Talented Maestro

Chapter 39: Go Ahead and Sue Me, Mr. Goodman

As Naomi immersed herself in the script, Wayne pulled out the finalized project proposal. Tomorrow, he planned to submit it—along with the script—to 20th Century Fox and see how they responded.

His first choice was definitely Fox. Working with a major Hollywood studio meant fewer logistical headaches; he could focus on the film itself. The only concern would be post-production involvement, but that could be negotiated.

In reality, very few directors in Hollywood held final cut privileges. If a studio allowed a director to even offer post-production input, it was already a sign of great respect—after all, Hollywood had always been a producer-driven industry.

Without the oversight of producers, most directors would film freely and indulgently. It wasn't uncommon to end up with a bloated 180-minute cut. Studios, however, were in the business of making money, not financing personal art films.

Producers existed to keep directors' ambitions in check. Most directors were little more than filming machines—once they shot all the scenes, their job was done. Post-production and editing? That was the producer's territory.

---

The next morning, Wayne, accompanied by his agent Jimmy, walked once again into the Fox building. They handed the project proposal and script to Thomson Rossman. After receiving a promise that the project would be submitted for internal review as soon as possible, Wayne left for the dealership.

It was time. After four years of faithful service, his old pickup truck deserved retirement. Now that he could afford it, he was ready to buy a car he actually liked.

The salesman enthusiastically pitched a range of options. Wayne briefly considered a sports car or a muscle car—trying to live out the unfulfilled dreams of his previous life. After all, these types of cars were ridiculously affordable in the U.S.

But the man he was now simply didn't suit that flashy, brash lifestyle anymore. In the end, following the salesman's advice, he settled on a Cadillac—a classic, dependable American brand that exuded maturity and stability.

He handed Jimmy the keys to the old pickup, asking him to arrange delivery back to the farm. Then Wayne drove off in his new car, heading straight to Beverly Hills to get fitted for a custom-tailored suit—for his graduation.

---

Mid-June 1991. Dressed in new clothes and driving his new car, Wayne arrived at the University of Southern California campus. He parked and strolled through the youthful, celebratory atmosphere around him. Students in graduation gowns surrounded by family laughed and took photos everywhere.

His mother, Anna, had promised to attend the ceremony. Wayne wanted to be that kid—the one who made his parents proud. But after months of working in the real world, he found that his mindset had changed. The excitement of graduation no longer thrilled him the way it might have in the past.

Walking into the familiar classroom where he'd spent the past few years, he saw beaming faces all around. And yet, he couldn't help but feel detached. He had never been especially close to his classmates, but now it felt like he was watching someone else's celebration unfold.

"Hey, Wayne! Congrats on your film's success!"

"Wayne, we all saw your movie—it was amazing!"

"You're killing it, man. You're ahead of all of us!"

As he entered the classroom, waves of congratulations came his way. It made him a little uncomfortable, but he politely thanked each classmate and sat in his old seat—rubbing the back of the chair he'd occupied for over three years.

Then came a familiar voice.

"Oh my god, sweetheart, why aren't you dressed yet? Look, everyone else is ready!"

Anna had arrived, beaming, and immediately pulled him up by the hand.

"Mom, relax. There's still time," Wayne said helplessly, grabbing his gown and heading for the changing room.

---

At exactly 10:00 AM, the graduation ceremony began in the auditorium. Under his mother's proud gaze, Wayne received his degree from USC's School of Cinematic Arts, with a major in Film and Video.

He didn't stick around for group photos—never his thing. After bidding farewell to Professor Anderson, he quietly left the campus with his mother.

"Mom, wait for me in the car for a moment. I forgot something," he said as the engine started. Then he jumped out and rushed back toward the campus plaza.

Amid the crowd of smiling graduates taking photos with their families, Wayne's eyes locked onto a familiar figure—Adam Goodman.

Without hesitation, he walked straight up to him.

Wayne's sudden arrival made the cheerful group posing for photos fall silent in confusion. But Adam knew exactly why he had come.

"Wayne, you're one lucky bastard. Can't believe you actually made it through. But don't get too cocky—I doubt your luck will last forever."

Before Wayne could say a word, Adam Goodman sneered, lacing every syllable with venom. His eyes burned with resentment.

But Wayne didn't even glance at him. His focus was locked on the middle-aged white man standing just behind Adam.

"Mr. Ferren Goodman," Wayne said, "I came here just to let you know—my next project is officially underway. Feel free to come after me again. I welcome it."

Then, ignoring the baffled looks around him, Wayne turned to Adam.

"Adam," he said, loud enough for Adam's parents to hear, "you were never a real rival to me. In my eyes, you're just a spoiled child. But what you've done—your behavior—it's revolting. I came here to tell you that actions have consequences."

Without another word, Wayne swung a sharp right hook.

Crack.

Adam staggered backward, blood gushing from his nose.

"Oh my God!!"

"Security! Someone call security!"

"Motherf**ker! What the hell did you just do?!"

Chaos erupted. Adam's mother knelt to cradle her bleeding son, shouting hysterically. Ferren Goodman stepped toward Wayne, eyes cold, voice level.

"Kid, I don't know what grudge you have with Adam, but I promise—you'll pay for this."

Wayne met his gaze without flinching, even though the older man had to look slightly upward to meet his eyes.

"Really? Should I just wait here for the cops?" Wayne said flatly. "Because this is only the beginning, Mr. Goodman. Go ahead—sue me."

"There are no secrets in this industry. Happy Death Day helped me earn nearly $30 million. I'm ready to spend every cent fighting this in court."

"And believe me, I'll put together the dream team of lawyers. You want to guess how far I'll go? I hope your net worth can handle this, because I can play this game a lot longer than you think."

Wayne had no doubt: even though Ferren Goodman was a Universal executive, at most he was earning a few hundred thousand a year—maybe a few million in assets, much of it tied up in property. Wayne could outlast him in court. In North America, if the rich wanted to destroy someone, the most efficient method was simple: litigation.

And Wayne knew he could be that kind of crazy—burning millions just to crush an enemy. The very thought of it, he knew, would make Ferren sick to his stomach.

Ferren stared at the young man before him, brows furrowed. His threats sounded childish—but the logic behind them wasn't. In fact, it was exactly how the ultra-rich played this game. Was he afraid of the kid? Yes. Because if Wayne really was that unhinged—and rich enough to back it up—then this might not be worth the risk.

"Ah, sorry," Wayne said with a cold, expressionless face. "My mother's waiting in the car. If you do decide to call the police, you can have them contact my lawyer."

He tossed Ferren Ryan's business card and gave Adam one last look before turning and walking away.

Did it feel good? Hell yes.

All the pressure and humiliation he'd endured—he'd been chasing success, and now that he had it, he finally had the capital to fight back. In this land ruled by money and capitalism, wealth meant power. Power meant security. That was the greatest lesson Wayne had learned in all his years here.

Wiping the blood from his knuckles, he returned to the car, started the engine, and looked over at his mother—still waiting patiently.

"So, Mom… where should we eat?"

His voice was light. All the anger, the frustration—it had been released with that single punch.

"Let's stop by your apartment first," Anna suggested. "It's still early. If only your father had come—we could've celebrated together as a family."

"It's alright, Mom. Once I'm less busy, I'll go back and stay at the farm for a while. By the way, I had Jimmy contact a real estate agent. I'm thinking of moving. Got any suggestions?"

Wayne kept his eyes on the road, but his tone was relaxed as he brought up the topic of buying a new place.

Anna looked at her well-dressed son, pride gleaming in her eyes.

"It's up to you now. You're grown. Whatever you choose, make sure it's your own decision."

Wayne shrugged and pulled up in front of the apartment. He and Anna headed upstairs together.

---

As he opened the door, he spotted Naomi in the kitchen, mid-stir, cooking something. She looked up, startled by their arrival.

"Hi Naomi—this is my mother, Anna Garfield. Mom, this is my friend, Naomi Watts."

The introduction came out awkwardly—Wayne had been caught off guard. Naomi quickly smiled and offered a warm greeting.

"Hi, Anna! I was just making cheese and meat sauce pasta to celebrate his graduation. Would you like some?"

"Of course. Thank you!"

Anna looked Naomi up and down. She recognized her immediately—this was the female lead from her son's film. And as a former producer herself, Anna knew exactly what "Hollywood dream girls" were often like.

Without hesitation, she took Wayne by the arm and dragged him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

"So… girlfriend?"

"No, Mom. Just a friend."

"Watch your personal life, Wayne. I don't want to be sitting at the farm and reading your scandals in the tabloids. And don't think I don't know what you've been up to at school!"

Wayne could only laugh and promise her he'd behave.