Weinstock walked straight to the main table. He greeted Marilyn with two kisses. She laughed, that girlish sound that drove men wild. María watched from her table—not with envy, but with something more complex. Recognition, perhaps. Marilyn was beautiful, yes—vulnerable, exploited, used.
María had seen that story before. Too many times.
Dinner began. Lobster dishes, French wine, conversations about projects, contracts, who was filming with whom. María ate in silence.
Beside her, a screenwriter tried to start a conversation.
“Miss Félix, have you considered working in Hollywood?”
She looked at him as if he had suggested she jump off a bridge.
“Why not? This is where real cinema is made.”
María smiled—a cold smile. “Real cinema. How interesting.”
She said nothing more. The screenwriter grew uncomfortable and stopped speaking.
Then, midway through dinner, Weinstock stood up, glass in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
His voice filled the hall. Everyone fell silent.
“Tonight we celebrate cinema—the true cinema—the cinema made here in Hollywood, the center of the world.”
Polite applause. María did not clap.
“And we celebrate the dazzling stars who light up our screens, like our beloved Marilyn—the most desired woman in America.”
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