336-340

Chapter 336: Real Stars 

Hearing this, Dunn—half-drunk—snaps halfway sober, eyes wide as he stares at Leonardo. “You know her? Who? Jenny Jane?” 

Leonardo rolls his eyes. “Who else could it be?” 

Dunn’s still reeling. “Jenny Jane from Fire Phoenix Agency?” 

Leonardo huffs, exasperated. “How many times do I have to say it? Yes, Jenny Jane—I know her!” 

Dunn sucks in a breath, gears turning in his head. 

Rose Byrne, still clueless, pipes up innocently. “How do you know her? Did that crazy woman hand you her card too?” 

“Uh… sort of,” Leonardo mumbles, dodging the question. Some things he’d rather not spell out for Rose. 

Dunn frowns. “Spit it out already! Did you work with her or not?” 

“Work with her?” Rose’s eyes widen as it clicks. Leonardo’s “knowing” someone isn’t just about swapping business cards. 

Leonardo squirms. “We’ve got a confidentiality agreement. Both sides have to protect privacy…” 

“Enough!” Dunn cuts him off, annoyed. “What, you think I’m gonna blab your secrets?” 

Rose nods eagerly. “Yeah, exactly!” 

Leonardo hesitates. “It’s not about leaking—it’s a matter of principle.” 

Dunn’s temper flares. He pauses, then softens his tone. “Rose, step out for a sec. We need to talk alone.” 

Rose pouts, giving Dunn a pitiful, pleading look. 

“Be good, go on,” Dunn says, patting her thigh. She sulks off, and he lowers his voice. “Don’t tell me you actually dropped a million bucks!” 

Leonardo shakes his head. “A million’s just the rumor. Not that much. I’ve gone to Jenny twice—once for $200,000, once for $500,000.” 

Dunn furrows his brow. “That’s still a chunk! I thought she was a scammer… Wait, so they’re really stars?” 

“Uh…” Leonardo pauses, then nods firmly. “Yeah, stars!” 

Dunn’s baffled. “Stars? They’ve all got their own agents. Why would they tie themselves to some shady third-party outfit like that?” 

Leonardo’s expression shifts. He decides there’s no point hiding it from Dunn and leans in, whispering, “Not stars from our circle.” 

Dunn’s eyes widen. “Singers from the music scene?” 

“Nope.” 

“Models from fashion?” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Famous TV hosts?” 

“Not that either.” 

Dunn chuckles. “What, some hotshot writer from the literary world?” 

“No way!” Leonardo rolls his eyes, then leans closer, voice barely audible. “Sports stars!” 

“What?” 

Dunn blinks, then it hits him like a lightning bolt. Of course! 

Sports stars—that explains it! 

The U.S. is the world’s top sports nation. Its annual sports revenue dwarfs Hollywood’s. 

In terms of fame and exposure, plenty of athletes match Hollywood celebs blow for blow. 

But income? That’s where the gap widens. 

Especially for female athletes—it’s a global issue. Low pay, low status. Sports like swimming, track, shooting, or high jump demand years of training from childhood, and the payoff rarely matches the sacrifice. 

Girls give up their youth, their childhoods, and even if they snag a world title, steady career cash is a pipe dream. Street performing, waitressing in clubs, or even dipping into adult films—those are the options. 

Dunn takes a deep breath. “When’d this happen?” 

“Last summer… or fall, maybe. After the Olympics,” Leonardo says, a sleazy grin creeping onto his face. 

Now it’s crystal clear to Dunn. 

Even with feminism on the rise, women in sports still get the short end. Especially in niche events, survival’s tough. 

The Olympics give them a spotlight, a brief “star” moment. Then Fire Phoenix Agency swoops in, peddling them to Hollywood’s elite for some quick cash. 

They need more—more money, more security—and they’ve got reputations to protect. It’s safer, more discreet this way. 

Athletes skew young, with thin networks. To bridge into Hollywood, they lean on bottom-tier outfits like Fire Phoenix. 

It’s a raw deal, especially for women who’ve poured their lives into representing their country. 

Dunn sighs, shaking his head. “Give me the details. That $200,000 gig?” 

Leonardo slips into bad-boy mode, warming up to the topic. He keeps his voice low but paints a vivid picture. “Two swimmers… well, synchronized swimmers. A duo. One was Alison Barto—something. Forgot her full name. Anyway, killer body, super flexible, tons of tricks. Pure bliss.” 

Dunn’s mouth twitches. After a beat, he says, “$200,000… not too steep. After the cut, they’re splitting maybe $70,000 or $80,000 each. Not a ton.” 

Leonardo shrugs. “They didn’t medal at the Olympics, so their rate’s lower. Still, $80,000 each? That’s solid—could buy a fancy Cadillac!” 

Dunn smirks. “And the $500,000 one… she medaled?” 

“Medaled? More than that!” Leonardo’s face lights up with pride and excitement. “Gold! Olympic gold! I remember her name—Misty Hyman. Think it was 200-meter butterfly?” 

Dunn laughs, smacking him. “2000-meter butterfly? You trying to kill someone? 200’s plenty!” 

“Oh, right, whatever,” Leonardo chuckles, swaying smugly. “Point is, Olympic champ!” 

“Sounds like you were thrilled.” 

“Oh, man, you have no idea…” Leonardo’s voice drops to a wicked whisper, his grin turning devilish. “When she went full cowgirl—speed, power… I swear, I’ve never felt that good!” 

Athletes—stamina, strength, physique—blow actors and models out of the water, especially swimmers. 

Dunn shakes his head, then gets mad. “That Jenny Jane’s been playing me! $500,000 for an Olympic champ, and she quoted me a million? Thinks I’m a sucker?” 

Leonardo, clearly chummy with Jenny, defends her. “It’s not the same. Prices… they shift by industry.” 

“You know this?” Dunn narrows his eyes. 

Leonardo grins slyly. “Not a ton, but enough to school you. Guess which sport’s girls are the hottest draw for guys?” 

Dunn blinks, staying quiet. 

Leonardo answers himself. “Yup—gymnastics!” 

“Oh.” Dunn nods. “Makes sense. Especially artistic gymnastics. That Russian, Khorkina? I’m a huge fan.” 

“Khorkina?” Leonardo scoffs. “Forget it. She’s Russia’s national treasure—Putin’s VIP guest.” 

Dunn laughs. “You’ve done your homework.” 

“Damn right. First time with Jenny, I wanted a couple gymnasts.” 

“Why didn’t it happen?” 

Leonardo sighs, deflated. “Most of them are minors. They retire young, lose the glow, and their price tanks.” 

Dunn’s face darkens. 

In the U.S., “paid” dates sit in a legal gray zone—mostly ignored since it’s hard to pin down. But minors? That flips everything. 

Even in Nevada, where cash-for-company is legal, touching that line’s a hard no. 

Dunn nods firmly. “Leo, you did the right thing.” 

Leonardo sighs again. “Right thing? Doesn’t help those girls much.” 

Dunn says coolly, “We can’t control that. But as public figures, we don’t break the law—ever.” 

Leonardo shakes his head. “I’m not talking about the deals. I’ve chatted with Jenny. Those girls—sixteen, seventeen—even if they’re minors, they’re grown enough. What chills me is the younger ones, the worse stuff.” 

“Huh? What’re you saying?” 

Dunn’s brow tightens. 

Leonardo’s face stiffens, voice flat. “I don’t know the details, but Jenny’s got gymnast clients—she knows more. We talked, and… man, Dunn, you realize? Shape coaches, fitness trainers, technique coaches, even team doctors—almost all guys training these little athletes. You know what that means?” 

“No way, right?” 

Dunn’s face turns grim. 

His voice wavers. Deep down, he doesn’t even believe himself. 

Chapter 337: I’m Gonna Be a Savior! 

They say Hollywood’s dirt only comes second to the White House.  

Dunn doesn’t know much about the White House, but he knows Hollywood inside out.  

And it’s not as filthy as people think!  

Sure, it’s all glitz and glamour, full of secrets—booze, gambling, drugs, you name it. The unspoken “casting couch” deals? Yeah, they’re real.  

But the Hollywood of the new century isn’t the same as it was fifty years ago. These days, those deals are more about mutual consent—both sides getting what they want. It might raise some moral eyebrows, but it’s not exactly illegal.  

Of course, there are outliers like Harvey Weinstein. That guy’s a creep—used his power to force himself on plenty of actresses. Still, even a scumbag like him sticks to one hard line: no minors.  

Hollywood bigwigs usually play it safe—Michael Jackson and Woody Allen’s scandals left too deep a scar.  

But sports?  

Dunn can say with confidence: the sports world is a hundred, a thousand, a million times dirtier than entertainment!  

Fixed games, doped-up athletes, crooked refs, shady gambling ties, corruption, power grabs—it’s all there!  

And when it comes to women? Disgusting. Some of these creeps even target minors—girls as young as six or seven!  

Dunn’s seen the headlines, so Leonardo’s words hit him hard.  

The U.S. gymnastics sex abuse scandal is horrifying.  

Hundreds of girls—some just kids—assaulted. Male coaches, male doctors preying on young athletes. Even female coaches got in on it!  

A lot of these creeps were big names—top coaches, star doctors who’d done big things for U.S. sports. When it all came out, the U.S. Gymnastics Association and the broader sports council pulled strings to bury it.  

Victims grew up and fought back, but they hit walls—official or unofficial. Cases got hushed up, and the punishments? Slaps on the wrist.  

It wasn’t until 2016, after seven years of digging by the Indianapolis Star, that the full mess spilled out. They reported at least 368 American gymnasts abused by coaches or staff—half of them under 10 at the time.  

That bombshell finally ripped the mask off the “Dream Team” of women’s gymnastics.  

It didn’t stop there—it spread across the Western sports world. English Premier League teams like Chelsea and Manchester City had creeps targeting young boys.  

U.S. swimming had its own gut-wrenching scandals.  

Tennis, boxing—even FIFA’s saintly president Blatter got caught groping female players at award ceremonies.  

In his second shot at life, Dunn never saw himself as a hero. The world’s too full of ugly crap for him to fix.  

But U.S. gymnastics? That hits close to home.  

Why? The age.  

These girls start training at five or six, hitting the stage at fifteen or sixteen. They give up their whole childhood for a dream, only to face this kind of brutality. It’s heartbreaking.  

Dunn never planned to save the world. Take 9/11—he’s not lifting a finger to stop it. He’ll just watch it unfold, even if it means thousands of U.S. soldiers die and the Middle East burns.  

What’s that got to do with him?  

He’s living it up in America, carefree.  

He might even cash in on the chaos.  

But these gymnasts? They’re different. Innocent, naive kids—most haven’t even hit puberty—preyed on by monsters.  

This isn’t just an industry or race or border issue. It’s a crime against humanity!  

Any decent, flesh-and-blood person hearing this would be furious—wanting to tear those animals apart!  

Even Leonardo DiCaprio—cynical, smirky Leonardo—gets dead serious talking about it.  

…  

The heavy topic kills the vibe between Leonardo and Dunn.  

Rose sees Dunn’s dark mood and slides over, settling into his lap. She hooks her arms around his neck, biting her lip. “How about… I call Cameron Diaz over? She could help you unwind.”  

Dunn shakes his head with a small smile. “Nah. This shoot’s been rough, and dealing with Daniel Day-Lewis is a nightmare. Let’s not bug her—maybe later.”  

Rose nestles in closer, cautious. “What were you guys talking about? You look so down.”  

Dunn lets out a long sigh. “Rose, tell me—when someone’s got enough money, enough clout, what’s left to chase?”  

Rose grins. “Talking about yourself?”  

Dunn nods. “Kinda, yeah!”  

She teases, “Aren’t you… always chasing new women?”  

“Cough… that doesn’t count!”  

“Didn’t you say your Hollywood career’s just getting started?” She blinks, skeptical.  

Dunn shrugs. “It is, but… it’s on track. Ruling Hollywood’s just a matter of time.”  

Rose giggles, covering her mouth. “Well, great! Aren’t you pushing feminism? That’s a huge, long-term gig. Could be your big goal.”  

“Feminism?”  

Dunn raises an eyebrow. He’s a macho guy—feminism’s more a tool for him than a cause.  

Rose, clueless to his real take, perks up. “Yeah, feminism! Such a cool direction. Like Martin Luther King—he’s a hero worldwide! Sure, his personal life was messy, but his big image? That overshadows the flaws.”  

Dunn’s eyes light up. Now that’s interesting.  

Martin Luther King, a pastor, did worse stuff than Dunn in private.  

With media getting sharper, Dunn’s antics won’t stay hidden forever.  

But if he hops on the feminism train—political correctness in full glory—like MLK waved the “racial equality” flag, Dunn could wave “gender equality.” His personal slip-ups? They’d just be shadows in the sunlight.  

“That’s a damn good idea!”  

Dunn can’t help but praise her.  

Rose beams, pleased. “Right? If you pull it off, your image would shine. Oh—I hear Harvey Weinstein’s awful. You could take him down first!”  

“Take down Harvey?” Dunn gives a wry laugh. “Not that easy! Wait—Harvey Weinstein… yeah!”  

A lightbulb goes off, and it all clicks!  

He’s been wrestling with whether to personally blow the lid off the gymnastics scandal.  

It’s a good fight.  

But it means going up against the U.S. Gymnastics Association, the sports council—maybe even bigger vested interests. It won’t be a cakewalk.  

In his past life, this mess had whispers for 20 years before it broke wide open.  

But Harvey’s name flips a switch. Dunn’s mind’s made up.  

He’s gonna play savior!  

He’ll clean up gymnastics—give those little girls a safe, green space to train!  

“Damn right! I’m taking these scumbags down together!”  

Dunn’s eyes blaze with confidence.  

Rose stares, shocked. “Dunn, what’re you talking about?”  

He grins mysteriously. “You wouldn’t get it.”  

Harvey Weinstein’s crossed Dunn too many times—he’s been itching to deal with him.  

But taking Harvey out? That’s three big hurdles.  

With Dunn’s current juice, he can’t clear even one.  

First hurdle: Harvey runs Miramax, a Disney subsidiary. He’s got Disney’s shield.  

Second: He’s Jewish, with deep ties in the industry—big shots, especially in the Academy, where his network’s unmatched.  

Third: He’s Hollywood elite. A guy like that’s the industry’s face. Exposing him slaps Hollywood itself—toughest nut to crack.  

So dropping Harvey isn’t like crushing some nobody like Joe Roth. It needs the perfect moment.  

A few casual words with Rose, and Dunn’s sharp enough to spot it.  

That moment? The U.S. gymnastics scandal!  

When you can’t hit head-on, take a page from WWII Germany—skirt the Maginot Line, flank ‘em, and blitz through before they know what’s up!  

Dunn laughs loud, his funk gone. He pulls Rose close, plants a kiss. “Babe, you’re brilliant!”  

Rose blinks, confused but flattered. “What? I don’t even get it!”  

“Haha, you don’t need to!” Dunn chuckles, then winks slyly, voice low. “Wanna hit the bedroom?”  

Rose blushes, biting her lip. “You sure we don’t need to call Miss Cameron Diaz too?”  

“Nope. Just you—I’m gonna spoil you good. Your reward!”  

Dunn scoops her up in his arms and heads for the bedroom. 

Chapter 338: Justice Under Heaven is One Family 

Back in Los Angeles, Dunn called his assistant George Paxton and David Simon, who was already working at Dunn Films, to a meeting. 

Dunn briefly explained the current state and hidden issues within the American gymnastics world, instantly sparking outrage from David Simon, whose sense of justice was overflowing. As a former crime reporter for the Baltimore Sun, he’d often worked alongside special task forces, practically making him half a cop. Hearing Dunn’s words, he felt a deep connection and a burning hatred for the injustice. 

George Paxton, on the other hand, stayed calm and glanced at Dunn. “So, what’s your plan?” 

“Investigate! Dig to the bottom of it!” Dunn’s face was serious, his tone firm. “Trash like this, worse than animals, has to face legal punishment! Sure, we’re in Hollywood, part of the entertainment world, but justice under heaven is one family! The sports world might ignore their scandals, but I, Dunn, won’t!” 

His righteous words hit David Simon like a wave, stirring something powerful in his chest. He looked at Dunn with both respect and admiration. “I’m in—first one to agree! If this is real, if those people are really preying on girls as young as six or seven, it’s not just a disgrace to sports—it’s a disgrace to the whole country!” 

Dunn nodded solemnly. “Exactly. If these rumors are false, great. But if they’re true, we’ve got to expose every last bit of it! Justice doesn’t vanish; it just gets delayed. Now’s the time—I’m here to make it happen!” 

David Simon was practically buzzing with excitement after hearing Dunn’s resolve. He slapped his chest and said, “Alright, boss, tell me what to do! I’m good at digging up evidence!” 

Dunn raised a hand to calm him down and spoke slowly. “This is a big deal. From what I know, the U.S. Gymnastics Association and a bunch of big shots in the sports world are quietly protecting these people. Investigating this won’t be easy—we’re up against some serious pressure.” 

David Simon smirked coldly. “I don’t buy it. There’s no way evil can thrive on American soil! I love that spirit from Soderbergh’s Erin Brockovich—never compromising. I’ve got that in me too!” 

Dunn waved a hand. “It’s complicated. Spirit alone won’t cut it; we need solid prep. I’m setting up a special investigation team. George, you’re the leader, fully in charge. David, you’re the deputy, handling the nitty-gritty of the investigation.” 

Both George Paxton and David Simon looked stunned. From the sound of it, Dunn was ready to go big! 

Sure enough, Dunn continued in a measured tone. “We can’t rush this—prep has to be thorough. David, you’ve got connections. Bring in a few trustworthy, justice-driven friends. Plus, we’re hiring professional private investigators for the deeper stuff.” 

“Private investigators?” David Simon blinked. “That’s gonna cost a pretty penny, right?” 

Dunn brushed it off with a grand gesture. “Money’s on me! For the sake of those girls’ healthy futures, for the sake of what’s right, what’s a little cash? I’ve already decided—every year, I’m giving this team a million bucks for expenses!” 

George Paxton, who’d been with Dunn for years, barely reacted, but David Simon was trembling with excitement. Funding justice out of his own pocket? That was downright noble! 

In the U.S., undercover investigations happen all the time, but they’re usually backed by solid organizations—government agencies, nonprofits, or media outlets chasing a scoop. Someone like Dunn shelling out his own money for something that didn’t even involve him? That was saint-level stuff. 

Ignoring David Simon’s starry-eyed look, Dunn said steadily, “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right! No half-measures—we hit hard! If we’re in, we take down every last one of those monsters! That means you’ve got to gather as much evidence as possible, talk to as many victims as you can. The bigger the scope, the louder the impact, the stronger the public pressure.” 

David Simon, familiar with investigations, frowned. “If we go that route, it’s not gonna be quick. Could take three years, maybe five.” 

Dunn replied, “That’s the only way to guarantee a knockout blow! If the scope’s too small or the data’s weak, they’ll have room to wiggle out or cover their tracks. Like I said, if I’m stepping in, I’m rooting out every tumor in gymnastics! We’re giving the kids their clean slate back!” 

George Paxton suddenly chimed in, “Women’s rights groups have a lot of clout and reach across industries. If we can get their support, our odds go way up.” 

Dunn nodded. “Good call. I’ll reach out to the feminist alliance. You two start building the team. Be careful, though—don’t tip anyone off.” 

David Simon gave a firm nod. “Got it!” 

After the short meeting, Dunn kept George Paxton behind. David Simon’s sense of justice was strong, but George was his real right-hand man. 

“George, this investigation might get dangerous,” Dunn said, his brow furrowed. 

George cracked a joke. “Guess we’ll need to hire some ex-special forces bodyguards for the team, huh?” 

Dunn chuckled, then waved a hand and lowered his voice. “If this works, the impact’ll be huge. It’ll boost our Hollywood career too. But if we expose the puppet masters and they strike back…” 

George replied coolly, “Simple. If it succeeds, Dunn Films gets the credit. If it flops, it’s got nothing to do with you.” 

Dunn nodded, satisfied, and patted his shoulder. “Just like always—stay careful!” 

By April, the summer movie season was kicking off, and the promotional storm was in full swing. Leading the pack were Disney’s Pearl Harbor and Dunn Films’ Unsinking! 

Pearl Harbor had been greenlit first and locked in its release date ages ago—May 25th for North America. Universal Pictures, handling distribution for Unsinking, had suggested to Dunn that there was no need to butt heads with Disney. Pearl Harbor was coming in hot, so why not dodge it? Even Universal’s own blockbuster The Mummy Returns had shifted to May 4th to avoid the clash. 

Dunn flat-out refused. What kind of international joke was that? Unsinking was directed by James Cameron with a $200 million budget! Give way to Michael Bay’s messy, half-baked Pearl Harbor? No chance! 

It had to be a head-on showdown! 

And so, Hollywood’s most explosive face-off was born. Disney’s Pearl Harbor hit theaters on May 25th, and Dunn Films’ Unsinking? Same day—May 25th! 

Point versus point! Mars crashing into Earth! If you’re gonna fight, fight to the finish! 

This release schedule basically screamed to all of Hollywood that last year’s “friendly reconciliation” between Dunn and Michael Eisner was nothing but a farce. 

Chapter 339: Let’s Play Big! 

In Hollywood, every movie comes with a unique and comprehensive marketing strategy, one that has to be nailed down right from the planning stage. 

The moment a film kicks into gear, its marketing campaign is already rolling. Depending on the production phase, the tactics to build hype shift and evolve. 

Pearl Harbor got its start in March 1999. Back then, Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace hadn’t hit theaters yet, Spider-Man wasn’t even in production, and the only blockbuster raking in big bucks at the box office was Titanic. Disney aimed high, and producer Jerry Bruckheimer was brimming with ambition. They set their sights squarely on Titanic. Bruckheimer teamed up with Michael Bay, determined to recreate Titanic’s magic for Disney. 

So, from the get-go, Pearl Harbor mirrored Titanic in every way possible. Titanic starred American heartthrob Leonardo DiCaprio? Pearl Harbor went with the equally dashing Ben Affleck. Titanic had British actress Kate Winslet? Pearl Harbor followed suit with British star Kate Beckinsale. Titanic wove a heart-wrenching love story into a disaster flick? Pearl Harbor copied that formula, blending war and romance. Titanic boasted grand visuals, stunning effects, and the unforgettable sinking of the ship for a jaw-dropping spectacle? Pearl Harbor went big too, with a 40-minute Pearl Harbor attack sequence designed to blow audiences away with its audiovisual punch. 

Titanic was a polished production, costing $150 million, complete with a massive water tank built just for the film. Pearl Harbor rented that same tank, clocking in at $140 million—not far off in terms of budget. Titanic ran 194 minutes, pushing the limits of a commercial blockbuster. Pearl Harbor stretched to 183 minutes, with Bruckheimer and Bay betting they could test audiences’ patience just as well. Heck, during filming, the movie wasn’t even called Pearl Harbor—it went by Tennessee, a nod to its Titanic counterpart. 

In the promo phase, the studio didn’t shy away from telling the world they were gunning to make a second Titanic. Right now, Pearl Harbor is Disney’s golden child—especially after last year, when Disney’s movie slate took a beating and became the industry’s laughingstock. They’re dead-set on making Pearl Harbor a hit. 

Backed by a media titan like Disney, the film’s marketing blitz is unprecedented, with a promo budget of $70 million. That figure feels a lot meatier than Spider-Man’s $100 million campaign, especially since Disney’s own assets—like ABC, Disneyland, and their consumer products—pitch in at rock-bottom rates or even for free. 

All through April, Hollywood’s marketing scene didn’t play out like the pros predicted—no neck-and-neck race between Pearl Harbor and Never Sinking. It’s been Pearl Harbor dominating the field. Never Sinking’s promo budget? Just $50 million. And after Universal Pictures got split off from the Vivendi Group, they’re a standalone movie company with no cross-channel support to lean on. 

Meanwhile, Pearl Harbor? Newspapers, radio, TV, posters, reviews, online buzz, fan meetups, college seminars—you name it, they’ve tapped it. Through Disney’s connections, they’ve hit every possible angle for movie promotion. This campaign’s a full-on carpet bombing. 

The onslaught has Universal, the distributor for Never Sinking, sweating bullets. Per their deal with Dunn Films, Universal’s on the hook for all marketing costs—unless Dunn steps in with extra cash to boost the effort. Right now, Pearl Harbor’s hype is drowning out Never Sinking. Universal’s Ron Meyer even called Dunn personally, begging for financial help. If this keeps up, Pearl Harbor’s buzz will crush Never Sinking flat. 

Sure, Never Sinking doesn’t have a James Cameron-level genius in the director’s chair, but Pearl Harbor’s got Bruckheimer and Bay—a powerhouse duo with serious clout. If Dunn doesn’t act fast, moviegoers will flock to the better-hyped Pearl Harbor without a second thought. 

Ron Meyer’s plea? Dunn shot it down cold. He didn’t even blink at the situation—instead, he’s off working on post-production for A Beautiful Mind. “It’s just kids playing house,” he said dismissively. “If Disney and Jerry Bruckheimer want to make a fuss, let ‘em!” 

That cocky reply nearly choked Meyer. Disney’s production chief Richard Cook, Bruckheimer, and Bay? Together, they’re over 150 years old—and Dunn’s calling it “kids playing house”? The guy’s got some nerve! 

Dunn brushed it off, cool as ever. “Marketing’s got a tipping point. Push it too far, and it’s poison.” 

What’s marketing, anyway? Philip Kotler defines it as a social and managerial process where individuals and groups create, offer, and exchange products or value to get what they want. Modern marketing isn’t just old-school sales—it’s about production, selling, and meeting customer needs. The outcome hinges heavily on the product itself. 

In other words, the movie’s quality is what matters most. 

Pearl Harbor’s marketing screams comparisons to Titanic, the gold standard of blockbusters. Michael Bay’s even bragged about smashing Titanic’s box office records. But can the two films even be compared? 

Titanic nailed its love story, with the shipwreck as a backdrop that amplified the visuals without stealing the show. It drove the plot forward, making the characters’ fates gripping and unforgettable—a tragic romance that stuck with you. Pearl Harbor, though? It wobbles. One minute it’s a love story, the next it’s a war flick, and the two don’t mesh. Then it shoehorns in a hefty dose of bromance that feels out of place. The shaky focus scatters the plot, leaving audiences unable to build up emotion for a big payoff. 

In its past life, Pearl Harbor actually did okay overseas—some even compared it to Black Hawk Down, since they share a producer. But in North America? Total disaster. Critics tore it apart, audiences trashed it, and the backlash hit Disney so hard their stock took a dive. Why? The overblown hype treated viewers like idiots. 

A movie like that wants to stand toe-to-toe with Titanic? Break its records? Laughable. 

Furious critics hit Pearl Harbor with brutal sarcasm. At the next Razzies, it snagged nominations for Worst Picture, Michael Bay for Worst Director, and Ben Affleck for Worst Actor. So, with that foresight, Dunn’s confidence is unshakable. 

Pearl Harbor riding high right now? Let them keep strutting. Let them puff up even more. When things peak, they crash. 

Once the film hits theaters and audiences see Pearl Harbor for what it really is, they’ll realize the low-key, solid Never Sinking is the real summer opener worth watching. 

… 

Lately, Dunn’s been tied up with A Beautiful Mind’s post-production. On top of that, he’s been working hard to connect with Roy Disney. Back in January, Disney’s number-two guy hinted he’d be open to a meeting someday. Months later, though? Nothing. It’s not that Dunn’s slacking—Roy keeps dodging. 

They’re both sharp enough to know what’s up. Dunn’s got beef with Michael Eisner, Roy’s Eisner’s rival, so the agenda for this potential sit-down is crystal clear. Maybe Roy’s getting old and paranoid, or maybe he’s still holding out hope for Eisner. More likely, he’s waiting to see how Dunn Films stacks up against Disney this summer. 

Last year’s clash in the movie market was intense, but this summer’s showdown will be a whole new level. Besides Pearl Harbor and Never Sinking dropping on the same day, Disney’s $120 million animated flick Atlantis: The Lost Empire is going head-to-head with Mr. & Mrs. Smith. It’s an all-out brawl. 

Stepping out of the editing room, Dunn caught Isla Fisher shaking her head at him. “That old guy still won’t budge?” he asked with a chuckle. 

Isla huffed, “This Disney guy’s such a flake! Didn’t he say he’d meet up when the chance came?” 

“Looks like he’s waiting for the results.” 

“Results?” Isla blinked. “What results?” 

“This summer’s results, obviously!” Dunn smirked, a hint of a sneer creeping in. “Fine, if he’s not in a rush, we’ll play it slow too. Tell West to get the materials ready. This summer, we’re going big!” 

Chapter 340: Mr. Tycoon 

Taylor Swift’s dad works in New York, helping Dunn manage some capital operations. Especially this year, with Dunn making big moves in the stock futures market, Scott Swift has been swamped. 

Little Taylor, meanwhile, is studying and learning music in Los Angeles. Dunn often swings by to hang out with her, and when she’s on break, she loves popping into his company or house to stir things up. She’s met—and knows—pretty much every woman in Dunn’s orbit. 

One weekend morning, Dunn was planning to cuddle up with Rose Byrne and Charlize Theron for a little more fun, but the maid’s voice cut through from outside the door: “Sir, Miss Swift is here!” 

Dunn groaned and dragged himself out of bed. That girl was a total little gremlin. 

Once, when he was in the middle of some morning “exercise” with Nicole Kidman and didn’t come downstairs right away, the wild child stormed up and nearly walked in on an awkward scene. Since then, he’s had to stay on his toes. 

He threw on a robe, didn’t even wash his face, and bolted downstairs. There was little Taylor, cross-legged on the couch, munching on grapes with her little guitar by her side, chatting away with Penelope Cruz like she owned the place. No trace of being a guest—she acted like the princess of the house. 

When she spotted Dunn, her eyes lit up, and she waved a hand. “Hey, Dunn!” 

He sighed, nodding. “Didn’t I tell you not to show up this early?” 

“What, I’m not welcome? You kicking me out?” She didn’t hold back, knowing full well Dunn doted on her. She treated his Beverly Hills estate like her second home. “Did I interrupt your sweet dreams with Rose and Charlie?” 

“Nah,” Dunn brushed it off, then froze, narrowing his eyes at Penelope Cruz. “Did you tell her?” 

Taylor huffed. “I’m not dumb. She didn’t have to say a word!” 

“Huh?” 

“There’s three girlfriends living in this house. When I got here, Penny was working out, so the other two had to be upstairs keeping you company in bed. Simple logic!” She bobbed her head as she laid it out, sounding all proud of her reasoning. 

Dunn’s face went from pale to flushed. Penelope, sitting nearby, was biting her lip to keep from laughing. 

“That little brain of yours—focus it on school and music, not wild guesses. This stuff’s not for your age!” Dunn couldn’t help slipping into dad mode, lecturing her. 

Taylor giggled. “I know, I know. I came to sing for you this time!” 

With that, she hopped up, stuffed the rest of her grapes in her mouth, and grabbed her pink guitar. 

Dunn’s expression softened. No denying it—little Taylor had real musical talent. Her sense of rhythm was spot-on, and her songwriting? Impressive. She’d been a poet since she was tiny, even winning a national junior poetry prize back in the day. 

He walked over, patted her head, and plopped onto the couch with a grin. “Alright, let’s hear it!” 

“If I sing, will you let me join American Idol?” She blinked up at him, eyes wide and curious. 

“American Idol?” Dunn was caught off guard. 

The world’s first music reality competition show—one he’d personally dreamed up—was in the works. Dunn Films’ Dick Clark Productions had finished the early prep and kicked off a big promo campaign. Auditions would start across the U.S. in July, with the show airing next February on a partnered network. 

“Nope, not a good fit for you,” Dunn said after a quick think, shaking his head. 

“What? That’s not fair!” Taylor pouted loudly. 

Dunn explained slowly, “Shows like that… they’re more of a nationwide party. It’s all hype and marketing—not much real music. It wouldn’t help your music path.” 

“What do you mean?” She looked confused. “Didn’t you come up with it?” 

“Yeah, I did…” Dunn shook his head, a little exasperated. “Point is, you’re too young, and you don’t need a fluffy show like that to break out. Got it?” 

She let out a disappointed “Oh.” “So I just can’t join, huh?” 

“Exactly,” Dunn said with a smile and a nod. 

“But I already bragged to my friends about it!” Her face crumpled, tears threatening to spill. 

Dunn was torn between laughing and groaning. “Okay, how’s this? You said ‘join,’ not ‘compete.’ When the finals roll around, I’ll take you to watch the show live!” 

“Whoa, really?” Her mood flipped in an instant, eyes sparkling. 

He gave her a look. “What do you think?” 

She grabbed her guitar and plopped down next to him, beaming. “Deal! Now I’ll sing for you. This is a new song I wrote—‘Mr. Tycoon.’ It’s for you!” 

By then, Charlize Theron and Rose Byrne had come downstairs too. They knew Taylor’s talent—her voice was a treat—and sat down with smiles, ready to listen. 

Dunn was over the moon. Talk about a boost to his ego! This quirky little girl actually wrote a song for him. She knew how to play her cards right. 

“Alright, go for it,” he said, grinning ear to ear. 

Taylor cleared her throat dramatically, gave everyone a serious look like she was about to perform a sacred ritual, then bent over her guitar and started strumming— 

“He’s my Mr. Tycoon, 

Tall and big, handsome and bright, 

No need for proof, no need for much, 

Just a simple joke, 

And you get it all…” 

The melody was straightforward, and with her pre-teen voice still pure and sweet, it sounded lovely. 

Dunn nodded, impressed. She’d come a long way since moving to L.A. Even her lyrics had depth now. 

Charlize, Penelope, and Rose listened with wide eyes, smiling as they soaked it in. 

After a couple of verses, she hit the chorus, her fingers picking up speed on the strings— 

“Oh~~~~ Mr. Tycoon, 

You’re unstoppable, 

Rocking Wall Street, 

Taking on Hollywood, 

Silicon Valley’s investment king, 

You’re my Mr. Tycoon, 

Oh, Mr. Tycoon, 

How much money do you have? 

I don’t know, 

No one knows, 

But I know the women you’ve been with 

Outnumber the cash in your banks, 

Oh-oh-oh-oh~ 

The women you’ve been with 

Outnumber the cash in your banks…” 

The first time through, Dunn thought he’d misheard. By the second, he was dumbfounded—mouth hanging open, eyes nearly popping out. 

What in the world?! 

What kind of lyrics were these? 

Then it hit him. Taylor Swift’s songs were famous for one thing: writing about people. In her past life, her messy love life—cycling through boyfriends—turned into hit songs about every ex, driving them nuts while the world sang along. 

And now, at this tiny age, she’d turned him into a song… 

Charlize and the others exchanged looks, their faces a mix of shock and suppressed laughter. It was hilarious but too awkward to let out. 

Taylor finished, set her guitar down, and grinned proudly. “So? Pretty good, right?” 

Dunn took a deep breath and said firmly, “Sweetie, you can’t write about me!” 

No way. This had to be nipped in the bud. He wasn’t about to let his private life become a global pop anthem. 

She pouted instantly. “Why not?” 

“I’m a public figure. You can’t put my private stuff out there!” His tone was stern. 

She wouldn’t back down. “Why not? That’s tyranny! Besides, I just wrote about your money. What’s private about that?” 

Dunn nearly exploded. Money? He didn’t care about that! Write about his wealth all she wanted—just not the part about his women outnumbering his bank account! If this got out, the world would lose it. 

Penelope stepped in gently. “Taylor, Dunn’s… complicated. You can’t write about him—not today, not ever.” 

“That’s not fair!” Taylor huffed, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed, “You’re all mean! Bullies! I worked so hard on this song, and you don’t even praise me—you scold me! I’m telling my mom… wahhh…” 

“Your mom wouldn’t let you either!” Dunn almost blurted it out, but seeing her cry softened him. He swallowed his words, sighed, and pulled her into a hug. 

She squirmed, pushing at him. “Let go! I hate you! You’re a jerk!” 

Dunn’s head started to ache. When she got like this, it was impossible to deal with her. 

Penelope, quick on her feet, smiled brightly. “Taylor, honey, don’t cry. Here’s a fair deal: Dunn takes you to the Grammys from now on, and in return, you don’t write songs about him. How’s that?” 

Dunn’s eyes lit up. “Yes, exactly! Sweetie, I’ll take you to the Grammys. Deal?” 

Taylor’s tears stopped like magic. She squinted at him suspiciously. “For real?” 

“Of course!” He held out his pinky. “Pinky swear.” 

Her frown flipped to a grin, her face blooming like a flower. “You better not trick me!” 

“When have I ever tricked you?” He laughed, finally pulling her onto his lap. “Don’t you remember? I took you to the Victoria’s Secret show too.” 

“Oh yeah! Those models were amazing—their figures, their chests!” She gestured with her hands, tracing a soccer-ball-sized curve. “Do you think I’ll ever—” 

“Okay, enough!” Dunn cut her off, his face darkening. “So it’s settled. No more songs about me.” 

“Deal!” She beamed like sunshine.