Fable Weaver
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DOS Ch-133
🕑 Added 2024-11-29 21:19:39 +0000 UTCJune 2005, California, USA
“Olive,” Greg Kinnear said. “Your Grandpa would’ve been really proud of you.” He loaded a few bags into the boot space of the minibus—the same boot space where Grandpa’s corpse had been stuffed not long ago.
“Yeah, you were great,” Toni Collette added, bending down to kiss Abigail’s temple.
“Beyond great,” I said, placing a hand on her head. “You were incredible.”
She looked up at me with a shy smile. “Thank you!”
Greg shut the boot. “Let’s get out of here.”
Normally, that would mean piling into the vehicle, but this minibus was special—it needed a bit of encouragement first. Together, the entire family started pushing the vehicle as the camera moved alongside us, capturing every step.
Greg climbed in first, taking the wheel, followed by Abigail Breslin, then Toni Collette, and Steve Carell. I was the last one still pushing. If I wanted, I could have jumped in earlier, but I had my directions—it had to happen just before the parking lot’s toll booth barrier. Timing was everything.
As we neared the barrier, I picked up speed, running alongside the vehicle. At the precise moment, just as the barrier loomed ahead, I jumped inside. Steve shut the door behind me, and Greg honked the horn as we smashed through the sixth barrier of the day. We all laughed in-character, enjoying the absurdity of it, while the beauty pageant organizer was in the toll row adjacent to ours, mouth agape.
“Cut!” Jonathan and Valerie shouted in unison, their voices blaring over the car’s speaker. “We did it, guys! That’s a wrap for [Little Miss Sunshine]!”
Greg reversed the minibus back into the parking lot, where the entire crew greeted us with loud applause. Among the crowd, one face stood out—a face I was more than a little happy to see. Without wasting any time, I speed-walked toward her. She had arrived late, just in time to see the final shot. It was only possible because we’d been shooting the climax in a parking lot in Los Angeles, where Rihanna happened to be renting a place.
“Hey,” I greeted her with a smile.
“Hey yourself,” Rihanna replied, stepping into my personal space and kissing me on the lips, in full view of the cast and crew. Her boldness caught me off guard, but at that moment, I didn’t care if the whole world found out about us. Naturally, I kissed her back.
My arms wrapped around her slender waist, pulling her closer, while her hands gently caressed the nape of my neck.
“Ahem!” Someone cleared their throat loudly nearby.
Suddenly aware of my surroundings, I pulled back, turning to see Toni Collette watching us uncomfortably. “Troy, have you forgotten that we have a child on set?”
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “We haven’t seen each other in months.”
She shook her head, then turned to Rihanna. “I’ve known him since he was a little kid. This feels so wrong on so many levels I can’t even…” Shaking her head again, she offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Toni.”
“Rihanna,” she said, shaking Toni’s hand casually.
Toni turned back to me and lowered her voice. “You do realize a set isn’t a safe space. Consider this”—she gestured between Rihanna and me—“as good as public knowledge.”
I shrugged. “We don’t care. I hid my last relationship, and it was miserable because of all the secrecy. Not anymore.”
“If you’re sure about it.”
“I am,” I replied firmly, then turned to Rihanna. “Did you know Toni taught me how to dance? If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have gotten [Billy Elliot].”
“Really?” Rihanna asked with mock innocence. “What wouldn’t I give to go back in time to see innocent little Troy?”
“You just had to say that,” I muttered under my breath.
Before our conversation could continue, Jonathan Dayton, the director, picked up a mic and addressed everyone loudly. “Thank you, everyone, for making this film possible. Your joint efforts have made [Little Miss Sunshine] a reality.”
The crew erupted in applause. I joined in wholeheartedly, having genuinely enjoyed my time making the film.
“I’d also like to thank our producers, all of whom will be at tonight’s wrap party. But before we go our separate ways, there’s one producer you should all know about—someone who’s stayed anonymous until now.”
I closed my eyes briefly. Why couldn’t Jonathan have waited until tonight? Or better yet, not made this announcement at all?
“Troy Armitage,” he said, turning toward me with a huge grin. “This film was almost shelved a couple of months ago until Troy stepped in and saved it. He asked us to keep his identity hidden so everyone here would treat him normally. But now that the film is finished, thank you, Troy, for giving us your sweet-sweet money and making it possible.”
I chuckled at his words before stepping forward. “No, thank you, Jonathan and Valerie, for creating this incredible film. I have a lot of people to thank, but that can wait for tonight. So everyone, don’t miss the event. We’ll have a blast tonight!”
Beside me, Rihanna slipped her hand into mine as the crew began wrapping up the set.
I turned to her with a grin. “You’re a really good actress.”
“Am I?” she teased, stepping closer.
I nodded. “Even I wouldn’t believe that this isn’t real.”
“Who said this isn’t real?” she asked innocently. Her index finger trailed along the edge of my loose T-shirt, stopping over my chest. Her nail pressed lightly against the fabric, just enough to make me wince. She had deliberately chosen my nipple area to rest her finger.
I grabbed her hand gently and moved it away, frowning. “What are you doing?” It wasn’t like her to be this bold. Sure, we didn’t know each other that well yet, but this was new.
“Making the whole situation more believable,” she said, her eyes flicking pointedly behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know someone was watching us.
“Don’t,” I said firmly. “We just need to attend the LA premiere of [Brick], and then everyone will know.”
Rihanna pouted playfully for a moment before her eyes lit up. “So, you’re free right now, right?”
I raised an eyebrow skeptically. “For three or four hours before the party. Why? What are you planning?”
She shrugged casually. “I need a little help in my room. Could you, um, change my lightbulb?”
I barely held back a laugh at her not-so-subtle euphemism. “Is that what you’re calling me now? Lightbulb?”
“It could be,” she teased before taking my hand and pulling me along. “Come on. We don’t have much time. Let’s see how many bulbs we can change in three hours.”
“I can’t wait to impress you with my… bulb-changing prowess.”
We both laughed as we headed toward the parking lot.
“This is me,” she said, pointing to an old, beat-up Chevy. “You can come with me in this, or follow in your car.”
I glanced toward my own car—a stark contrast to her modest Chevy—a brand-new green Lamborghini Gallardo. I couldn’t help but smile bitterly at the juxtaposition. In the UK, I wouldn’t be allowed to drive until I turned 17, but in the US, I had recently passed my driving test. The day my dual-citizenship passport arrived, the first thing I did was apply for a driver’s license. Dad, being Dad, decided to make my first car special—a tradition, he claimed. And so, here I was, with a Lamborghini, even though I’d only be in the US for two months.
Sometimes, in my life of privilege, I forget how absurd it can all look from the outside.
“No,” I said firmly to Rihanna. “You’re coming with me.”
She squinted at me skeptically. “What about my car?”
“Don’t worry,” I replied, motioning for my security team to step forward. They were always present but stayed in the background unless needed.
“Paolo,” I said to my head of security. “Can you get one of the guys to drive Rihanna’s car to her place?”
Paolo nodded. “Just need the address.”
Rihanna quickly gave him the details, and moments later, one of his team members was driving her Chevy away.
I turned back to Paolo. “Rihanna and I are going for a drive.”
“In the Lambo?” Paolo asked, hesitating. “I’m not sure it’s safe, Troy.”
“We’re in LA,” I pointed out. “Not a warzone. If it makes you feel better, you can follow us.”
He would follow even if I told him not to. He’s a paranoid man like that. I could tell he wanted to argue, but I didn’t give him the chance. Taking Rihanna’s hand again, I led her toward my gleaming car.
“Wow,” she murmured in awe as she slid into the passenger seat while I started the engine.
“You like it?” I asked rhetorically, revving the engine for good measure.
“Hell yeah! Who wouldn’t?” she replied, grinning as I pulled out of the lot.
Driving felt as natural as walking to me. From the moment I first sat behind the wheel, I had driven as naturally as someone with years of experience does. Another perk of my strange reality, I guess.
“Where are we going?” Rihanna asked after a moment. “My place is in the opposite direction.”
“Just taking this beauty for a spin,” I said, patting the steering wheel affectionately. “We’ll head to my place instead, no offense. Sometimes it’s a hassle dealing with fans when all I want is a quiet evening.”
I knew for sure that Rihanna won’t be living in some top level place wth good security/ privacy, so it’s better if avoided it altogether.
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. Makes sense.”
I maneuvered smoothly through the heavy traffic, weaving between cars whenever a gap opened up. I kept the speedometer just within the legal limit, but I was savoring every second behind the wheel. In the rearview mirror, I spotted the security team tailing us, and an idea sparked.
“Wanna try something fun?” I asked, glancing at Rihanna.
“What kind of fun?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
“How about we try to lose the security team?”
She straightened in her seat, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Let’s make it interesting. If you lose them, I’ll make it worth your while and break every public indecency law known to man.” Her hand slid under my shirt, feeling my abs before stopping just shy of my waistband. “If you don’t…” She withdrew her hand and crossed her arms across her chest with a teasing smile.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “If that’s what’s at stake, they’re as good as lost.”
I slammed the accelerator, pushing the car past the speed limit. The engine roared as I darted between vehicles, each sharp turn making Rihanna gasp in exhilaration. If I got caught, it’d be my first offense—and what a story it would be: speeding and public indecency all in one night.
(Break)
As soon as I stepped onto the red carpet with Rihanna on my arm, the world seemed to explode. Photographers shouted our names from every angle, their cameras flashing like lightning. It was chaos, but I couldn’t blame them.
Rihanna looked breathtaking in a black, floor-length gown with a daring slit up the side, leaving her left leg bare for the world to admire. Her brown hair was styled in soft curls, adding an elegant touch to her already stunning appearance.
As for me, I kept it simple yet striking, wearing a sea-green suit paired with a crisp white shirt, collar open, with a few top buttons undone to display my upper chest. The LA heat was unbearable, so I ditched the tie entirely and instead went for this look. My ensemble was complemented by a pair of custom leather shoes in a matching shade—courtesy of Crocs.
I still remember the first time I had to attend a black-tie event and the CEO threw a tantrum.
(Flashback)
George Boedecker, the CEO of Crocs, was clearly displeased. His expression darkened as he gestured emphatically.
“Why can’t you see how good this would be for the brand?” he argued passionately. “People need to know you can wear Crocs anywhere—even at a movie premiere!”
“No,” I said firmly. “When I agreed to this partnership, you promised to make custom shoes for occasions like this. What happened to that promise?”
George sighed, looking weary. “We’re just trying to maximize exposure. You know we want to go public in a few years, right? That’s only possible if revenue skyrockets. Every time you wear a new design, it sells out within days.”
George and the other founders were desperate to fast-track Crocs’ IPO, but I had my own timeline. I had already made it clear: no going public until after 2008.
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully as an idea formed. “Okay, here’s the solution. Create a luxury sub-brand—call it Troy. Make them premium-priced and limited edition. If they sell out, great for everyone. If not…” I shrugged with a grin. “More shoes for me.”
George’s expression shifted, the wheels in his mind visibly turning. “A sub-brand… That could work. Let me run this by the team.”
“Good,” I said, leaning back with satisfaction. “Now, about the premiere’s shoes...”
(Flashback End)
I had already tested the waters with the Troy line during the premiere of [Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire]. The response had been overwhelmingly positive. Buyers loved the shoes for their comfort—my number one priority when designing them—and their polished, stylish look. Available in a range of colors, they were the most comfortable dress shoes I had ever worn.
Seeing their success, George was eager to expand Crocs’ premium offerings. While the brand was best known for its laid-back clogs, he now envisioned formal footwear as a lucrative secondary revenue stream. Ideally, he would’ve waited a few years to roll out the line, but the results spoke for themselves.
Crocs had already surpassed $400 million in revenue in the first half of 2005. My 20% stake was shaping up to be a windfall, but it was in everyone’s best interest to keep pushing the numbers higher. More revenue meant higher profit shares for everyone involved.
“What’re you thinking?” Rihanna asked nervously, breaking my train of thought.
I looked at her, noticing the slight tension in her posture. It was probably her first time attending such a high-profile event. Though she had released her debut album, those events were relatively tame in comparison.
“Nothing much,” I said, brushing off her concern. I gestured toward the entrance. “Let’s head in.”
“Troy!” someone shouted from the sea of photographers. “Since when have you been dating Rihanna?”
I turned toward the source of the voice, chuckled lightly, and shook my head before pulling Rihanna along inside.
“Shouldn’t you have answered that question?” she asked once we were out of earshot.
“No,” I said firmly. “Never address personal relationships directly. If you need to share something, let your publicist handle it. Have them leak it through ‘anonymous sources.’ If you don’t have a publicist, borrow mine. The moment you say anything yourself, people will assume you’re trying to hype the relationship for attention.”
Rihanna nodded thoughtfully, taking my advice to heart as we made our way into the venue. Inside, my family was already waiting.
“I didn't expect this from you, Troy,” Dad said by way of greeting. Despite his words, his expression was more amused than anything. “Paolo filled me in on how he had to bribe a cop to get you out of trouble.”
“Yes, Troy,” Rihanna chimed in mischievously, her voice dripping with mock concern as she pinched my bum, away from anyone else's sight. “Why were you driving so fast? I could barely sit straight at the speed you were going.”
Of course, she hadn’t been sitting straight for reasons Dad didn’t need to know. It was only my luck that the cop was a little slow and didn’t see exactly what was going on. My car’s tinted windows helped.
I shrugged nonchalantly and turned to Rihanna with a smirk. “Worth it.”
“Wait,” Evan interrupted. “What happened with the cop?”
“It’s a long story.”
Comments
Sung Jing woo
thanks for the chapter!!
Kris Raas
I vote for a porche 911, a much better and comfortable sports car. Lambos are not practical at all especially in traffic.
TheLazyWarrior
Lol
TheLazyWarrior
I had forgotten that Lambo-Ferrari part. Thanks for reminding me.
dark helmet9
Yay another chapter. Also the car ride has one word for it giggity
Ant1h3ld
Fun fact: Troy driving a Lamborghini, even once, makes it impossible for him to ever own a Ferrari, even second-hand. Ferrari is *intense* about their rivalry with Lamborghini and they have extremely strict rules about who can and can't be allowed to drive their cars. I recently read an article about it and the *club* of Ferrari owners is like a secret society. Almost all Ferrari currently in private hands have a contract clause that states Ferrari have the right of first refusal when it comes to resales and nobody knows what exactly makes one eligible to own their limited edition cars, aside from the fact that owning even a single Lambo blacklists you immediately. P.S. I hope Troy can prevent Rihanna from becoming Chris Brown's victim.
