The chilling fog of London on the first of December, 1972, rolled off the sky, wrapping the limestone facade of the Savoy Hotel in a soft embrace.
Inside the penthouse suite, the air was warm, Duke stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
He had flown the Atlantic to keep his promise with Lynda, resting on the antique oak desk behind him was a thick stack of typewritten pages.
It was a manuscript he had hammered out in the nights back in Owlwood, a complex fantasy narrative titled A Game of Thrones. He didn't know if the market was even entirely ready for the gritty realism of Westeros.
___
Later that afternoon, in a room illuminated by the amber glow of gas lamps, the world outside London seemed to dissolve into a distant though.
Duke sat at a secluded corner table in a Mayfair club, across from him, J.R.R. Tolkien sat hunched, his eyes slightly tired.
Duke sat with his hands folded, in front of him.
He had already accomplished the impossible months prior, finalizing the acquisition of the film, television, video game, and merchandising rights to The Lord of the Rings.
To him, it was a bargain that would eventually become billions, meanwhile to the professor, it was a life-altering windfall that ensured his family's comfort after his passing.
Duke leaned forward, speaking with a respect that he rarely offered the studio executives back in Los Angeles. "If i may ask Mr. Tolkien," He said trying to sound more elegant with his word choice. "how do you keep up with writing? Do you ever suffer from writer's block?"
Tolkien took a slow, deliberate draw from his pipe, he watched Duke for a long moment, "If you want my opinion, you are running far too fast, Mr. Hauser," the professor murmured.
"You are trying to build an entire forest in a single afternoon, A story, much like a life, requires the patience of the seasons to truly flourish. You are so busy mapping the horizon that you have forgotten to look at the ground beneath your feet. When was the last time you simply walked, Duke?"
Duke had a flashback to how people use to say, ''Touch Grass' to each other after quarantine.
"When was the last time you put things down to just walk?"
Duke felt the sting of the words, "I feel like if I stop, the momentum will vanish," Duke admitted, leaning back. "Like if I don't keep going, the foundation i painstakenly built will crumble."
Tolkien shook his head slowly. "You are twenty-five years old man. The world will not stop turning if you stop publishing for a while. Let the stories you are so eager to put on screens actually inhabit your lungs for a while."
Duke shifted, reaching into his bag to pull out stack of typewritten pages, the manuscript for A Game of Thrones.
He slid it across the polished wood, "I've been trying to build something... different. A world where the magic is dying and the politics are everything."
Tolkien pulled the stack closer, and began to read in silence.
While the professor absorbed the political landscape of Westeros, Duke reached for a discarded copy of The Times lying on the table.
A feature article caught his eye, detailing the official opening of the Vermont Yankee nuclear power plant back in the States, complete with a photo of protesters surrounding the gates, placards held high.
After a long stretch of silence, Tolkien carefully placed the manuscript down, his expression thoughtful, though his eyebrows were slightly raised. "It is good worldbuilding, Duke," he said, his voice measured.
"The scale is ambitious, and the historical echoes are quite masterful. It is, perhaps, not my cup of tea, I find your character motivations to be a bit... jagged, perhaps even cruel, but the internal logic holds together. You have a knack for the structural architecture of a world."
Duke sighed, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. "I appreciate that. But it's a gamble. My last attempt, Necromancer, was an exercise in worldbuilding too, and it flopped."
Tolkien let out a hearty old man laugh, his eyes twinkling. "You are worried about a flop? When The Fellowship of the Ring was first published, it was hardly an overnight sensation. Critics thought it was too archaic. It took years, decades even, for the roots to take hold. You speak of Necromancer as if it were a life sentence."
"You are twenty-five, for heaven's sake! You have three, perhaps four bestsellers already under your belt. Do you know how many authors wish for a single 'flop' of that caliber?"
"You carry yourself like you're counting the minutes until your own funeral." He leaned forward, the gaslight catching the glint of his eyes.
"You have built up Paramount to the point that even my morning newspapers talk about it, and you are worrying about the reception of a single book. Relax. Take a holiday. Buy a house in the countryside. Remember this advice, build a life, not just a carreer."
Duke didn't answered, he simply sat, sipped his tea, and listened to the rain tapping against the London glass, while Tolkien went back to reading.
___
The sheer spectacle of the Royal Albert Hall was amazing.
It was the night of the Miss World competition, an event that commanded a massive global television audience and the attention of the British tabloid press.
Duke sat in the velvet-lined seats of the VIP section, wearing a tailored, midnight-blue tuxedo.
He wasn't simply there to play the role of the supportive, wealthy boyfriend, Duke was actively managing the narrative.
Over the past forty-eight hours, he had utilized his immense media influence, pulling favors, and utilizing the power of Paramount's international advertising budgets to send a very clear message.
The tabloids, usually eager to tear down the contestants with sensationalist headlines, suddenly found themselves treating Lynda Carter with a profound level of respect.
They framed her not as a superficial beauty queen, but as a serious, multifaceted American talent, a rising star destined to conquer Hollywood.
When Lynda finally stepped onto the illuminated stage, with her dazzling smile, and her undeniable presence, Duke felt a surge of pride. She reached the semi-finals before falling.
The paparazzi and the flashes of the cameras finally faded as the mahogany doors of the Savoy penthouse clicked shut, sending the suite into a serene tranquility.
Duke loosened his bow tie and poured two glasses of champagne.
He planned on drinking now, he had bought these bottles for a while, they were gonna drink if she won to celebrate or to forget she loss.
He turned around to offer a glass to Lynda, but stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the center of the living room, was Lynda Carter was wearing the Wonder Woman costume complete with the gold tiara, the red bustier, and the iconic silver bracelets.
Lynda struck a playful, heroic pose, her hands resting firmly on her hips, "Well?" she asked. "Does the Chairman of Paramount Pictures approve of the wardrobe department?"
Duke set the champagne glasses down on a nearby desk, moving across the room with a slow smile. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, pulling her against his chest, the cool metal of her bracelets pressing against his tuxedo jacket. "I think the Chairman can't make decisions now,"
After a while, they settled onto the plush sofa, Duke ran his hand gently through her dark hair, his eyes locking onto hers.
"You know, the timing of this outfit is incredibly accurate," Duke said, "We are fast-tracking the Wonder Woman television series for production next year."
Lynda gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in genuine shock, "A full television series? Next year? Oh my god, Duke, that's going to be a massive production schedule. Where are they going to shoot it? Am I going to have to live on some remote location for months on end? What about our house?"
Duke chuckled, and kissed her forehead. "Do you honestly think I would let you suffer through a miserable commute? The entire production, from the soundstages to the exterior streets, is going to be built and shot right on the Paramount lot."
"You'll be five minutes from the executive building. You can literally walk from your dressing room to my office to have lunch with me every single day. Of course some days maybe you'll have to go somewhere for an specific shoot, but normally not."
Lynda leaned her head against his shoulder, she traced idle patterns on his chest, "You know, speaking of the Paramount lot, I had the strangest, most vivid dream about it the other night," she murmured.
"It was terrifying, it was like that movie you showed me, Night of the Living Dead, but the zombie apocalypse happened right in the middle of a busy production day. I was trapped inside the gates of the studio. All the actors were in their costumes, running around. People were fighting off the infected grip crews with prop swords. I was hiding watching everything."
Duke said, after considering for a moment. "That is an incredible concept for a B-tier Movie. We could just use a stage before its demolished." (I had this idea and it sounds good, so this will be developed)
___
A few weeks later, they found themselves on New York.
They were staying in a suite at the Plaza Hotel, the windows overlooking the beautiful, snow-dusted expanse of Central Park.
They sat across from each other at a small table eating room service breakfast, the conversation inevitably went towards real estate.
"We need a permanent foothold in the city," Duke stated flatly, spreading a layer of marmalade onto a piece of toast.
"With the East Coast meetings becoming a monthly occurrence, I refuse to keep operating out of the Plaza. I want to buy a brownstone."
Brownstones were a dutch architecture legacy from the times when New York, was New Amsterdam. With an iconic high stoop (staircase) that was designed to raise the main living area above the horse manure that plagued the city
They also were great against floods. (I just find this interesting)
Lynda's eyes lit up immediately, the prospect of a creative project instantly capturing her imagination. "Oh, Duke, a brownstone would be magnificent," she gushed, her coffee forgotten as she leaned across the table.
"We could completely gut the interior. Keep the historic facade, but modernize everything inside. I've been reading Architectural Digest. I want a massive, industrial kitchen, and a real library with rolling ladders for you."
Duke smiled, watching her enthusiasm bubble over. "The budget is completely yours," he promised.
The afternoon of December 24th saw Duke and Lynda, heavily bundled in thick coats and woolen scarves, walked through the salted streets of Manhattan until they reached the entrance of a flagship Sears department store.
Inside, it was a madhouse of frantic last-minute shoppers, and screaming children.
He steered Lynda toward the electronics and sporting goods department, where a massive line of people wrapped around the aisles.
Today was the official retail launch of the Atari Home Pong console.
He and Lynda found a quiet spot on a display bench near the edge of the department, sitting down to simply watch the sale unfold.
People were practically vibrating with anticipation, clutching their crumpled pre-order slips like Wonka golden tickets.
Duke watched a smiling father and son finally reach the register, the clerk handing over the sleek, beautifully packaged cardboard box.
"Look at them," Lynda whispered, leaning her head against Duke's shoulder as they watched another dozen consoles fly off the shelfs. "They're so excited, I now want one."
Duke smiled, wrapping his arm around her. "I'll get someone ot bring us one to the hotel"
"So... it's Christmas Eve. Which begs the question, what did you get me?" Lynda pulled back slightly, a grin spreading across her beautiful face. "I will tell you exactly what I got you, the very second you tell me what you got me."
Duke chuckled, shaking his head. "Absolutely not. You'll have to wait until we get back to the hotel tonight."
Lynda shook her head, "Well, that's a problem, Duke. Because my gift for you isn't at the hotel. My gift for you is right now. And you have to come with me to get it."
Duke raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. Intrigued, he allowed Lynda to take his hand and lead him out of the chaotic Sears and back out into the freezing streets of New York.
She hailed a cab, giving the driver an address in a neighborhood that Duke immediately recognized as far less glamorous than the Upper East Side.
When the cab finally pulled to a stop twenty minutes later, they were standing in front of a small rundown, single-screen independent theater.
The marquee was missing several letters, the neon lights were flickering on and off, and the brickwork was desperate for a power wash.
Duke, immediately scanned the streest, actively making eye contact with the plainclothes security detail that had been trailing them in an unmarked sedan.
Lynda noticed his tension and squeezed his hand reassuringly, pulling him toward the battered glass doors. "Relax, Duke. It's safe."
She unlocked the front doors with a heavy brass key she pulled from her purse, leading him into a dusty lobby. "I rented the whole place for the day," Lynda confessed, her voice echoing slightly in the empty lobby.
She looked down, suddenly a little embarrassed, "I know it's not a private screening room at the studio. I don't have Paramount money yet. It's a little beat up, but the owner said the projector works perfectly."
Duke stopped walking. He looked at the peeling vintage movie posters hanging, and then he looked at Lynda.
It was, without a single doubt, a touching gift.
"This is perfect. I love it."
They walked hand-in-hand into the auditorium, taking seats right in the center of the house.
A moment later, the heavy curtains parted, the projector came to life, it was the 1938 classic The Adventures of Robin Hood splashed across the silver screen.
Duke settled back, a smile breaking across his face.
Errol Flynn's swashbuckling charm was amazing, this was a movie he had watched dozens of times while wrting his Star Wars novel.
As soon as Robin Hood finished his triumphant final duel, the screen briefly went black before the projector fired up the second feature of Lynda's meticulously planned cinema experience, the 1951 sci-fi disaster epic, When Worlds Collide.
The cheesy special effects and the unapologetic pulp of the narrative were to Duke more important than the whole French New Wave.
When the final credits rolled and the house lights flickered back on, Lynda turned to him with an anxious expression.
"Did you like it?" she asked softly. Duke pulled her into a tight hug, "It is the best Christmas gift I've ever received."
They walked back out into the lobby, and Duke reached deep into the pocket of his heavy wool coat, pulling out a small wrapped, square box adorned with a silver ribbon.
"I didn't really know what to get you," Duke admitted, "So, I thought I'd give you something that money literally cannot buy."
"I sat down with a toy designer in a workshop last month, and we engineered this from a concept I had."
Lynda carefully untied the ribbon and tore away the paper, revealing a strange, colorful, three-dimensional plastic cube.
A Rubik's Cube, brought into existence years before its historical invention.
Duke called it a "Toy Cube." Lynda held it in her hands, turning it over, completely baffled by the mechanics.
"What does it do?" she asked, her brow furrowed in adorable confusion.
Duke took the cube from her hands, his fingers moving in a rapid motion, twisting the rows and columns until the solid colors were completely scrambled.
He handed the scrambled puzzle back to her. "Fix it," he said simply.
The rest of their trip back to the Plaza Hotel was incredibly quiet.
Lynda had her arm tightly linked through Duke's arm, pressing close to his side for warmth, but her eyes were entirely on the plastic cube in her hands.
She twisted the top row, groaned in frustration as she displaced a blue square, and muttered something under her breath, using both of her free hands to battle the puzzle.
Duke walked beside her, noticing the snow catching in his hair, an amused smile on his face.