One Week Later
Alex barely remembered what sleep felt like. Between the studio meetings, endless press interviews, and fixing last-minute logistics, Lost in Translation had become less a movie and more a living organism that needed constant babysitting.
The final cut was locked. The trailer was out. It had already racked up over 200,000 views on YT, which, in 2005, was insane. Film blogs were buzzing. Some critics were calling it "another masterstroke from Wilson" Others, "vintage heartbreak with Tokyo neon flair." And of course, one anonymous post just read, "Scarlett looks hot af."
Scarlett was a pro. Polished. Friendly. She handled interviews with the calm detachment of someone who'd done this a hundred times, but still cared just enough to charm everyone. Tom Hanks? Effortlessly warm, as always. He cracked jokes on every set, even during the press junket. Anna Faris was chaos in heels—loud, bubbly, and way too good at making everyone laugh during serious interviews, and did her best to keep her lips sealed from giving away spoilers from the movie.
Giovanni Ribisi, sadly, was MIA. A car accident had landed him in a hospital bed with a fractured leg and a bruised ego. Alex had visited him twice already and brought sushi. Giovanni had been in good spirits, but the press tour was officially a no-go.
That left Rachel.
Alex's super-assistant had basically turned into a fireproof, stress-immune octopus. She coordinated interviews, set up lighting, made last-second script edits when needed, and occasionally reminded Alex to drink water. She was a machine, one who also had the uncanny ability to switch from clipboard-wielding executive mode to obedient submissive when the night called for it.
She didn't complain. She never snapped. But Alex could tell she was running hot. Eyes just a little more tired. Voice slightly more clipped. The day before the private screening, she nearly bit off a publicist's head for messing up the order of the media passes.
"Do you want me to handle him?" Alex had asked, half-joking.
Rachel adjusted her glasses without looking up from her clipboard. "He's already handled. If he breathes near Scarlett again, I'll bury his credentials in Tokyo Bay."
Alex smiled. "Remind me to give you a raise."
"You already do. Several times a week."
He grinned. Touché.
...
[A few days later...]
The private screening was held at a small indie cinema Alex had bought earlier that year on a whim. He'd renovated it. New seats, restored projectors, Dolby sound system, red velvet curtains. Old-school charm with modern polish.
The guest list was tight. Only close friends, crew, and a handful of critics. Max and Caroline arrived late, of course. Max was wearing a red leather jacket and smuggling in cupcakes inside a vintage purse. Caroline looked way too elegant for the occasion in a cream-colored silk blouse and heels sharp enough to be weapons.
"Sorry," Max whispered as she flopped into the seat next to Alex. "We had to bribe a cab driver with cheesecake."
Alex leaned over. "Did it work?"
Caroline smiled sweetly. "We're here, aren't we?"
The lights dimmed. The opening shot filled the screen—Tokyo's skyline, soft piano music, that perfect blend of loneliness and beauty.
For 102 minutes, nobody spoke.
The crowd laughed. They sighed. A few sniffles could be heard during the final scene. Even Max, who once claimed to be immune to "emotional manipulation in film," dabbed at her eyes during a quiet moment when Scarlett's character stood alone in the rain.
When the credits rolled, the room was silent. Then someone clapped. Then another. Then everyone followed suit.
Scarlett turned to Alex and whispered, "You did it."
Tom gave him a firm pat on the back. "Beautiful work, man."
Anna sniffled and said, "Why did I cry at my own performance? What's wrong with me?"
Rachel just stood off to the side, arms folded, watching everything like a proud handler. She didn't clap. But she nodded once. Approval from Rachel was rare and valuable.
Outside the theater, the buzz was real. Everyone was talking. The critics were taking notes with furious intensity. Max was already trying to pitch a spin-off.
"Lost in Translation: The Revenge. It's Scarlett's character but now she's an assassin. She hunts down emotionally distant men. I'm just saying, there's potential."
Caroline groaned. "Can we not pitch movies for one hour?"
Alex stepped away from the crowd, his phone buzzing nonstop. Emails. Praise. A few weird fan messages already.
He looked back at the marquee. Lost in Translation – Private Screening.
Next month, it would go wide. Full release. The big leagues.
But tonight was for them.
He spotted Rachel by the doors, eyes scanning the crowd, already plotting the next ten things that needed to be done.
"Rachel," he called.
She walked over. "Problem?"
"No," he said. "Just... thanks."
She smirked. "You'll thank me properly later."
Then she turned and walked off to yell at someone about press badge placement.
Alex looked back at Max and Caroline, who were now arguing over who got to eat the last cupcake.
Scarlett was laughing with Anna.
Tom was shaking hands with the projectionist like they'd been best friends forever.
And for the first time in weeks, Alex just stood there and took it all in.
His film was done. His people were here.
The chaos was still there, but for once, it was the good kind.
With everyone busy mingling with each other, while the security kept the pappz from sneaking a peek... Alex talked to the celebs and other directors for a bit, and then he eventually went to his favourite duo.
He spotted Max and Caroline near the valet stand. Max was leaning against a parked car like she owned it (she didn't), licking icing off her thumb from the last stolen cupcake. Caroline was on her phone, scrolling furiously and muttering numbers like she was trying to solve a cupcake-themed version of Sudoku.
Alex walked up, hands in his pockets. "So… celebratory lunch? My treat. Champagne, steak, maybe something with truffle you'll pretend to hate until you devour it."
Max perked up immediately. "God, yes. Can we also order those tiny overpriced French fries that taste like salt and a little drizzle of God knows what?"
Caroline didn't even look up. "Can't. We have orders."
Max groaned. "Nooo, we don't. Orders can wait. Champagne is time-sensitive."
Caroline turned and held up her phone like a warrant. "Online orders. Two dozen cupcakes for a gallery event. One dozen gluten-free for that yoga place that smells like patchouli and ambition. And a custom fondant cake for some dude proposing at a Knicks game."
Alex blinked. "People still propose at Knicks games?"
Max waved him off. "More importantly, Caroline's clearly trying to ruin our lives again. I had plans. I was gonna flirt, eat carbs I didn't bake, and possibly climb you like a jungle gym."
Alex chuckled. "You'll survive. I'll swing by the bakery later."
"No! Don't let her win," Max whined, grabbing Alex's sleeve like a child being denied candy.
But Caroline was already walking toward the street, arms crossed, phone clutched like a weapon. "Move it, cupcake gremlin. We're two unpaid interns away from a meltdown, and you know it."
Max let go of Alex's sleeve and sighed. "This is emotional abuse. I'm calling HR."
"We are HR," Caroline called back.
Alex grinned. "Want me to drive you there?"
Max hesitated, then glanced at Caroline, and then let out a heavy sigh. "Nah! We'll take the cab. You are busy as it is, so, yeah... Go on. Mingle and bingle." She twirled around, running toward Caroline, and then she glanced back at him with a sly wink.
A sly wink that said many words.
'You naughty girl. Sugar daddy gonna spank you later...'
...
...
[Evening] [Bakery]
The cupcake shop had finally quieted down after the early evening rush. It was like a tornado of last-minute pickups, panicked custom orders, and one guy who insisted on a cupcake "that vibes like jazz." Whatever that meant.
Caroline was behind the counter, wiping down trays with a speed that suggested she was one overcaffeinated playlist away from reorganizing the entire shop. Max sat on a stool near the register, swirling a spoon in her leftover latte, half-asleep, half-contemplating eating the display cupcake with zero shame.
The bell above the door jingled.
Max groaned. "If this is another yoga mom asking if the matcha cupcakes are 'spiritually gluten-free,' I swear I'm going to throw myself into the mixer."
But instead, the door opened to reveal Claire, the overly enthusiastic lifestyle blogger who once called their cupcakes "bite-sized joy crimes" and her fiancé, Julian, who looked like someone had dragged a GQ model into a Trader Joe's and gave him anxiety.
"Helloooo, sweet angels of buttercream!" Claire sang, stepping into the shop with the energy of someone who mainlined three matcha lattes and did affirmations in the mirror this morning.
Max blinked. "Wow. You still talk like that in real life. I thought that was just for your stories."
Julian offered a small wave. "Hey. Don't mind her. She's been Pinteresting wedding themes for six hours."
Caroline perked up, turning on her well-rehearsed customer voice. "Hi, Claire! So good to see you! What can we help you with?"
"We're doing a cake tasting tonight," Claire announced, eyes gleaming like she just discovered edible glitter. "But we wanted to stop by first to pick up a box of cupcakes. I told Julian this is the only place I trust with frosting that doesn't taste like shame."
"That should go on the door," Max muttered.
Julian smiled politely. "We'll take six. Surprise us."
Caroline nodded and headed for the display case. "We've got lemon-lavender, espresso crunch, red velvet, chocolate blackout, pistachio rose, and..."
"Oooh!" Claire squealed. "Definitely pistachio rose. It makes me feel like I'm cheating on my Whole30, but spiritually forgiven."
Max rolled her eyes. "The cupcakes aren't holy, Claire. They're just baked with love and minimal tax fraud."
Claire laughed like Max just told the greatest joke in the world. "You're hilarious! Seriously, you should be in comedy!"
"I am," Max deadpanned. "Every day. Here. In this bakery. Living this sitcom."
Caroline slid the box across the counter, tied neatly with twine and a custom sticker that read "Eat Me Gently."
"Thank you so much," Julian said. "We've actually been meaning to ask, do you guys do wedding favors? Like little cupcakes in boxes?"
Caroline's eyes lit up with business fire. "Absolutely. We do miniatures, full-size, custom designs—whatever you need. We even did an engagement party last month where the frosting spelled out 'Till Debt Do Us Part.'"
Max chimed in. "It was either genius or a cry for help. We're still not sure."
Claire clutched the cupcake box like it was the Holy Grail dipped in buttercream. Her eyes sparkled. Dangerous sparkle. Wedding sparkle.
"You know what?" she said, beaming. "Why don't you girls do our wedding cake?"
Max blinked. "Sorry—was that a question, a command, or a prophecy?"
Caroline lit up like someone just deposited an extra zero into their business account. "We'd love to!"
Julian, who had the cautious energy of a man who'd learned not to argue with someone wielding a Pinterest board, nodded dutifully. "She gets what she wants. I'll go park the car before someone tows it for being too symmetrical."
He walked out, already halfway scrolling through Yelp reviews for wedding therapists.
Claire clapped her hands together. "Okay! So! Let's do... three tiers! No wait—four! Ooooh, imagine the drama of four. That's power."
Max leaned on the counter. "You say that like it's a Sharknando sequel. 'Shark 4: Frosting Shark.'"
Caroline pulled out a notepad like it was time to launch a NASA rocket. "Alright. Four tiers. Got it. Do you have a flavor profile in mind?"
Claire tapped her chin with a manicured finger. "I was thinking lemon-poppyseed. But then my friend Chloe said lemon is too 'daylight' for an evening ceremony, and now I'm spiraling. Is red velvet too basic?"
Caroline scribbled: Red velvet maybe basic???
Max looked up. "Only if you serve it with an Instagram apology."
"Okay, then how about a tier of pistachio-rose?" Claire gasped. "No! Wait. That's what I want for the cupcake favors. Maybe almond champagne?"
Caroline scratched out red velvet. Wrote: Almond-champagne maybe tier 3?
Max leaned over and stage-whispered, "Put down 'Bride vibes: emotionally unstable biscotti.'"
Claire pointed dramatically. "Carrot cake! For my grandmother. She loves carrot cake. But not the kind with raisins. Raisins are betrayal."
Caroline began drawing tier diagrams. "Okay. So: The bottom tier... almond champagne. Second—carrot, no raisins. Third… lemon?"
"NO! I just remembered, my cousin is allergic to lemon. His throat closed up at a picnic once. Total buzzkill."
Max widened her eyes. "Maybe don't poison the cousin. He might notice."
Caroline scratched out lemon with the force of a woman slowly losing her will to live. "What about chocolate?"
"Classic. Safe. But not boring. Like me!" Claire giggled.
"Sure," Max said flatly. "Just like you."
Claire leaned over the counter, whispering like she was spilling state secrets. "Also, can the top tier be strawberry champagne? That way, we can freeze it for our first anniversary and be like, 'remember how perfect our wedding was?' even though statistically we'll be in therapy."
Caroline was now on page three of flavor drafts, the table covered in sketches, sticky notes, and a growing pile of frosting-stained Post-Its.
Max looked over the chaos and whispered, "I feel like we're building a very fragile cake-shaped bomb."
Claire, still bouncing in place, clapped her hands again. "Oh, and I want a little topper of me and Julian—except I want to be holding a whisk and he's in an apron that says 'whipped.'"
Max dropped her pen. "Okay, that's actually iconic. We'll make it happen."
Caroline massaged her temple. "Do you want fresh flowers? Sugar flowers? Fondant?"
Clairee gasped. "YES."
"...That's not an answer."
"Surprise me! I trust you!" Claire beamed. "Oh! And the cake should smell like vanilla but not too much like vanilla, or it feels like a candle."
Max deadpanned. "Right. Subtle cake aroma. A cake that whispers 'vanilla' instead of screams it."
Clairee's phone buzzed. She looked at it, then at the door. "Julian's trying to reverse into a compact spot. I should go. He cries easily." She took out a three-grand cheque and shoved it in Max's hands. Then, she turned dramatically, cupcake box in hand. "I'll call you later."
Caroline blinked. "I... what?"
But Claire was already gone, the bell jingling behind her as she practically skipped into the street.
Max turned slowly to Caroline. "So… how much of that are we actually going to do?"
Caroline slumped over the counter, face-first into her notes. "I don't know anymore. I just wrote 'cake tier five: regret.'"
Max patted her back. "We'll get through this." Then she stretched the cheque with a satisfied smile.
"Will we?"
"I believe in us."
"You believe in money."
"What? It's advance. We gotta do what we gotta do."
Caroline slowly lifted her head. "I'm going to make you taste-test seventeen different almond-champagne sponge variations."
Max froze. "I no longer believe in us."
They stared at each other. Then burst out laughing.
Outside, Julian hit the curb. Twice.
Wedding season had officially begun.
----
AN: Claire Guinness> Lindsay Lohan
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-[POWERSTONES AND REVIEWS PLS]-
Support link: www.patr eon.com/UnknownMaster
[5 advance chs] + [12 chs of Two and a Half Men: Waking up as Charlie Harper] [All chs available for all tiers]
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