If the employees of JTV thought they had seen it all when Harry Jackson took over a sinking ship and turned it into a rising star, they were wrong.
Because this week...
"Rachel Jackson became the Executive Assistant."
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Day 1:
"Who's the woman in Chanel barking at the finance team?" whispered one intern.
"That's his mother," Lisa said on the phone from Bali, cocktail in hand. "God help them all."
Rachel Jackson didn't just assume the role, she redefined it. In heels sharper than half the networks wit, she walked into Harry's office at 8 AM on the dot, took his phone, and handed him a beautifully organized agenda for the day.
"You're twelve minutes late for your 8:30 production meeting," she said breezily.
"I didn't know I had one," Harry said.
"You do now."
By noon, she had rearranged five meetings and verbally dismembered two executives who hit on her, as well as called a caterer to revise the boardroom menu to something that did not resemble, in her words, "plastic wrapped deli sadness."
Day 2:
"Mr. Jackson is currently unavailable. He is meeting with the Power Rangers production designers. Feel free to leave your dignity or your card. Whatever you prefer," Rachel stated as she answered Harry's line, channeling the rest of his calls effortlessly.
She connected with Lisa remotely, and read over three scripts neither of which Harry had touched since March.
Harry stumbled back to his office after a shoot, staring at his desk in shock.
"This is more organized than I've ever seen it," he muttered, fidgeting with the color-coded documents and the in-house snack tray which had three of his favorite cookies.
Rachel smirked at him from behind her makeshift desk. "You're welcome."
Day 4: Warner Bros. Studios – Burbank
By the time Harry finally returned to Stage 14, the zombie apocalypse was almost complete.
Dead Walkers was in it's last days of production. The heavy blood rigs had been taken down, the fog machines had shut off, and mostly the cast, some still half in costume, were reclining in the green room discussing wrap parties and pilot season.
Jeffrey Dean Morgan offered Harry a nod, cigarette tucked behind one ear. "You stuck around the whole way. Didn't think a network suit would get that dirty."
"I grew up in boardrooms. The dirt's more honest out here," Harry replied.
Evangeline Lilly walked over with a cup of coffee and a shirt half-tucked because of the fake blood. "You genuinely wrote the whole idea from memory?"
"Very vague," Harry shrugged. "The writers did the hard part. I just said 'zombies, broken world, emotional survival,' and they made it sing."
"Still," she smiled. "If we get a second season, I'm getting a raise and a bigger crossbow!"
Harry laughed.
The last scenes were emotional—low on action, high on tension. Sam Heller directed the last scenes quietly, efficiently. Harry was by his side again, but not as a shadow, as someone learning, with a pen and notebook, blocking, camera angles, and asking questions when Sam had a moment to breathe.
"You've got a good eye," Sam mumbled. "Still too polite. That will wear off."
____
Rachel was already in his office when Harry returned, standing next to the window, sipping an espresso.
"Your zombie thing is done."
Harry nodded. "It's complete. Editing starts next week."
Rachel turned to look at him sharply. "You look like someone about to drop a locust bomb."
Harry breathed out.
He had been thinking about it ever since Greece. Ever since he opened the newspaper and saw a name he knew. A memory from another life.
A moment he knew was coming.
September 11, 2001.
Three months from now.
Everything would change. Economically. Politically. Culturally.
But Harry?
Harry recalled the aftermath.
The market drop. The airline shares. The change in global media. The safe bets. The collapses.
He didn't have a holy spreadsheet, nor chronologies.
He had one advantage: he remembered enough.
"I want to reallocate a portion my holdings," Harry said quietly.
Rachel turned completely. "Into what?"
"Defense contractors. Surveillance tech. Healthcare logistics. Precious metals. Maybe short out a few airline shares. Do it discreetly. Personally. Not through JTV."
Rachel looked at him as if she was looking at a stranger again.
"You're hedging against something."
Harry didn't answer. He merely walked to his desk and pulled out a list of the stocks and companies he remembered that survived—or thrived—following a crisis.
"I thought you gave up on finance," she said. "I thought Hollywood was your new religion."
Harry paused before shrugging and answered, "Even dreamers need parachutes."
She nodded once. "What is the amount?''
"Ten million."
Rachel whistled. "And if you are wrong?"
"I will buy another theatre," Harry said with a smile.
Day 6: Rachel's Last Day as Executive Assistant.
She wore a sharp red blazer. Her hair was in a bun. Her tone was efficient and lethal.
The team had signed a petition for her to stay on full-time.
"I will burn that petition," Harry warned the assistant director.
Lisa returned the next day to her desk spotless, her files all labeled in perfect calligraphy. In her workspace, she found a Post-it saying:
"You're welcome. -R"