By late July, The Sixth Sense was gradually leaving theaters. But for many in Hollywood, the North American box office champion of the year had already been decided.
Inside his Burbank office, Harvey Weinstein reviewed the latest numbers. Even with the AC on full blast, sweat trickled down his face.
He had taken a chance—trusted a clever, eccentric boy and the story he'd created. A $30 million investment had brought back over $290 million at the box office. And that was just domestic. With Eastern Europe opening up, the international earnings were already poised to surpass that.
After splitting with theaters and paying a mountain of taxes, there was still over $70 million in net profit. Even the annual take from major studio blockbusters didn't always match that.
For Miramax, it was a breakthrough. Their name was now etched into the upper echelons of Hollywood. Independent producers were already lining up at the door.
Harvey dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, then reluctantly took out two checks he'd prepared earlier. A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
By tradition, success meant bonuses—and these were no small bonuses. The siblings had negotiated a seemingly innocent profit-sharing clause to cut upfront costs. Now it had come back to bite him—in the form of six-digit checks.
But he couldn't deny it. That boy was a goldmine. The $8 million he'd paid them? Consider it seed money. Word was that Touchstone Pictures was already in talks with the kid's agent, and Nicole Kidman held another one of his scripts.
The boy had only one major hit under his belt, but Harvey trusted his gut. Just as he'd believed The Sixth Sense would work, he believed this wasn't a fluke. If he could, he'd buy the rights to every word Ryan Jenkins had ever written. Like his recent purchase of The Lord of the Rings rights, it was a bet on the future.
But he knew that wasn't going to happen. The boy's sly agent and elegant guardian were no pushovers—and Ryan himself? A ten-year-old enigma. After a year of knowing him, Harvey had been outmaneuvered more than once.
He wouldn't be surprised if the very first time they met, the kid had already set a trap and just waited for him to fall in.
Still, the profits were real. He had no regrets.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. "Mr. Weinstein," the secretary said through the intercom, "Ms. Kinsley, Miss Nicole Kidman, and Mr. Ryan Jenkins are here."
"Let them in."
Ryan followed Nicole into the office, glancing around at the sparse decor. As the rumors went, the Weinstein brothers weren't just tight with others—they were tight with themselves too.
There were no formalities between familiar faces. After a few polite greetings and once the coffee and juice had arrived, they got straight to business.
"Congratulations, Harvey," Ryan said with a grin. " Two Hundred and Ninety Million Dollars—must be one of the top earners in film history. A pity, really. If it had stayed in theaters a bit longer, it might've cracked three hundred."
Harvey chuckled dryly and passed checks across the desk. "Congratulations to you, Ryan." He gave Nicole a glance as he handed them over. "Jurassic Park is still topping bestseller charts. And both Harry Potter books just cracked the top twenty. At your age? Even Stephen King didn't pull that off."
"Oh, come on," Ryan replied, snagging the checks from Nicole before she could say anything. "That's just the power of noisy kids. If it weren't for them, I doubt we'd have sold a dozen copies."
He stared at the checks—each for $1,000,000—and couldn't help smiling. Paper money was one thing, but seeing it printed in black and white? That felt real.
Once Nicole nodded her approval, Ryan passed the checks to Kinsley with a cocky smirk. "Pat, didn't see that coming, did you?"
Kinsley rolled her eyes but said nothing. She hadn't expected that contract—one she once thought would cost her income—would actually bring in more than ever. And ten percent of those checks? Straight to her.
After a few more minutes of casual chatter, Ryan slipped out, letting Harvey's assistant show him around. Nicole and Harvey were probably discussing Sleepless in Seattle. He had no intention of getting involved. He wasn't going to be that guy—hovering like Tom Cruise in his past life, turning personal matters into public awkwardness.
Whatever deal Harvey had offered must've been solid. Nicole eventually agreed to the collaboration. Judging by her calm expression, the terms were more than satisfactory.
Once back in the car, Kinsley gave him the full scoop. "Four million dollars in salary, plus 1.5% of the North American box office."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Not bad."
"And your script?" she added. "Harvey offered one hundred thousand dollars."
He nodded. That was fair. For someone with only one hit, it was a respectable offer. He wasn't worried—his goal was bigger. He believed that if his scripts kept delivering hits, he could push for a percentage of merchandise or even overseas revenue.
Touchstone had wrapped up their deal as soon as The Sixth Sense crossed $250 million. Kinsley had worked her magic—$3 million in salary and 2% of domestic box office, as both actor and screenwriter.
Filming was expected to begin next month in northern Canada. The snowy setting would be real. No need to sweat in thick coats under studio lights.
The best part? It was still summer break. No begging for extra school leave this time.
Instead of heading home to Westwood, the car turned toward Beverly Hills. That afternoon, they were meeting with a real estate agent to tour high-end villas.
The film's overwhelming success had brought paparazzi swarming outside their building. Neighbors were complaining, and their daily lives were being disrupted. Nicole had had enough. She'd asked Kinsley to find them a new home.
LA had no shortage of posh neighborhoods—Malibu, Santa Monica, Brentwood—but Nicole was set on Beverly Hills.
Not that Ryan was complaining. Close to Hollywood, celebrity neighbors—it sounded fun enough. Still, as they pulled up to the villa, he couldn't help thinking: Can we really afford this?
"Miss Kidman, what do you think of this one?" asked Cornice Miller, the agent—polished, professional, and clearly used to wealthy clients.
"This French-style villa covers 2.4 acres," he said as they stepped through the gates. "Outdoor tennis court, a swimming pool, four-car garage… It's a Paul Kosney original."
Ryan followed Nicole through the front door, his eyes wide. In his past life, he'd lived in tiny rented apartments. In this one, most of his time had been in orphanages—until Nicole.
He had no idea how to judge a house. He just held her hand and looked around in awe.
"The interior includes two floors, seven bedrooms, three walk-in closets, five large storage rooms, an indoor pool, a gym, and even a small rooftop terrace," the agent continued.
It was easily larger than their London rental. Despite the lack of furniture, Ryan could already see Nicole's smile growing.
"Ryan, what do you think?" she asked gently.
He knew the drill. If he said no, she'd turn around and walk away.
He hesitated. "It's huge… Do we really have that much money?"
Nicole smiled, amused. "Sweetheart, the real question is whether I have that much money."
Ryan laughed. "Okay then. If the price is right, let's do it."
As Nicole started negotiating, Ryan finally relaxed. Compared to their earnings, this place wasn't expensive. They could even mortgage it, and unlike some other countries, property ownership in the U.S. didn't expire. Sure, there'd be yearly taxes, but it was still a solid investment.
"Nicole, when are we moving in?" Ryan asked as they left the property.
"Moving in?" She gave him a playful look. "Not for a while. The whole place needs to be renovated, and we still need furniture."
Ryan looked back at the empty villa, imagining what it would look like once they were settled in.
For now, the house was empty.
But his life? It was filling up—fast.