, the ringing paused for a few seconds—then started again.
"Someone really wants to get through," Naomi said, half laughing. "Better answer it. Whoever it is must be seriously persistent."
Wayne shrugged and casually hit the speakerphone. "Hello, this is Wayne Garfield speaking."
"Director Garfield? This is Terry from 20th Century Fox's distribution division. I'd like to discuss the distribution rights for Happy Death Day. When would be a good time for you?"
Wayne and Naomi both froze.
20th. Century. Fox.
It was a name no independent filmmaker would dare even dream of approaching. Wayne had never even considered them an option.
Naomi recovered first and nudged him hard, pointing at the phone.
"Yes! Of course! I'm free this afternoon—absolutely," Wayne stammered.
"Great. You know where we are, right? Century City in Beverly Hills. Come straight to the distribution department when you arrive."
"Perfect. I'll be there shortly." As the call ended, Wayne stared at the phone in stunned silence before scooping Naomi up into his arms. "Naomi! Did you hear that?!"
"I heard it. That was definitely 20th Century Fox."
Something felt off.
Wayne slowly set Naomi down, his smile fading into a frown. This doesn't make sense, he thought. Things like this don't just happen… unless I've suddenly developed an idiot's luck.
Naomi noticed his sudden change in expression and asked, confused, "What's wrong? Go get changed—we have to head to Century City. You don't have much time."
"You're right," Wayne said, pushing away the unease. "No matter what this is, it's still good news. Let's see what they want." He grabbed his phone and handed it to Naomi. "Call Jimmy. Tell him to head straight to the Fox building—he's close by. Want to come with me? Great. Go get changed, we'll leave right away."
As she stepped into the other room, Wayne entered his bathroom and adjusted his tie in front of the mirror.
Whatever their reason, he thought, if a major like 20th Century Fox is calling, I'm not letting this chance slip through my fingers.
There were no more choices left. Not unless he wanted to be crushed under the weight of Weinstein's exploitative deal. Even if he had to take a financial hit, if it meant getting access to Fox's distribution network, it would be worth every penny.
After all, distribution companies sat at the very top of the Hollywood food chain. The reach of studios like Fox, Warner Bros., and Paramount wasn't just national—it was global. Outside of a handful of international music conglomerates, no one could compete with that kind of power.
"Wayne, are you ready?" Naomi called from the other room. "Jimmy says he'll be waiting for us at the entrance to the Fox building."
"Yeah, let's go."