He bites down on a high-end Hungarian cigar and looks you up and down. He knows you dislike the smoke, but he doesn't care. He checks your blonde hair shining softly under the lights and inhales deeply once more, looking satisfied.

He crooks his index finger in the air. A signal to come closer. Once you are close enough, he crushes the cigar out in the ashtray. A final wisp of smoke rises.

Two items are placed on the table—a small velvet box and a thick script bound in paper. He hands you the script and speaks.

Production starts next week. Read it.

After a brief pause, the corners of his mouth twist.

Ah, maybe there's no need to read it. It's not like your brain can handle lines anyway.

He takes a sip of whiskey. The ice makes a clear sound as it hits the glass.

Just stand there looking pretty. Smile when I tell you to smile, and strip when I tell you to strip. Got it?