Chapter 81

A Blossoming Romance: Charlie Lee and the Goddess of the Screen

"When are you going back to school?" Charlie Lee asked, his tone laced with a hint of sadness.

"On the 10th. I've already made a reservation," Bergman replied, her expression downcast.

After completing her minor supporting role in Hollywood, Ingrid Bergman was set to return to the Royal Academy of Drama to continue her studies. This brief but meaningful stint in filmmaking had granted her valuable insights into herself and the evolving world of sound films. She was eager to return to her academic life to hone her craft further.

Charlie, noticing her reluctance, decided to put aside his pressing business matters. He spent an entire week in Hollywood, solely to be by her side. His devotion left her both touched and conflicted.

Meanwhile, Charlie's luxurious yacht, The Ingley, underwent a complete upgrade. Its spherical deck, which had been renovated countless times, was now more sophisticated than ever—sleek, elastic, and impressively versatile. However, these upgrades posed an issue for Bergman. The newly revamped interiors rendered her older, less glamorous wardrobe obsolete.

To address this, Charlie waved his hand dismissively and indulged her in a shopping spree. By the time Bergman boarded the ship for her return journey, she was accompanied by eight towering trunks packed with stylish and exquisite garments, alongside her four bodyguards.

"I'll miss you. Write to me," she whispered tenderly as she kissed him goodbye before boarding the cruise ship.

The whistle's mournful sound echoed through the air as the ship slowly pulled away from the harbor. Charlie stood by the shore, waving until Bergman disappeared from sight. Finally, lowering his arm, he turned to Eva, his loyal assistant.

"Let's go," he said with resolve. Back in the car, Charlie was already planning his next move, ready to resume his carefully laid plans in Hollywood.

Back in Hollywood, Greta Garbo had just wrapped up her latest film. As she exited the set, her presence sparked a variety of emotions in the people around her. Men ogled her with desire; women watched her with envy. Despite this attention, Garbo brushed it off with practiced indifference.

Rejecting the director's invitation to celebrate, she slipped into her car. The white-curtained windows shielded her from the outside world, creating a private sanctuary. Without waiting for instructions, the driver instinctively knew to take her back to her apartment.

Garbo, famously reclusive, continued to cultivate her image as a mysterious, untouchable icon. Beyond the camera, she isolated herself from the industry and society, standing on the periphery as a silent observer of the times. Her detachment only amplified her allure.

Whenever asked to attend a party or event, her response was always the same: "I want to be alone." Even the press found it nearly impossible to get a quote or photo, encountering only a fleeting, enigmatic figure.

Still, Garbo was pragmatic when it came to her career. MGM had groomed her into a "screen goddess," transforming her from an unknown actress into a global superstar. While she disliked their control, she understood the value of their support, especially when it came to securing financial stability. Her past, marked by poverty and hardship, haunted her, and she was determined never to return to those desperate days.

But when MGM presented her with a new long-term contract, her lawyer's sharp critique—"dog shit, garbage, they're treating you like a fool"—shook her confidence. Garbo hesitated. She knew the rules of Hollywood, but she refused to be exploited.

This newfound awareness brought her to a crossroads. Garbo had been fortunate; her mentor, Mauritz Stiller, had shielded her from the darker side of the industry. Now, as she stood alone, she realized the full weight of her fame. Fans adored her, flocking to her premieres in droves. Her films consistently broke box office records. Garbo was no longer just an actress; she was a phenomenon.

But her rising star also attracted unwanted attention. MGM's head, Louis B. Mayer, grew increasingly aggressive in his attempts to control her. When Garbo resisted signing the contract, Mayer's veiled threat—"If she doesn't sign, I'll make sure she has nothing"—left her deeply unsettled.

Amid these tensions, Garbo returned to her apartment one evening, only to find the air heavy with the scent of roses. Outside her door stood a deliveryman holding an enormous bouquet.

"I've told you not to come again," Garbo said sharply, her patience wearing thin.

The man lowered the bouquet, revealing none other than Charlie Lee, smiling confidently. Without waiting for permission, he grabbed her wrist and led her to his car.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, her tone icy but composed.

"It's just dinner," Charlie replied, his words tinged with amusement. "Don't worry—this is a lawful society."

Garbo remained calm, her natural poise unshaken. She was well aware of her power in any situation, even one as unexpected as this.

The car pulled up to the Roosevelt Hotel, where a red carpet had been laid out just for her. Though surprised, Garbo betrayed no emotion, merely following the hotel staff inside.

The doors to the banquet hall opened, revealing a breathtaking scene. The room was dimly lit with soft candlelight. A sea of flowers covered the floor, while balloons floated gently overhead. The long table at the center was adorned with intricate floral arrangements, gold candlesticks, and an elegant striped tablecloth.

Lining the walls were photographs and portraits of Garbo—some candid, others artistic. They captured her many phases, from a young actress to the "screen goddess" the world now revered.

"Is this all?" Garbo asked, her tone cool and detached.

"Not impressed? Should I add fireworks?" Charlie teased, his smile challenging her composure.

For a moment, Garbo's stoic mask faltered. Beneath her aloof exterior, she felt a flicker of something unexpected—delight. The effort and thought behind the gesture touched her, even if she wouldn't admit it.

After a brief hesitation, Garbo sat down at the table. Her calm demeanor returned, but Charlie wasn't fazed. He casually pulled up a chair beside her, disregarding the formalities of seating etiquette.

"What are you doing?" she asked, startled by his boldness.

Charlie leaned in slightly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I prefer conversations up close. Don't you think it's ridiculous to sit so far apart, like strangers yelling across a fence?"

Garbo's lips twitched, and a nearby waitress stifled a laugh. The metaphor was absurd but amusing.

"That's quite rude," Garbo remarked, though her tone was more playful than angry.

Charlie chuckled, reading her reaction perfectly. Beneath her composed exterior, Garbo wasn't as unreachable as she seemed. She was human, after all—a woman who, like anyone else, appreciated a grand romantic gesture.

As the evening unfolded, the atmosphere between them softened. For Garbo, it was a rare moment of connection in a world that often felt isolating. For Charlie, it was a step closer to understanding the enigmatic woman who had captured his attention.

In that candlelit room, surrounded by roses and portraits, two extraordinary individuals from vastly different worlds began to bridge the distance between them.