Illusiveone
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226: Redoing My Life, In Paris
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 13:57:42 +0000 UTC"I'm sorry about it, Daniel," Jensen said over the phone, his voice slightly breathless.
"It's not a big deal, man," I replied.
The Dark Knight was set to release in less than a month, and Jensen along with the rest of the cast was in the thick of a worldwide press tour. Somewhere between Tokyo and Berlin, he had let something slip in an interview—something about there being a Batman 3. The third film hadn’t even been announced yet. We’d been holding that card for Comic‑Con.
"Yeah, but …" Jensen began again.
"You salvaged it nicely," I cut in before he could spiral further. And he had pivoted the conversation mid‑interview, deflected, and played it off as something that would happen after the Justice League movie came out.
Jensen exhaled. "Thanks. Still, I feel like an idiot."
"Don't," I said firmly. "It’s really not that big a deal. Trust me the internet will be obsessed with guessing what you meant, and by the time we officially announce it, they’ll have hyped it more than we ever could."
There was a pause. Then he asked, "You gonna be in Paris long? That’s our next stop."
"Maybe," I said, glancing toward the mirrored closet door. "Dave’s been pestering me to join you guys."
We talked a bit more about the junket madness and the upcoming talk shows I’d be attending with them, then hung up.
I was in Paris. I’d arrived yesterday, invited to a fashion show. Normally, I’d have dodged this kind of thing, but this time was different.
Joanna had been invited as well, and when she asked if I’d come with her, I decided to go. There was also another reason that helped me make up my mind—something I hoped would go well.
I adjusted my cuffs as I walked out of the suite. I was dressed in black—a new suit Caleb made for me. Downstairs, a black car waited at the curb. The driver opened the door without a word. I slid in, settling into the leather seat as the door clicked shut behind me.
On the drive through Paris, I leaned against the car’s tinted window and spotted The Dark Knight marketing plastered all over the city—billboards near Metro stations, a looping trailer on a giant screen above a retail store. Yeah … the movie was red‑hot.
The buzz was everywhere. It wasn’t just the die‑hards anymore—everyone was talking about it. The trailer had set the internet on fire: the action, the Joker, the legacy of the first film. Add in the massive hit that Superman had become, and this sequel was getting the kind of attention money can’t buy.
Captain America: The Winter Soldier had opened just a week earlier and was killing it. Marvel had bounced back strong after the underwhelming Thor 2—critics loved it, audiences even more so. It pulled in $250 million globally in its first weekend.
Fast & Furious 6 was slated for a late‑May release, so The Dark Knight would land right between the two. I wasn’t worried about the box office; it wouldn’t match Superman, and it might even earn less than the first film if the worst‑case scenarios played out. But one thing was certain: the movie would be just as big culturally as it had been in my previous life.
The car eased to a stop in front of the Palais‑Royal, and I looked out the window with renewed interest. I hadn’t realized they used this place for fashion shows. A red carpet stretched across the courtyard’s worn stones, lined with velvet ropes and flanked by a crowd of shouting photographers and murmuring fashionistas.
Too bad Margot couldn't be here.
The door opened, and I stepped out.
Flashbulbs burst like fireworks. Voices rose. Cameras clicked. I adjusted my jacket, straightened my cuff links, and started walking.
“Mon dieu—c’est Monsieur Adler!”
“Daniel! Daniel Adler!”
French reporters surged toward the ropes.
“Est‑il vrai que vous travaillez avec un réalisateur français ?” one shouted.
What the—? I don’t speak French.
“Êtes‑vous ami avec Monsieur Lacroix ?” another asked.
I smiled, offered a polite nod, and kept walking.
Inside the grand entry hall, the noise dulled instantly behind thick stone walls.
And there he was: Filipe Lacroix, the man whose guest I was—tall, rail‑thin, wearing an obsidian‑black suit with a collar that flared like something out of The Hunger Games. A dramatic man, exactly as expected.
“Ah! Monsieur Adler!” he beamed, striding toward me with both hands raised, his French accent thick and charming. “Welcome, welcome. It is… how you say—ah, my pleasure. You look—how do you Americans say? Très sharp, yes?”
“Thank you for the invitation,” I said, offering my hand. He ignored it entirely and instead air‑kissed near both cheeks. Of course.
“I am excited for you,” he said, lowering his voice as he glanced around the room. “There are people here… they wish to meet you. People interested in your… how do you say… rising star, yes?”
Before I could reply, he leaned in closer, whispering, “And the other matter, of course it is happening upstairs.”
He slipped something into my hand: a small red card, its edges trimmed in gold leaf.
“You may go there at any time,” he added softly. “Show this.”
I looked down at the card, turned it over once between my fingers, then met his eyes. “I look forward to it,” I said.
He smiled. “Bon. Now… enjoy the show. And afterward, perhaps you’ll see why Paris is still the center of real power.”
I slid the card into my inner pocket, gave a small nod, and watched him greet another guest.
=====
I stepped into the VIP area. The bar gleamed under warm lighting, framed by small clusters of guests speaking in low voices. Beyond a set of sheer curtains, the fashion show was already underway—the runway’s soft glow filtering through the folds. Rows of immaculately dressed spectators encircled the catwalk.
I approached the bar and leaned against it, scanning the line of golden bottles while ordering something non‑alcoholic. Before the bartender could turn away, a voice chimed in beside me.
“You’re not going to buy me a drink?”
I turned, a smile already forming.
“Of course,” I said smoothly. “A Vesper martini for my friend here.”
“Oui, monsieur,” the bartender replied, reaching for the gin.
“Adler,” I added, turning toward her with a mock‑serious tone. “Daniel Adler.”
She laughed—a warm, melodic sound—then caught herself and raised an amused eyebrow.
“Joanna Sterling,” she said, extending a hand.
The martini arrived, and she took the glass. I lifted my own drink. We each took a sip and, as if on cue, broke into laughter.
“Living out your Bond fantasies now, Jo?” I asked, taking a moment to appreciate her. The violet gown suited her perfectly, and her makeup was sharp yet minimal. She looked radiant.
She shrugged, grinning. “This whole place has that feel, doesn’t it?”
I chuckled. “Oh, you have no idea.”
Joanna tilted her head. “Come on, let’s take a walk. I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”
We strolled through an exit into the garden. A few guests wandered here and there, most too engrossed in their own conversations to notice us.
“So,” I said, hands in my pockets, “I heard from Jon that you took the Grammy loss pretty hard.”
Joanna sighed, gazing ahead. “No I mean, yes, I did. I put a lot into that album, you know? Everyone said it was great critics, fans, even people I never expected to care. And then …”
“You got snubbed,” I finished gently.
She exhaled. “Yeah.”
“Well, you still won Best Song. And let’s be real: two Grammys in the first four years of your career? Not bad, Jo.”
She flashed a playful smirk. “Says the man who won two Oscars in one night.”
I smiled and shrugged.
We continued walking through the garden, catching up; after all, we hadn’t seen each other in a while.
After a while, we found ourselves back inside, making our presence known at the main show. The room was a masterpiece of opulence: marble floors, gilded accents, and a ceiling that seemed to rise endlessly above us, painted with shadowy frescoes and illuminated by chandeliers the size of small cars.
A staff member nodded and motioned us toward the front row. Two seat‑fillers rose and slipped away as Joanna and I reached our reserved spots. Just as we settled in, I glanced to my right and locked eyes with a very familiar and very large figure grinning at me.
“Daniel!” boomed the unmistakable voice.
“Vin?” I replied, surprised.
Vin Diesel stood, pulling me into a hug. I patted his back with a laugh, then turned to Joanna.
“My friend Joanna,” I said, gesturing toward her.
Vin shook her hand, smiling. “Of course. Michelle loves your music. She plays it all the time—especially that song… uh, ‘Hearts Don’t Hide,’ right?”
Joanna’s face lit up. “Thank you, Mr. Diesel.”
“Call me Vin. A friend of Daniel’s is family,” he said warmly.
He leaned over to me with a grin. “It’s been, what, six months? You’ve been flaking on my parties.”
I chuckled. “You know how it is—I’ve been busy.”
“Oh, I saw how busy,” Vin said, laughing. “Two Oscars? Come on, kid—leave some for the rest of us.”
I don’t think you’ll win one, Vin.
Lowering his voice, he asked, “So Fast 7. You’re still in, right?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know, Vin. I’m kind of… overbooked right now.”
Vin gave me a mock scowl. “Big man now, leaving the family behind?”
“Not like that,” I said, raising my hands. “I’m just legitimately buried in work. But,” I added, “I do have some ideas for the seventh one. Maybe, if you get me a co‑writer, we can make something happen—lighten the load a bit.”
Vin clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you want, brother.”
“How many movies are you planning to make, anyway?” Joanna asked.
Vin leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, eyes twinkling. “As long as the people keep asking for them—that’s what it’s all about.”
Then he turned to me. “Riddick, Danny. We’ve gotta do Riddick. I’ve been talking to folks—the studio’s warming up to it. Everyone’s excited, especially knowing you’re writing.”
I lowered my voice. “Well, I’ve got good news.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been working on it all year—slowly, here and there. I should have a draft finished by December.”
Vin’s face lit up like a kid at Christmas. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all month.”
The lights dimmed, the music shifted, and a model stepped onto the runway. She was beautiful, yes, but impossibly thin—legs like reeds swaying in the wind, expression blank and distant. The next model looked even more ghost‑like, as though she hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe she hadn’t.
I leaned toward Joanna. “Those poor women must be starving themselves.”
Joanna whispered back, “Honestly, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at.”
“Here watch.” I waited until a model I actually recognized appeared. Fernanda; Haley had mentioned her once. With exaggerated seriousness—and my best Mugatu impression—I leaned back and declared,
“Fernanda is so hot right now.”
A few people behind us and even Vin nodded in agreement.
“Good eye, Mr. Adler. She’s everywhere this season.” someone said from behind us.
Joanna turned, eyebrows raised. “Did you just…?”
“Mugatu from Zoolander. Yup.”
I lowered my voice. “Look—half these people are actual fashion insiders. The rest are rich hacks who couldn’t tell a textile from a tablecloth. Speak with enough confidence and nonsense, and they’ll think you’re a genius.”
Joanna smirked. “No way.”
“Try it.”
She turned to a nearby couple in conversation and slowly joined in and soon she began saying things like, “We’re witnessing the resurrection of derelict chic. It’s so raw, so visceral. I feel like I’m being skinned emotionally.”
It worked. The couple nodded sagely.
I joined in too having some fun. Good thing the real experts weren’t listening.
Joanna whispered, still fighting giggles, “This is so fun.”
I checked my watch, then looked at her. “So you want to live out that Bond fantasy you mentioned?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you have in mind?”
I stood and offered my hand. “Follow me.”
Turning back to Vin and the others we’d been quietly fooling, I gave a charming smile. “Always a pleasure.”
Vin grinned. “Take it easy, Daniel.”
We moved into a quieter corridor of the Palais‑Royal. The hum of the show faded behind us, replaced by the hush of velvet‑draped halls and antique chandeliers.
Joanna glanced around, amused. “Okay, seriously where are we going?”
“We’re almost there,” I said, guiding her toward a staircase hidden behind a large tapestry.
Two men in black suits—both visibly armed—stood at the base. Joanna slowed. “Daniel,” she whispered, “I really don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”
One guard stepped forward—until I produced the red‑and‑gold card Lacroix had given me. They stiffened, then nodded. “Right this way, Monsieur Adler.”
Joanna blinked. “What is going on?”
“Remember that ugly vase Margot bought by accident?”
“The one you wouldn’t let anyone breathe near?” she said.
“Yeah, that one.” I started up the stairs. “Turns out it’s a very rare antique even the fundraiser we bought it from didn’t realize how rare it was. I found a chance to unload it tonight. Secret auction, very hush‑hush—totally off the books.”
“You’re selling it here?”
“Yep. It’s not exactly legal, so—keep it quiet.”
We reached a pair of heavy, gilded double doors. A woman in a black gown greeted us with a crisp nod. “Monsieur Adler, your item is up next. Would you like to watch the auction from the observation room?”
“Yes, thank you,” I replied smoothly.
She led us down a short hallway into a dimly lit chamber. One wall was made entirely of one‑way glass, revealing a circular room below—a miniature opera hall of sorts.
The guests inside were … eclectic, to say the least.
A man in traditional Arab robes adjusted his cuff links while an assistant whispered in his ear. A sharply dressed Indian businessman sipped espresso. An East Asian woman tapped notes into her phone. In the corner, a man wearing a ten‑gallon hat and diamond‑studded boots lounged comfortably—Henry Morgan, my billionaire Texan friend.
“They look like Bond villains,” Joanna whispered.
“They probably are,” I whispered back.
A hush fell as the auctioneer stepped forward and tapped the microphone twice.
“Lot seventeen,” he announced. “A Bronze‑Age Mycenaean ceremonial vase in immaculate condition. Starting bid: one point two million euros.”
A ripple of anticipation ran through me.
Joanna leaned closer, eyes narrowed at the display. “Daniel, are you sure this is just an antiques auction?”
I gave her a reassuring look. “Yeah, I’m sure. What else would it be?”
“I don’t know,” she muttered, glancing around. “This feels like that auction scene from Taken.”
“What? No, come on.”
She leveled a flat stare at me. “Really? You don’t think secret, shady auctions actually exist?”
“I mean…sure, but this isn’t one of them.”
“If they bring out a human next,” she murmured, “I’m blaming you.”
Her words made me pause. “Okay…now you’re making me worry.”
Down below, one of the Indian businessmen raised his paddle.
“One‑point‑three,” the auctioneer announced smoothly.
Another paddle—this time from the Arab collector. “One‑point‑five.”
Then the quick‑fire bids began.
“One‑point‑seven. One‑point‑nine. Two million.”
“Two‑point‑five.”
“Three million.”
Whispers rippled through the crowd, but the paddles kept shooting up. A bidding war had broken out between the Texan and the East Asian woman, and the numbers climbed fast.
“Four‑point‑two. Four‑point‑six. Five. Five‑point‑eight.”
Joanna leaned forward, incredulous. “My God.”
“Fuck yeah Keep going,” I said, watching the vase grow more valuable by the second.
“Six million,” the auctioneer called. “Six‑point‑five. Six‑point‑eight. Seven.”
Joanna gasped as the Texan lazily raised his paddle again. “Seven‑point‑four.”
“One last bid, folks,” the auctioneer said, eyes sweeping the room. “Seven‑point‑eight million euros.”
Silence.
Then—gavel slam.
“Sold.”
I exhaled. “Damn.”
Joanna turned to me, wide‑eyed. “Nearly eight million for that piece of crap? These people are insane.”
“Rich and insane,” I corrected.
She nodded toward the door. “Okay, let’s get out of here before anything resembling a Taken plot happens.”
“You’re right. Let’s go.”
We headed downstairs and ran straight into Lacroix. He wore that same smile somewhere between gracious and vaguely sinister and extended his hand.
“The funds will be transferred today, Monsieur Adler,” he said smoothly. “I hope you’ll think of me next time you require… services of this nature …or any other.”
I shook his hand. “Of course. Much appreciated.”
As we walked away, Joanna leaned in. “That guy is so shady.”
I didn’t argue. “Let’s pretend he’s just eccentric—and French.”
We threaded through the crowd toward the exit. I was about to suggest the little bistro Joanna kept raving about when I spotted Vin standing off to the side. He looked… off—sad, maybe even shaken.
I approached. “Vin. Hey, man. What’s up?”
He lifted his eyes, heavy with worry. “It’s Paul,” he said. “He had an accident.”
My stomach dropped. My breath caught in my throat. It finally happened.
But then Vin sighed and added, “The press tour won’t be the same now.”
What the hell?
I blinked, anger rising. “Press tour? Vin, what the hell—your friend just died and you’re talking about the press tour?”
Vin stared at me. “Died? Who said he died?”
“You did!” I snapped, confused and furious.
Joanna stood beside us, visibly perplexed.
Vin frowned. “No, I said he had an accident. He broke both his legs falling off his balcony. Why would you think he was dead?”
“You said he had an accident!” I repeated.
“That doesn’t mean dead,” Vin shot back.
Joanna finally lost it and laughed behind me.
I dragged a hand down my face. “Jesus. Sorry I thought you meant something worse.”
“What I said still doesn’t mean he died,” Vin huffed.
We bickered for another minute, Joanna snickering the whole time.
It was embarrassing but I was relieved. Paul was hurt, sure, but he was alive, and I hoped he’d stay that way.
Comments
Kraxis93
Now the plot of Final Destination plays out 😅
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
