Chapter 320: The Third Option
The dressing room was small and functional, the kind of space that came with remote locations. A mirror ringed with lights. A couch that had seen better decades. A table covered in scripts, notes, and coffee cups in various stages of emptiness. Outside, the crew was setting up for the next scene — the distant clatter of equipment, voices calling instructions, the particular hum of a production in motion.
Franz sat on the couch with his script open in his lap. He’d been reviewing the same scene for twenty minutes. The words were fixed in his memory, he’d run them enough times, but he kept going over them anyway. It was easier to focus on the script than on the decision he’d been turning over in his mind for weeks.
The door opened. Monica entered with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. She set the coffee on the table in front of him without being asked.
"You’ve been staring at that page for half an hour," she said. "You haven’t turned it once."
"I’m memorizing."
"You’ve had the script for three weeks. It’s memorized."
Franz didn’t argue. He closed the script and reached for the coffee. Monica took a seat on the armchair near the door, her tablet already in her hand. She’d been his personal assistant for years, long enough to know when he needed silence and when he needed distraction. Today, apparently, she’d decided he needed information.
"Daryll called this afternoon."
"I know. I saw the missed call."
"He wants you to call him back. But I can give you the summary first." She glanced at her tablet. "The company is asking if you intend to renew your contract with them. It’s coming up for renewal in a few months. They want to know your intentions."
Franz took a sip of coffee. The question wasn’t unexpected. He’d known it was coming. He’d been thinking about it for weeks — longer, if he was honest. Since before the club fight. Since before the press conference. Since the moment he’d stood behind Arianne at that lectern and realized that the industry he’d spent his life in could be weaponized against the people he loved.
"I don’t plan to renew," he said.
Monica didn’t look surprised. "You’re leaving the agency."
"I’m not leaving acting. I’m not retiring. I just don’t want to be under contract with a company anymore." He set the coffee down. "I want to be independent. No agency affiliation. I’ll keep Daryll as my manager, but I want the freedom to make my own decisions. No one pressuring me into projects I don’t want. No one using my affiliation against me."
"Or against Arianne."
He met her eyes. "Yes."
Monica was still. She’d been with him through the Miranda Kline disaster. Through the club fight and its aftermath. Through the careful management of a public relationship that was actually a marriage. She knew exactly what he meant.
"Going fully independent would be hard," she said. "You’d have no infrastructure. No support staff beyond me and Daryll. No legal team on retainer. No one to handle contracts or negotiations or publicity crises. You’d be doing everything yourself."
"I know."
"It would be lonely."
"I know that too."
She set her tablet down. "What if you didn’t have to do it alone?"
He waited.
"What if you started your own agency? A small one. Just you, initially. A few select artists eventually. You’d have control without the isolation of being fully independent. You’d have infrastructure without the corporate pressure."
Franz didn’t answer immediately. He turned the idea over in his mind. His own agency. It wasn’t something he’d considered. He’d been thinking in binaries — stay with the company, or leave entirely. Monica was offering a third path.
"Keep going," he said.
She leaned forward. "The pros: complete autonomy. No one dictates your choices. You choose your projects, your schedule, your public appearances. You set the terms. The cons: overhead. Staff. Office space. Legal. It’s not cheap, and it’s not simple."
"I have savings."
"I know you do. You’ve been saving for a decade. You could fund this."
"You’ve thought about this before."
"I’ve thought about it since the day Miranda Kline’s smear campaign started and the company did nothing to help you." Her voice was flat. "You were on your own. You handled it yourself. I watched you do it. I don’t want you to ever be in that position again."
Franz looked at her. Monica had been with him since his early career. She’d watched him move from Franz Rochefort to Noah Hart. She’d managed his schedule, his press, his public image. She’d never asked for credit. She’d never complained. And she’d just handed him a solution he hadn’t known he was looking for.
"There’s one more thing," she said.
"Tell me."
"We could sign Sam Pemberton as our first artist."
He blinked. "Sam?"
"She’s already with Daryll. The transition would be natural. And she’s about to be a star, her film releases in a few months. Having her as part of the agency would give us credibility from day one."
"You want to build an agency around me and Sam."
"I want to build an agency around talent I believe in. You’re the first. She’s the second. There could be more."
Franz was still. The idea was taking shape, a small agency, independent, selective. Him and Sam. Daryll as manager. Monica running operations. A staff small enough to be agile, large enough to be effective. No corporate overlords. No one dictating terms. Just a handful of people who trusted each other.
"It’s possible," he said slowly. "I’ve saved enough. But running a company isn’t my forte. I’m an actor. I’ve never been a businessman."
"You have a CEO wife who could give you a few pointers." Monica’s voice was dry. "It’s not like you’d be running a conglomerate like Rochefort Group. A small agency. A few artists. Manageable."
"Arianne would tell me to write a business plan."
"Then write a business plan. She’d probably help you with it."
He almost smiled. She would. Arianne would sit down with him at the kitchen table and walk him through financial projections and risk assessments and five-year growth strategies. She’d do it because she loved him, and because she understood that building something of his own was different from inheriting something from his family.
"Ask Daryll to look into it," he said. "The logistics. The costs. What it would take to set up a small agency from scratch. No calls yet. Gather information first."
Monica nodded. Made a note on her tablet. "I’ll have something for you by the end of the week."
"Thank you."
She stood. Paused at the door. "Noah."
He looked up.
"For what it’s worth, I think this is the right move. Not just for you. For Arianne. For the family you’re building. You’ve spent your whole career working for other people. It’s time you worked for yourself."
She left. The door clicked shut behind her.
Franz sat alone in the dressing room. The script was still open on the table. The coffee was cooling. Outside, the crew was calling instructions, the cameras were rolling, the production was moving forward without him for the moment.
Arianne was on his mind. The conversation they’d had months ago, when she’d told him not to end his contract early, not to sacrifice his career for her safety. This wasn’t sacrifice. This was adaptation. Building something that could protect both of them. Something that was his.
His own agency. Sam as his first artist. Daryll and Monica by his side. It was terrifying. It was also the first thing in years that had felt like a future he actually wanted.
He picked up his script. Found his place. Started reading again.
His mind was elsewhere — on the phone call he’d make to Arianne tonight. On the business plan she’d probably already be outlining in her head by the time he finished explaining. On the life they were building, piece by piece, decision by decision.
The agency. The family. The future.
He was ready.
