The Best Movie Actor In Hollywood!

Chapter 817: A High Price

The lavish living room was a mess, with packed belongings strewn everywhere. A suitcase stood in the doorway, and several workers bustled in and out, carrying items to a truck parked outside. The constant motion shattered the mansion’s usual silence, turning it into the chaotic scene of a massive move.

Brad Pitt sat on the sofa, his eyes vacant, as if he were completely numb.

The foreman approached him and inquired, "Mr. Pitt, I'd like to sort out the cost of our moving service..."

Hearing this, Brad Pitt’s eyes finally focused. "I'll settle up with you later," he said.

"Well..." The foreman was clearly hesitant to trust him. "Our policy is to get paid in advance, or at least settle the bill on the same day."

Red Penguin's specialized division catered to the rich and famous of Hollywood and Los Angeles. Typically, celebrities and tycoons paid upfront—after all, it was pocket change for them. But even if they didn't, it was never an issue. When had someone of that caliber ever failed to pay for a moving service?

But this Brad Pitt...

Before he had even arrived, the foreman had received a reminder from his superior—Lister, the second-in-command at Red Penguin—that Brad Pitt’s bankruptcy was imminent. To avoid any unnecessary trouble down the line, the moving fee had to be collected today.

They were now loading the last of the items.

Brad Pitt’s mood had been foul for days, and a flash of anger nearly overcame him. He managed to restrain himself, however, and asked, "How much?"The foreman pulled a tablet from his bag, which was connected to a card reader. He brought up a page, placed it in front of Brad Pitt, and pointed to the clearly displayed total. "That will be $4,580."

So expensive? Brad Pitt frowned slightly.

He didn't say anything, though. This wasn't his first time dealing with Red Penguin, and he knew their rates were more than double that of a regular company. Besides, the invoice was displayed with impeccable clarity right before his eyes.

Seeing Brad Pitt remain silent, the foreman prompted him, "Mr. Pitt, will you be paying by card?"

Brad Pitt took out a credit card and handed it over. The foreman swiped it through the reader, then raised an eyebrow and returned it. "Sorry, Mr. Pitt. This card was declined."

"Impossible!" Brad Pitt scowled, taking the card back to examine it. As the foreman waited to try again, he had no choice but to pull out another one. "Use this."

The foreman took the card, swiped it, and his eyebrows rose even higher. He handed it back. "I'm sorry, but this one didn't go through either."

"What?!" Brad Pitt shot to his feet, flailing his arms.

"Hey!" The foreman flinched, thinking Brad Pitt was about to strike him.

He gestured toward the back of the house, and several workers who were carrying items immediately stopped and exchanged glances.

Brad Pitt was merely in shock and had no intention of lashing out. He produced several more cards, but just like the first two, they were all useless.

"Let me write you a check," Brad Pitt said, reaching for his checkbook.

The foreman was no fool. Connecting the Hollywood gossip with the call from his superior's boss, he immediately shook his head. "Sorry, Mr. Pitt, we don't accept checks."

Given the situation, it would be a miracle if the check even cleared.

He forced a professional smile. "Perhaps you could pay... in cash?"

Brad Pitt's frown deepened. "I'll settle this with Red Penguin another time."

"My apologies," the foreman remained polite, "but please don't make things difficult for us working folk."

A bankrupt Hollywood star—when would an overdue bill like this ever get paid? If he failed to collect the money, the company would turn around and dock it from his salary.

Brad Pitt reached out with his left hand and felt for his wallet, but it contained very little cash.

The foreman’s eyes fell on the watch on Pitt’s wrist. As someone who frequently served wealthy magnates, he had a discerning eye and immediately recognized it as a Vacheron Constantin, worth around $10,000 new.

Brad Pitt was finished. That was the consensus in Hollywood, and the foreman had heard his own bosses say as much. To people like him, a phoenix that had lost its feathers couldn't even compare to a turkey.

"If you really don't have the cash..." The foreman's tone remained deferential, but the words that left his lips were anything but pleasant. "I could take something else as payment."

Hearing this, Brad Pitt froze and stared at the foreman.

At that moment, Brad Pitt's rage could no longer be suppressed. It surged upward, and he felt the urge to lunge forward. But then he saw the other workers watching him uncertainly, and with a heavy effort, he smothered the fire.

He seemed to surrender, asking, "What do you want?"

The foreman offered a humble but detestable smile and pointed to the watch on Brad Pitt’s wrist.

Brad Pitt took off the watch and threw it at him, his voice rising unconsciously. "Get back to work! Now!"

Having gotten the watch he wanted, the foreman left with a triumphant look.

Sinking back onto the sofa, Brad Pitt covered his face with his hands, unwilling to let anyone else see his pain.

He had lost so much recently that a single watch seemed like nothing in comparison.

Cloud Atlas had failed, as had John Carter. The price of that failure was so steep he could never hope to afford it.

He remembered how full of spirit he had been when he invested in those two projects. To think of that now, in his current state of despair, with no one seeking him out—the contrast was enough to crush a man.

Brad Pitt considered it a sign of immense strength that he could sit here and remain mentally stable at all.

Lowering his hands from his face, he plunged back into darkness, his gaze falling once more upon the newspaper he had been reading earlier.

'Inception' had grossed $88.9 million in its first week, while 'John Carter' had only made $33.85 million in three weeks...

His film had a bigger budget and had been in theaters longer, yet its three-week box office earnings didn't even amount to half of what the other picture had made in its first three days.

"Is the gap between me and Matthew Horner really that wide?" Brad Pitt muttered to himself. "Is the difference in our judgment when it comes to choosing films really so vast?"

The thought flashed through his mind, and he suddenly recalled that 'Cloud Atlas' and 'John Carter' were both projects Matthew Horner had once favored. And it was he who had snatched them from his hands!

Why did these two projects, both of which Matthew Horner had favored, end up failing?

Brad Pitt couldn't help but ask himself this question. He thought back: he had barely interfered with the normal operations of the crews, and both projects had been completed largely according to the visions of the Wachowskis and Andrew Stanton. So why did they fail?

Could the difference between having Matthew Horner in the lead role versus Brad Pitt really be that great?

He was skeptical as he considered it, but after a moment of reflection, another possibility surfaced in his mind.

Both projects were snatched away from Matthew Horner. Could it be that Matthew had deliberately allowed him to take them?

Brad Pitt sucked in a sharp breath of cold air, then immediately vetoed the idea. Who could possibly know if a film would succeed or fail during pre-production? It was impossible.

Besides, Natalie Portman, who had helped him, was the leading lady in both films. She wouldn't conspire with Matthew Horner to sabotage even herself, right?

Knowing Natalie Portman's selfish nature, she would never do such a thing.

Brad Pitt shook his head. Suddenly, he heard footsteps. He turned and saw someone walking swiftly in his direction: Antonios, a joint agent representing numerous credit funds and banks.

Seeing the debt collector, Brad Pitt couldn't help but seethe with anger. "I didn't invite you here!" he snarled.

Antonios, however, merely smiled and sat down on the sofa opposite him. "Brad, you're forgetting something. As of today, this house no longer belongs to you. We're only allowing you until the end of the day to move out as a courtesy, in honor of our past dealings."

Brad Pitt bit his lip. This house, his home in Los Angeles, another in New York, and one in Chicago—they had all been mortgaged. The other properties were fine for now; they were collateral for the 'John Carter' loan, which wasn't due yet. But the Los Angeles estate had been mortgaged for the 'Cloud Atlas' loan. The original payment was long past due, and the grace period had just expired...

"You can put my house up for auction," Brad Pitt said through gritted teeth.

Antonios raised a finger and wagged it. "Incorrect. It stopped being your house the moment you failed to repay the mortgage."

Brad Pitt didn't argue the point. Instead, he asked, "I just found out my accounts have been frozen. Was that your doing?"

"We filed a court order," Antonios stated plainly. "You owe us a debt—a very large one. This is standard legal procedure."

"I told you I'd find a way to pay it back!" Brad Pitt raged.

But Antonios just shook his head. "With what? Your Plan B shares? They're already mortgaged. Your liquid assets dried up long ago. Most of your fixed assets are collateral, and we've filed to legally freeze the rest. That includes your car, which no longer belongs to you."

His own patience was clearly wearing thin from the magnitude of the debt. "You have no other assets besides the cash in your wallet! And that's not nearly enough."

The anger drained from Brad Pitt's face, replaced by bewilderment. "You're taking Plan B?"

"Your mortgage loan is long overdue," Antonios said. "We will find a new owner for Plan B, either through auction or other means."

In truth, they had never wanted the two film projects to fail. But once they had, it became imperative to minimize the potential losses from the loan.

Antonios glanced at his watch, stood up, and said, "Well, Brad, you have the rest of the morning to move your things."

With that, he walked away without a backward glance. To them, the lenders, a bankrupt man was no different from a bum on the side of the road.