Chapter 399: CH : 388 The Serial Killer Lesbian

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****

It wasn’t hungry. It was... deliberate.

As though he were quietly studying a painting he’d already decided he admired.

She found herself incredibly pleased, and slightly terrified, by sudden changes in herself.

"So..." Marvin said at last. "What did you drag me away from my own premiere for, Miss Theron?"

She smiled. "You can stop with the ’Miss Theron.’"

"Oh?"

"It’s Charlize." She tilted her head. "My friends call me Charlie."

A beat passed.

"Sally, if you’re back home."

Marvin nodded once. "Charlize, then."

"I’ll take it."

"You sound disappointed."

"I was hoping you’d pick Sally."

"Why?"

"Nobody here calls me that anymore."

"It suits South Africa better than Hollywood."

A small laugh escaped her. "See? That’s exactly why I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh?"

"You actually listen."

"I try."

"No." She shook her head. "Most people wait for their turn to speak. You don’t."

Marvin smiled but said nothing.

Charlize watched him for a moment before letting out a quiet breath. "I’ll be honest."

"I’d prefer that."

"I need a favour."

"There it is." She laughed. "I knew you’d say that."

"You didn’t pull me into a quiet corner just to compliment my listening skills."

"Fair." Her expression became more serious.

"I’ve been trying to get a film made."

She folded her arms loosely. "It’s a story I believe in. A real one."

"And?"

"It needs someone willing to back it."

She met his eyes. "Someone with enough influence that people stop saying, ’We’ll think about it,’ and actually start saying yes."

Marvin’s expression barely changed.

A film.

His mind sifted through years of memories almost instantly.

Projects. Studios. Development deals. Actors attached. Then it clicked.

*The Dive*.

That was what it had been called before the title changed.

He remembered the endless budget discussions, the production headaches, the prestige campaign that never quite caught fire.

A worthy story.

An expensive gamble.

One that had asked for far more money than it was ever likely to earn back.

Outwardly, nothing showed.

It had to be *The Dive*.

In his previous life it had been released as *Men of Honor*, a dramatized account of the first Black master diver in the United States Navy. The studio had poured more than thirty million dollars into it, hoping for prestige, awards, and respectable box office.

It never became the success they wanted.

The film itself wasn’t the problem.

Its heart was admirable. A Black sailor fighting his way through an openly segregated Navy, enduring humiliation after humiliation until talent and sheer stubbornness forced the institution to acknowledge him. It was the kind of story Hollywood loved to champion during awards season.

Marvin wasn’t looking at it as a critic.

He was looking at it as an investor.

Prestige and profit weren’t the same thing.

Stories rooted in uniquely American racial history often resonated strongly at home, but overseas they rarely generated the same emotional connection. International audiences generally responded first to spectacle, adventure, romance, comedy, or universally relatable drama stories teachings. Historical American social conflicts, however important, simply didn’t travel as easily.

That reality affected casting as much as financing.

Hollywood’s biggest Black stars understood it better than anyone.

He also knew the behind-the-scenes gossip. It was widely rumored that A-listers like Will Smith and Denzel Washington had been aggressively courted for the lead, but both had wisely declined after reading the script and doing the career math.

Both Smith and Washington had successfully navigated Hollywood while maintaining their Black identities.

Will Smith had spent the better part of the decade building himself into a worldwide leading man. Denzel Washington had done the same through a different path, balancing prestige with broad commercial appeal.

However, they had carefully curated their images to be universally palatable, perfectly aligned with the sensibilities of global audiences. This branding was exactly why they refused a confrontational project highlighting America’s ugly history of racial inequality. It was bad for their global brand.

Marvin knew exactly why actors at their level often hesitated before attaching themselves to films built primarily around America’s racial wounds.

One successful awards campaign could elevate a career.

One poorly performing prestige picture could become an expensive reminder that audiences and critics didn’t always want the same thing.

The calculation wasn’t unique to film.

Sport has produced similar examples.

Kobe Bryant and Grant Hill, who exemplified the complex phenomenon harshly labeled as having a "black skin, white heart" in certain militant circles. Though proud members of the Black community, they were heavily criticized by fringe groups for polished behavior viewed as aligning too closely with corporate, white-dominated culture. This often led to a rift with grassroots groups.

On the other hand, cultural icons like Allen Iverson aggressively, unapologetically embraced his street-level identity and enjoyed fanatical support within the African American community. But that cultural loyalty came with different pitfalls.

That authenticity earned extraordinary loyalty, but it also came with constant conflict—with the league, with sponsors, and with the media. Different choices. Different rewards. Different costs.

Despite Iverson’s god-like popularity on the court, his lack of financial foresight and adherence to a specific lifestyle led straight to bankruptcy. Figures like Kobe and Grant Hill adapted to the corporate structure and prospered immensely. Kobe, had he not faced his eventual tragedy, was on track to become one of the wealthiest corporate figures in Los Angeles history. Grant Hill found immense success transitioning into an NBA general manager role, cementing his place in the elite American upper class.

Iverson’s financial mismanagement was legendary. He made careless decisions—like buying a quarter-million-dollar car just for a short road trip and literally abandoning it at the airport afterward. Once his reckless habits became known, second-hand car dealers would wait near his hotels during away games, hoping to scoop up casually discarded luxury vehicles for massive profit.

Hollywood worked much the same way.

Every public decision became part of an actor’s brand.

Marvin’s thoughts returned to the project in front of him.

Thirty million dollars. A period drama. A prestige biography centred on racial discrimination inside the U.S. Navy. He didn’t doubt the story.

He doubted the return.

His money could finance two or three commercially stronger films with broader international appeal. There was no reason to tie up that much capital in a domestic prestige gamble, no matter how worthy its message might be.

He let the thought go.

*The Dive* simply wasn’t a film Meyers Pictures needed.

He looked at Charlize, his eyes stripping away the glamour to see the desperate ambition underneath.

"So..." Marvin’s voice remained even, but something in it had changed. "What do you actually want from me?"

He watched her for another beat.

"The project you’re looking for independent financing on..." His eyes narrowed slightly. "It isn’t *The Dive*, is it?"

Charlize caught the shift immediately.

The teasing ease that had carried their conversation a moment ago was gone.

He wasn’t being unfriendly.

He was weighing her.

"No," she answered without hesitation. "Not *The Dive*."

She shook her head.

"Fox is already financing that one. Everything’s in place."

Marvin regarded her quietly.

Fox took the deal?

That wasn’t what he remembered.

Then again, it wasn’t difficult to see why.

Studios chased prestige as eagerly as they chased blockbusters. Every few years someone convinced themselves they’d found the next awards darling.

Unfortunately, Marvin had already seen how this one ended.

The timing was wrong.

Ten years later, perhaps even five, the industry would have embraced a story like The Dive with open arms.

In the early 2000s, it wasn’t the film executives imagined it would be.

They were chasing a trophy they would never receive.

He wasn’t convinced this was it.

The thought came and went.

In his vast memory, after the year 2000, absolutely every film Charlize Theron had ever starred in was cataloged with perfect clarity. He had watched many of them in his past life, and, admittedly, he had deeply appreciated the breathtaking actress as much as he had appreciated her performances.

His mind rapidly sorted through the closest upcoming projects in her timeline. There was *The Legend of Bagger Vance*... *Reindeer Games*... *Sweet November*...

Only one project remained.

His eyes settled on her.

*Monster*.

It was highly likely *Monster*.

The only anomaly in her filmography. The ugly one. The masterpiece.

His expression never changed. "So what is it?"

Charlize drew a slow breath.

She’d pitched this project often enough to recognise the look people wore before they found a polite way to tell her no.

"You’ve probably never heard of it."

"Try me.."

"I bought the rights to Aileen Wuornos’s story." She held his gaze. "I want to make the film myself."

"And play her yourself."

Charlize laughed softly. "I was wondering if you’d figure that part out."

"You didn’t buy the rights for someone else."

"No." The smile faded. "Nobody thinks I can do it." Silence settled between them. Charlize gave a quiet, self-conscious smile. "I know what you’re thinking."

"Do you?"

"They all think the same thing."

She folded her arms. "They see the face."

A faint smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "They see the blonde," she whispered. "The model. The girl from The Devil’s Advocate. They don’t think I can disappear into someone like Eileen."

"So they keep saying no."

"They don’t even let me get that far." She let out a dry laugh. "Most of them hear the name and decide they’ve already had enough."

Her smile disappeared. "They don’t think I can disappear into someone like Aileen."

"And you think they’re wrong."

"I know they are."

There wasn’t a trace of hesitation in her voice.

Only certainty.

Marvin studied her for a long moment.

*Monster*.

Of course. There was never going to be another answer. Every other project on her horizon already had a studio behind it.

This was the outlier. The one everyone else would dismiss. The one that would change her career forever.

It was the role that forced Hollywood to stop seeing Charlize Theron as merely one of the most beautiful women in the industry and start seeing her as one of its finest actresses.

Charlize let out a dry laugh.

It was short, almost bitter.

She glanced down at the patterned carpet before looking back at him.

"You know what’s funny?" she said. "Every executive tells me this is exactly the kind of script the Academy loves."

"And then?"

"Then they look at me."

She smiled, though there wasn’t much humour behind it.

Her jaw tightened. "They don’t believe I can disappear into someone like Aileen."

Marvin watched her without interrupting. He already knew she could. That wasn’t what interested him. Talent was common in Hollywood.

Resolve wasn’t. "So..." he said. "Aileen Wuornos."

"Yes."

"The prostitute who drifted from highway to highway."

"Yes."

"The serial killer."

"Yes."

"The woman who murdered seven men."

Charlize didn’t look away. "Yes."

"A deeply damaged woman."

"Yes."

"Lesbian."

Charlize gave a small shrug. "That too."

"Not exactly the easiest film to sell."

"No." She looked him straight in the eye. "But that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be made."

Marvin rested his shoulder against the wall. "And that’s the hill you’ve chosen to die on?"

"If that’s what it takes."

His expression didn’t change. "You’re asking audiences to spend two hours with a murderer."

Charlize flinched slightly at the crude reduction of the story, but she quickly recovered. "I’m asking them to see a human being before they judge the monster."

"You think they’ll care?"

"I think they’ll argue." A faint smile touched her lips. "I’d rather people argue all the way home than forget the film before they reach the parking lot."

Marvin regarded her for a long moment. "And you believe you’re the only actress who can play her."

"I do."

"No hesitation."

"No."

"No second thoughts."

"None."

"You sound very sure of yourself."

"I am." There wasn’t a trace of arrogance in her voice.

Only certainty.

Marvin almost smiled.

That answer fits the woman he knew.

Charlize took another slow, deliberate step forward, closing the last of the distance until the heat of her body brushed against his.

She leaned in toward Marvin, fully invading his personal space, her taller frame tilting just enough that her breath ghosted across his jaw. The intoxicating mix of her expensive perfume and the warmer, sweeter scent of her skin washed over him in a wave—something floral and dangerous that went straight to his head.

The low cut of her designer dress plunged recklessly, offering a deliberate, calculated distraction: the soft, full curves of her breasts rising with every shallow breath, the shadowed valley between them promising more than the fabric was willing to hide.

****

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