The morning breeze was pleasant and cool as I stood on the balcony of my West Village penthouse, my eyes on the stretch of city in front of me as I took a long sip of my coffee and considered the day ahead. A few meetings were here and there in my schedule, but nothing too pressing; my thoughts were on the projects that I had lined up in the next few months- a few more low-budget pictures that would result in a tidy profit if they performed as our market testing is indicating.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me out of my mental planning. I slipped it out, seeing that it was an unknown number. I normally wouldn't answer a call that I didn't already have in my phone, but my curiosity got the better of me.

"Liam Thorne," I said, my brow furrowing as I walked down the long stretch of my balcony.

"Liam! Liam, this is you?" came the voice on the other end of the phone, an eager male voice.

"Speaking," I said, now even more curious.

"Liam, this is Murray Rothbard- you remember me?"

I winced, realizing now why this number wasn't saved in my phone; I should've had it blocked, actually. Murray Rothbard was an…enthusiastic man. I'd worked with him on a production back when I was first getting my company established. He was a real mover and shaker in the New York film world but could run you ragged if you weren't careful. After spending a few months around him, I was almost ready to pack it in and try my hand at finance.

"Murray- good to hear from you," I said, turning my attention my to the interior of my apartment to see if my guests had gotten up yet.

"I've been looking over the returns for your last couple of pictures; I'm blown away! I can't believe what you've been making off these flicks! How do you do it?"

"Just intuition and a little luck, I suppose."

The production company that I'd founded years ago since moving to the city –Throne Pictures- had built a considerable reputation of taking chances on small pictures by unknown directors and screenwriters who the other major studios here in the city, and in LA, might otherwise pass on. Many of these scripts were fantastic- all they needed was someone to pick them up and provide them with a little bit of necessary funding. More than a few had gone to make much, much more than their budgets, which, as I said, meant plenty of money in my pocket. And it wasn't just the money that motivated me; being able to produce films that weren't the standard superhero tentpoles that the big studios were putting out provided me with some measures of creative satisfaction.

"'Luck'?" asked Murray, incredulous. "It takes more than luck to win the Palme d'Or, my friend."

He was referred to The Gold Thief, one of the more recent pictures I'd put out. An indie made by a director from Winnipeg who hadn't produced anything of this scale, it ended up making quite a splash, even winning the top prize at the Cannes Film Festival. There was even a little Oscar buzz.

"I'm assuming that you didn't call me to tell me how wonderful I am."

"Oh, please," said Murray. "I'm sure you've got all the girls you need to tell you that."

A little smirk formed on my face, and my eyes flicked back into the apartment.

"So, what's up?"

"I got a lead on a new project," he said.

"Oh?" I asked.

"Yep. Might be a little more of a challenge than you're used to, though."

I narrowed my eyes at this. Murray had a way with people, and knew just what to say to get them interested. In my case, he knew that appealing to my love of working in situations in which the odds weren't in my favor was the key to catching my ear.

"I mean," he continued, "unless you have anything more pressing going on."

"No," I said. "We've actually just put the finishing touches on the projects I've been working on; I've actually got nothing but housekeeping and organizing press junkets for the next month- nothing I can't have my subordinates handle."

"Excellent," he said. "Then it was meant to be!"

I held the phone back as he spoke; his thin voice could reach some high registers when he wanted it to.

"You know Jace Landau?" he asked.

"The Australian actor?" I asked. "Vaguely. Only enough to know his star has the potential to rise."

"Oh, more than rise!" said Murray. "They're thinking he might be the next Tom Cruise! Or Will Smith! Or whoever else is that famous!"

"Go on," I said, keeping in mind Murray's tendency to over exaggerate.

"Anyway, they're in talks with him over at Bronzeplate to produce his next picture. But I'm thinking you can use a little of that nest egg you've been saving up to snatch him and the script they've got right out from under them!"

"What's Jace got to do with this? Can't we just buy the script?"

"No dice," said Murray. "The scriptwriter…er, writers, are a finicky pair. Couple of brothers out of Chicago, I think. Everyone wants this damn script, so they know they're quite the bargaining position. And they want Jace. No one but Jace; they think he's their muse or some cockamamie horseshit, the only actor who can bring their precious words to life. Goddamn artists!"

I smirked. Wrangling artists was part of the process and one that I felt I was more than skilled at. You see, once you get past their high-strung temperament, you find that what they want deep-down more than anything is a strong hand to guide their process.

"So, we outbid Bronzeplate, get Jace on board, and make the movie. You think this is worth the hassle?" I asked, draining the last dregs of my coffee. "I mean, there's no short supply of up-and-coming screenwriters who'll do anything to get their work on the screen."

"You're right, but you want to play in the little leagues forever? You want to make Thorne Pictures one of the biggest names in the business, or do you want to keep gambling on these indie pictures? I mean, don't get me wrong kid, you've had a hell of a string of hits, but it's only a matter of time before you roll a few losers. You need the kind of security that these big pictures and big names can bring."

I wasn't all that keen on playing the big budget game, but Murray was right; the money I could make from making bigger, more mainstream pictures could provide me the financial buffer that I needed to keep putting out the small movies that I'd built my company on.

"So," I said, "if I were interested, and that's still an ‘if,' what would be the next move?"

I heard Murray say "yes!" under his breath.

"I can send you over the script. Take a look over it; I think you'll love it. And if you want to move forward, I can get you in on the bidding that's going to be taking place soon."

"Sounds good," I said. "Go ahead and email it to me; I'll clear my schedule and read it today."

"Perfect," he said. "And when this project takes your company up into the stratosphere, don't forget about your old pal Murray, eh?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said.

"Oh, and one more thing: you need to let me know by tonight. You wait too long, and this little opportunity is going to slip right through your fingers."

"Understood."

We said our goodbyes, and that was that.

I hung up the phone and slipped it back into my pocket. Walking over to the edge of my balcony, I rested my hands on the wooden railing and looked down over the sweep of the West village, the towers of the Financial District looming overhead. If this project was what Murray said it would be, then he was right- a high-profile picture with an up-and-coming star could greatly help in making Thorne Pictures even more than it already is. When I moved to the city to make my name, I wanted to have the biggest production company in the city by the time I turned forty. And here at thirty, things were already looking bright.

I stepped back into my apartment, poured myself another cup of coffee, and grabbed my laptop. But before I could head into my office to sit down with the script, a woman's voice spoke from behind me.

"There he is," she said.

Slightly surprised, I turned on my heels and was face-to-face with Emma Pacific, the…guest who I'd had over the previous night. Wearing nothing but my silk sheets wrapped around her lovely body, she gazed at me with a sly smile. Her red hair was tossed around her heart-shaped face in a very enticing manner, and it was clear that she wanted a repeat of the last night's…activities.

Emma was one of the latest ingénues on the scene here in New York. We'd met while working on her latest picture, The Crown Thief, and, well, we hit it off. My line of work brought me into plenty of young, beautiful women like her, and though I was in the business for other, more substantial reasons, I wouldn't pretend that my many nights with stars-in-the-making like her weren't a nice little perk of the job.

Unfortunately, there was too much work to be done. I'd need to spend the next few hours going over the script, and the rest of the day to really give it the consideration it likely needed. I had to have a decision made by tonight, and I couldn't afford any distractions.

"Good morning, Emma," I said, eager to get to work.

"Morning," she said, walking towards me with slinky strides and slipping her arm around my shoulders.

The smell of sweat and sex lingered on her body as she moved in close to me. I could tell what she wanted, and she wasn't being subtle in the slightest about it.

"Hell of a night last night," she said.

"Indeed it was," I responded.

I stepped out of her grasp and positioned my body towards the hallway leading to my office.

"Unfortunately, I have a busy day ahead."

A girlish pout formed on her startlingly attractive features.

"Oh, boo," she said. “I was thinking that you, me, and Alexa could just spend the day in, really get in some good R&R, if you know what I mean."

Alexa? I thought.

And before I could say a word, a figure stepped out from my bedroom door down the hall. Wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of underwear, her long, shapely legs on full display, was Alexa Cooper, the other ingénue that I was lucky enough to spend the previous evening with.

"You manage to talk him into coming back to bed?" she asked, her blue eyes searching me up and down, her beautiful face framed by bright blonde hair draped onto her slim shoulders.

I'd completely forgotten that after our dinner on the town, Emma asked me if I might want a little more company when we arrived back at my place. I wasn't sure exactly what she had in mind, but I was more than pleased when I opened my front door and saw Alexa standing there. The events after that were beginning to come back, and the more primal part of me wanted nothing more than to take off my clothes and pass the afternoon with these two young beauties.

But there was just no time.

"Sorry, ladies," I said. "Just…no time."

I felt my will being sapped by the moment.

"Oh, that's too bad," said Emma. "If only there was something I could do to talk you into it."

With that, she let the blanket drop to the floor in a heap, her magnificent body now on full display. My eyes tracked across her body, moving from her full breasts to her flat, Pilates-toned stomach, to the small patch of red hair just above her sex. Alexa followed suit, pulling her t-shirt off and leaving her in nothing but a pair of very skimpy black panties.

"Come on," said Emma, gazing at me with sensual eyes. "Let's kill the afternoon."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. Very strongly tempted. But there was only so much lounging around I could take, even if it was in extremely pleasant company. Work called, and slacking off wasn't my style. Anymore, at least.

"Sorry, ladies," I said. "As enticing as the offer is, I'm going to have to pass."

My tone was sterner and both girls seemed to finally get the hint. Pouting expression formed on their faces, and both seemed to take on the bratty, sulking dispositions of little girls who'd just been told they can't have ice cream for dinner.

"Boring," said Emma, crossing her arms under her breasts.

"Yeah," agreed Alexa.

"Get your things together; I'll have my chauffeur take you both home. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen."

"You know there's only one thing I want to help myself to," said Emma, tossing one last sultry glance my way as I headed down the hallway. Alexa mirrored her expression. I knew they couldn't stay mad long.

Finally, in my office, I shut the door and gave my chauffeur, a ring, letting him know that some guests needed a lift home.

"Guests?" he asked, emphasizing the plural.

"Mhmm," I said, taking a seat in my Eames chair by the window and opening my laptop.

"You dog," said Calvin.

He'd been working with me for long enough to know that I thoroughly enjoyed the company of the fairer, so he knew exactly what taking home two guests implied. I confirmed the pick-up, set my phone to the side, and opened my email. Sure enough, Murray had sent me the script.

The British Job, read the title, by Ian and Lucas McConnell. I hit print, the machine nearby whirring to life. I got up and watch the printer spit out the screenplay. Once it was done, I gathered the warm sheets, shuffled them into a stack, and stapled them together. Back in my chair, I flipped the cover open, ready to dive into the thing.

But before I could, my phone rang once again. I pulled it out of my pocket, ready to slam the "mute" button and toss the thing across the room. But once I saw who it was, I knew that I'd have no such option, as satisfying as it might be. It was Amy, my ex-wife.

"Good morning, Amy," I said, keeping my tone business-like.

"Morning," she said, doing the same.

"How can I help you?"

I hated having to talk to Amy, the woman I'd once loved and married, with such cold, impersonal tone, but I'd had enough screaming matches with her over the years to know that an explosion on her part was a wrong word away. That showed me for marrying a fun, party girl; they may be smiles and good times when things are going well, but as soon as her mood went in the other direction it felt like the emotional equivalent of storming Normandy Beach. So, keeping things calm was the way to go, treating her like any other client with whom I had to deal. The last thing I wanted was to get involved in another fight that only the promise of a little extra money on top of my usual alimony payment could mollify.

This client, however, had one major difference.

"I just wanted to call to make sure you didn't forget that you'd be having Olivia this next week."

The difference, of course, being that Amy was the mother of Olivia, my five-year-old daughter.

"Of course I remembered," I said, standing up and grabbing my coffee.

As busy as I was, I always looked forward to my time with Olivia. Amy had her most of the time, and our arrangement was that once every two months I'd take her for a full week, with occasional afternoons and dinners thrown in here and there. This allowed me to stay on top of my work, while still affording me the opportunity to spend quality time with my daughter.

"Good," she said, her voice icy. "I don't want a repeat of last month's incident, is all."

I winced at the reminder. Olivia's last visit with me had…slipped my mind. Work had been crazier than usual, and I only remembered that it was my week to take her when I looked from the set I'd ben supervising to see Olivia walking through the scene blithely, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. After making my apologies, I learned from Olivia that after Amy hadn't been able to get ahold of me, she decided to just drop the girl off at my work, figuring that I'd take care of things from there. It was a mistake I didn't care to repeat.

"That won't happen," I said.

"I mean, I know you're ‘mister big time producer' now, but hopefully you won't forget about little details like your daughter."

I took in a slow draw of air, noting right away that she was trying to goad me into a fight. I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.

"Understood. Just bring her by my place tomorrow.

"Fine. See you then," she said, followed by her hanging up the phone.

I allowed myself a small smile as I put my phone on mute and set it on the desk where it wouldn't distract me. I'd just side-stepped what could've been a very taxing situation, and on top of that, I had a week with Olivia to look forward to. All that I needed to do was to dive into this script. Taking my seat, I opened the first page, eager to see if Murray's effusive praise was more than just talk.

It took only moments before I learned that it wasn't.