Duke pushed through the door of his Paramount office and stopped mid-stride.
The room was quieter than the last few days.
He had braced himself for chaos, frantic executives pacing the carpet, overflowing ashtrays, a switchboard crackling with reporters again.
Instead, his assistant, Don Simpson stood calmly behind the desk, holding the morning edition of the New York Times, a smile at the corners of his mouth.
The entertainment industry thrived on manufactured outrage.
Duke had spent the last week preparing for war, drafting statements, hiring security, bracing for the invasion of privacy that would inevitably follow.
The young executive dropped the newspaper on the desk surface, tapping the front page without saying a word with a sly smile.
Duke leaned forward, scanning the headline.
"Howard Hughes Dies at 70 On Flight to Texas Hospital"
Accompanied by the opening subheader, "Howard R. Hughes died today as mysteriously as he had lived."
The eccentric billionaire, aviation pioneer, and former Hollywood titan had passed away while flying from Acapulco to a hospital in Houston.
The news dominated every inch of the national and international press cycle.
Not a single mention of Duke nor Bradley.
"The switchboard has been quiet today," Simpson reported, a small smile on his face as he did a little side to side dance with his hips.
"The only calls we received this morning are from reporters asking if you knew Hughes personally. They want quotes about his impact on the studio system."
Duke picked up the paper, scanning the obituary.
The billionaire had revolutionized aerospace engineering and the cinematic landscape before retreating into a reclusive lifestyle.
His sudden demise possessed a pull that easily swallowed any minor celebrity gossip.
He shook his head, marveling at the bizarre timing.
He had spent so long agonizing over the potential fallout and now, an eccentric tycoon from a bygone era had provided him perfect cover.
Of course it helped that The New Hollywood era operated under a vastly different moral code than the Golden age of cinema.
The Golden Age of Cinema in Hollywood went from roughly 1927 to 1963 and was defined by the powerful 'Studio System' to mass-produce films using the vertical integration model.
The Studio system meant major studios strictly controlled production, distribution, and exhibition, while managing actors' public images and typecasting through long-term contracts.
During this era, the industry was dominated by the Big Five and Little Three studios. And Paramount Pictures was already part of the Big Five back then.
But now things had changed, the strict moral clauses that once dictated an actor's private life had dissolved.
Modern audiences embraced rebellious filmmakers, counterculture icons, and stars who openly disobeyed traditional conventions.
During the 30s and 40s, a studio boss hiding a child would have faced shareholder revolts and moral crusades by organizations.
The old moguls maintained pristine, manufactured facades.
But by 1976, the cultural landscape had shifted toward authenticity and celebrating comfort and self-expression.
The only true career-ending scandal left in the current era in Hollywood was homosexuality.
If a leading man stepped out of the closet, the financial backing for his projects vanished overnight. Duke remembered even in the future, a lot of movie stars were rumoured to be gay in secret, to avoid audiences backlash.
Everything else from rampant drug use to messy divorces was tolerated or even celebrated as artistic temperament.
Duke had used his honest to successfully defang the tabloid story before it could gain momentum.
He walked to the wide window overloking the bustling studio lot. Below, crew members walked around with clipboards and coffee cups.
'I spent so long hiding this from the world,' he thought. 'And they just... don't care.'
The realization brought a sense of relief.
The general public simply didn't care much about a famous mogul having a child out of wedlock.
They wanted entertaining movies, television shows, and compelling stories.
His personal life, stripped of its secretive allure, was surprisingly mundane to the average ticket buyer who didnt really care that much about directors, or writers.
After all, he wasnt a main lead.
He walked over to his phone and dialed the direct line to the estate.
Margaux answered on the second ring, her voice tight with lingering anxiety.
She had spent the previous evening putting down curtains to avoid being seen through windows, fearing any rogue photographers would catch her.
"The Enquirer story is dead," Duke said. "Howard Hughes died last night. It's all anyone is talking about right now."
The rest of the workday passed with surprising ease.
Duke attended production meetings, reviewed daily box office receipts, and finalized casting decisions for upcoming slate features.
Barry Lyndon and The Bad News Bear were hits right now.
He had also got some calls from the RNC about a Watergate movie, 'All the President's Men' that was released, but Duke truly could not find it in himself to give a fuck.
They didnt mention Paramount, or ANE so to Duke, it was not that big of an issue. The opinion that Watergate was bad was Bipartisan.
He wrapped up his final meeting with the distribution executives shortly after 7 pm and left.
The iron gates of the Owlwood Estate parted as his vehicle approached.
Owlwood Estate had a rich Hollywood story.
Built in the 1930s, it was an Italian Renaissance revival mansion had housed Joseph M. Schenck, one of the founders of 20th Century Studios and one of the founders of the Academy Awards.
He stepped through the entryway, dropping his keys into a silver bowl.
He followed the sound of joyful babbling toward the spacious living room.
Margaux sat on the carpet, rolling a brightly colored wooden block across the floor.
Bradley stood a few feet away, his tiny legs wobbling slightly before he took several steps forward.
Duke leaned against the doorway, watching his son navigate the living room.
Margaux looked up, catching sight of him. Her face broke into a smile.
She scooped Bradley up, the boy letting out a happy squeal.
Duke walked over, ruffling his son's soft hair.
The evening news played quietly on a television in the corner, confirming the national obsession with the Hughes estate.
"I watched the evening broadcasts," Margaux said, shifting Bradley onto her hip. "The major networks dedicated 20 minutes to Hughes's aviation records and his time in Las Vegas."
Duke nodded, remembering he had heard Howard Hughes helped create Las Vegas.
Duke unbuttoned his suit jacket, "The media ecosystem requires an event to synchronize their coverage. A reclusive icon passing away provides endless hours of retrospective footage. We are yesterday's news now."
Margaux laughed at the absurdity of their situation. "I spent the last week terrified of what people would say, and Howard Hughes just saved us from the firing squad."
They had been so scared that Margaux had to sneak through a renovated old tunnel that the previous owner had used to discretly bring his lovers to the property.
When Duke bought the property, he saw it, and the realtor said that Joseph Schenck got it made to allow Marilyn Monroe to sneak in.
She walked toward the kitchen, Bradley resting comfortably against her side.
As Duke poured himself a glass of water, Margaux's tone shifted.
"My grandmother called this afternoon," Margaux mentioned, setting Bradley down in a wooden high chair.
Hadley Richardson, Ernest Hemingway's first wife, divorced him in 1927 following his affair with Pauline Pfeiffer, their family friend.
Hadley had gotten the royalties to one of Hemingway's novel in the divorce so she was financially doing good.
"She had a long conversation with Jack," Margaux continued, opening a banana for the toddler.
Margaux handed a small banana slice to Bradley, "She was quite stern with him. Maybe he'll finally leave us alone."
Duke listened, his expression neutral as he leaned against the counter. He nodded slowly, offering a supportive smile.
Internally, however, Duke understood the fundamental nature of men who chased reflected glory.
Jack would always view his connection to him and Paramount as a valuable currency.
The entertainment industry was littered with problematic relatives who leaked sensitive information to trade papers or demanded consulting fees to maintain their silence.
He observed Margaux wiping Bradley's face with a cloth, her heart full of hope for her father's change of heart.
Duke would never crush that hope, but he had already decided that Jack could not be trusted.
It was time to get a favor from his politics friends.
The rest of the evening passed in domestic bliss.
They ate dinner together, discussing upcoming films and Bradley's expanding vocabulary.
Duke carried a sleepy Bradley upstairs, he handled the bedtime routine with practiced care.
He gently placed the boy into the wooden crib, pulling a soft blanket over his small body before Duke went to sleep himself.
The glass in the Study windows buzzed.
On his desk, a dipping fountain pen slowly rattled against the crystal holding the ink.
Duke didn't look up from the distribution contract. He simply stared at the inkwell until a high-pitched wail came out from the nursery upstairs.
Upstairs, the nursery was bathed in the low glow of a single nightlight.
Margaux was already there, rocking Bradley.
Margaux didn't look back when the floorboards creaked behind her, a few stray strands of hair stuck to the sweat on her cheek.
Duke stepped up beside her, placing a hand on the small of her back, he reached and grabbed Bradley.
"Go back to bed," Duke said.
Margaux let her hands drop to her sides. She stared at the window, "It's Tuesday, Connor. It's 3 am on a Tuesday."
"I'll handle it."
He got dressed nicely and walked out, leavinf a sleeping bradley and Margaux behind.
Duke went through a service door on the corner of the property, just wide enough to clear his shoulders and stepped through the hedge.
The backyard was filled with bodies packed dancing around the pool.
A young actress in a fringed vest staggered backward, nearly tripping over Duke's boots, she spun around to curse, but her eyes hit his face.
The words died in her throat, and she pulled her companion away into the pool house.
Duke didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on the fire pit near the grottoon a side.
Hugh Hefner was leaning against a stone ledge, surrounded by men and young women.
When Duke stepped into the light of the fire, the laughter dropped off.
One of the velvet jackets moved to step between them, but Hefner raised a hand, a grin spreading on his face.
"Duke," Hefner said, his voice carrying a Midwestern drawl. "The prodigal neighbor. I was beginning to think you only existed in the trades. Someone get this man a scotch."
"Turn it off," Duke said. He didn't raise his voice.
Hefner took a slow draw from his pipe, blowing a stream of smoke directly into the space between them.
"It's a charity gala for the a clinic, Duke. We're doing business here. The kind of business that keeps the studios in your pocket running. Relax. Have a drink."
The entourage chuckled.
"The outdoor speakers turn them off," Duke said, his voice flat. "Midnight curfew every night."
Hefner's smile turned thin. He leaned in, "This is my house, kid. You want quiet? Move back to Texas."
Duke stepped closer, and spoke in a whisper that stayed strictly between the two of them, under the sound of the music.
"You wouldn't want more people asking questions about Bobbie Arnstein."
A rigid stillness took over Hefner's jaw.
Roberta "Bobbie" Arnstein was Hugh Hefner's executive secretary and closest confidant.
But she had a federal drug conviction and decided to cooperate with the goverment. Talking about the Drug fueled parties and days at the Playboy Mansion.
How Hugh Hefner would target young girls and promise them roles where they would not have to take off their clothes, before getting them addicted to drugs and forcing them into it.
But just before she could do that, in 1975, she commited suicide.
Hefner had even gone on to accuse federal prosecutors of a politically motivated "witch hunt" aimed at destroying the Playboy empire.
Hefner's hand stayed wrapped around his glass, but his knuckles were white. "That's done, the department closed the file."
"Paramount owns a major newspapers in Washington, and we are in the process of buying in Ohio and Chicago, Hugh," Duke said, his voice conversational, almost pleasant.
He knew the Playboy playbook.
Recruiters and talent scouts target young naive women from rural towns with the promise of high-fashion, non-explicit modeling.
Once signed, women had their contract payouts staggered and dragged out over many months.
To survive financially while waiting for their money, they were then encouraged to move into the Playboy Mansion or affiliated properties, surrendering their independence.
Upon arrival, women faced pressure to do drugs.
Playboy girls were subjected to 9 PM curfews, weight restrictions, and a total ban on outside employment or making money independently.
Once fully dependent, the illusion of non-explicit modeling vanished.
Hefner demanded sexual compliance to maintain residency or status within the organization.
Hefner was even known to secretly recorded these encounters. These recordings were then used as leverage to ensure the women did not contact authorities or the press.
"And I just bought 10% of the New York Post. I can have investigative leads sitting in an office in New York with nothing to do but look through old jury transcripts. We can start with the prescription logs from the mansion's pharmacy."
"Aren't you dealing with your bastard? Also you have no evidence about Arnstei-" Hefner looked around quickly, his eyes darting toward his entourage.
"I dont need it, I will personally donate to every organization that attacks you and publish reports on you, for months, then you will fall on oyur own since nobody will want to defend you."
"A midnight curfew," Duke repeated, leaving things clear.
Hefner looked back at the fire and gave a small nod without looking at him.
Duke turned his back on the fire pit and walked toward the gate.
This wasnt the hippies 60s anymore, nor were the democrats powerhouses. If Duke truly wanted to go after Hefner, nobody would step in the way to stop him.
___
So let me love you, and ill love you, until you learn to love yourself