Chapter 855: Shocking The World!

The live camera of the TV station zeroed in on the two figures on the podium, capturing every flicker of expression. It was a pivotal moment in the election, with the nation's eyes fixed on their only two remaining candidates for Ukrainian leadership: the revered national hero Alexandrovich, and the seasoned political strategist, Alexei.

The immense conference center buzzed with electric energy, packed to the rafters with supporters of both men. The atmosphere grew increasingly charged as the debate raged on, passions flaring among the audience, who were swept up in the verbal duel on stage.

In stark contrast to Alexei, who had navigated the murky waters of politics for years, Alexandrovich was a newcomer, a novice. Yet, he was no ordinary man; he was a hero to the Ukrainian people, his name synonymous with valor and unyielding patriotism. His appeal was almost magnetic, drawing support from every corner of the country. However, it wasn't just his heroic reputation that had carried him this far. Behind him stood a formidable alliance, a force that added weight to his candidacy.

The debate reached a fever pitch when the topic shifted to Eastern Ukraine and its complicated relationship with Russia, a relationship fraught with tension and historical scars. This was a subject that could sway the election, one that struck a chord deep within the Ukrainian populace. Years of media influence had shaped public opinion, driving many Ukrainians, especially those in the West, to view their eastern neighbor with increasing disdain, despite their shared history.

As the discussion wore on, Alexandrovich began to struggle. The nuances of political debate were not his strong suit, and Alexei, the veteran, seized the opportunity. He sensed his opponent's faltering and moved in for the kill.

"The East grows bolder by the day, and the threat they pose to us only intensifies. They've never stopped trying to carve up Eastern Ukraine for themselves!" Alexei's voice rang out, sharp and clear, as he turned to Alexandrovich with a piercing glare. "And you? Your ties to the East are well known! You've worked with them time and again. How can you claim to protect Ukraine?"

His voice swelled as he addressed the crowd, making sure to catch the eye of every camera in the room. "My fellow Ukrainians, if Alexandrovich takes power, he will lead us to ruin! He lacks the spine to stand against Vladimir in the East. Mark my words, he will kneel before him!"

The auditorium erupted. Alexei's supporters roared their approval, their chants filling the space, a cacophony of accusations and jeers directed at Alexandrovich. The cameras swung to capture every reaction, focusing on Alexandrovich's face, hoping to catch a moment of weakness.

This was a critical juncture. In Ukraine, especially in the western regions, suspicion of Eastern influence ran deep. A simple denial wouldn't suffice, and a direct verbal counterattack might play right into Alexei's hands. Alexandrovich knew this. He could see the traps laid out before him, the pitfalls of engaging in a battle of words where Alexei held all the advantage.

But Alexandrovich wasn't without guidance. He recalled the words of Martin, a respected American ally who had become something of a mentor to him in recent years. "When you speak to the people," Martin had advised, "let them feel your sincerity. Show them the heart of a hero."

Now, in this moment of truth, Alexandrovich understood the value of that advice. He couldn't afford to follow Alexei's script, to be dragged into a rhetorical brawl he was likely to lose. Instead, he had to speak to the hearts of the people in a way that only he could.

Taking a deep breath, Alexandrovich stood, not from his chair, but from the expectations that bound him. He stepped away from the table, moving to the front of the stage, directly in front of the audience and the relentless gaze of the cameras. His supporters, and even his critics, watched in stunned silence, unsure of what he would do next.

And then, with a solemnity that shocked everyone, Alexandrovich knelt.

The room fell silent, disbelief rippling through the crowd. In the West, such an act might not carry the same weight, but here, in this context, it was earth-shattering. Alexandrovich, the national hero, had knelt before his people, not in submission to an enemy, but in a gesture of profound sincerity and humility.

The significance of this act hung in the air, the debate momentarily forgotten. Alexandrovich wasn't just responding to Alexei's accusations; he was making a statement, one that transcended words. In that kneeling posture, he wasn't just a candidate; he was a man who had fought for his country, who was willing to humble himself for its future. And in that moment, it was clear to everyone watching, this was more than politics. This was about the soul of Ukraine.

Alexandrovich's voice rang out with unshakable conviction, "I will not kneel to Vladimir; I will kneel only to the will of the Ukrainian people!"

For a brief, electrifying moment, the entire room was enveloped in silence. It was as if the weight of his words had pressed pause on the chaos. Then, as if a dam had broken, the auditorium erupted into thunderous applause. The sound was deafening, a wave of approval that swept through the crowd. Even some of Alexei's staunchest supporters found themselves clapping, drawn in by Alexandrovich's raw sincerity and defiance.

Across the country, countless Ukrainians watching from their homes felt a surge of emotion. Alexandrovich's declaration struck a chord deep within them, awakening a hope that had long been dormant. In living rooms, cafés, and bars, people began to murmur the same thought: "Our last president was a businessman, a politician, a liar. But maybe, just maybe, this national hero can truly make Ukraine different."

In that moment, it became clear that Alexandrovich had won more than just the debate, he had won the hearts of the people. His support skyrocketed, and the tides of the election began to turn irreversibly in his favor. The aura of inevitability that had once surrounded Alexei now began to crack.

As Alexandrovich made his way back from the debate, the energy of the night still thrumming in his veins, he made a quick call to his company. "Get in touch with North America," he instructed. "Confirm the date for the Saint Girls' performance in Los Angeles as soon as possible. And tell Nastya, Erica, and Misha to prepare some surprises. They'll know what I mean."

As his car passed by the towering sign of the 1+1 TV station, Alexandrovich's thoughts drifted to Martin. He realized now, more than ever, that Martin's influence was going to be crucial in the battles ahead. North America was a key to securing his future position, far more important than even Igor and his Provas Group. Igor's support would be valuable, no doubt, but the gift that Martin's connections in North America could offer would be unparalleled.

Meanwhile, across the world in Rosarito Island, Baja California, a different kind of drama was unfolding. The crew of "The Shallows" had officially begun filming in the serene bay area. The weather had been cooperative, but the forecast warned of rougher conditions in the coming week. Ever the strategist, Martin adjusted the shooting schedule accordingly, deciding to film the outdoor scenes first while the sun still shone, leaving the studio scenes for when the weather turned.

The entire film was set against the backdrop of a single, expansive scene: the bay beach. Unlike other film crews that hopped from one location to another, Martin's crew faced far fewer logistical headaches. Yet, the simplicity of the setting did not make the task any less daunting, if anything, it heightened the need for precision and creativity.

Martin, making his directorial debut with "The Shallows," had chosen this project with careful consideration. He knew the challenges that lay ahead, but he also knew how to navigate them. From his perch on a nearby boat, he watched the action unfold through the director's monitor. Blake, the lead actress, was in the water, her orange-red bikini a bright contrast against the blue sea. She paddled on her surfboard, her movements graceful and determined as the cameras captured her every move.

Martin wasn't alone on the boat. His first assistant director, Steven Downton, was there, ready to handle any issues that might arise. Nearby, two more boats held cameramen, each angling for the perfect shot. Martin didn't need to micromanage; he trusted his team. He had worked with some of the best directors in the business, each with their own style. Nolan, who preferred to operate the camera himself, was worlds apart from directors like David Fincher and Chad Stahelski, who left the technical details to their crew. Martin had learned from all of them, and now, as a director himself, he found his own balance. He communicated his vision, and the team executed it with professionalism and skill.

This crew was no stranger to Martin, they had worked together on the "John Wick" trilogy, where Martin had been the leading man. Their rapport was strong, built on mutual respect and understanding. Martin knew that if he described the shot he wanted, they would deliver, and they did. Occasionally, a shot might need tweaking, but these minor adjustments were resolved quickly, keeping the production on track.

As Blake paddled through the water, she shouted towards the empty expanse ahead, "Hey, I'm here to surf, too!" Her voice echoed across the bay, the dialogue seemingly directed at an invisible partner. The shots were filmed separately, to be seamlessly edited later in post-production, where cross-cutting would create the illusion of conversation.

On that quiet beach, with the sun glinting off the waves, the magic of cinema was taking shape. Just as Alexandrovich had captivated a nation with his words, Martin was crafting a story that would captivate audiences around the world. Both men, in their own realms, were fighting for something greater than themselves, one for the future of a country, the other for the future of his art.

Blake flashed a bright smile and asked, "What's the name of this beach?"

The director's monitor displayed the live feed from the main camera, which traced a path from Blake's long, toned legs up to her fit, curvaceous body, finally settling on her face, where the first hints of age had begun to show despite her enthusiasm.

Martin's frown deepened as he watched Blake's performance. Her smile was vibrant, but something was off. He grabbed the megaphone beside him and called out, "Cut! Stop!"

Immediately, the crew, who had been diligently working, halted all operations. The sudden cessation left the set in a quiet lull.

Blake, who had been holding herself upright on the surfboard, let her head fall back in exhaustion. She lay still, the effort of staying in character while battling the resistance of the water taking its toll. She had anticipated challenges with shooting in the ocean, but the reality was far more taxing than she had imagined. Every movement was a struggle, and maintaining her performance amidst the waves was draining her energy at an alarming rate.

Martin noticed Blake's fatigue and said, "Take a fifteen-minute break." Then he gestured towards her in the water. "Blake, come up here."

Blake paddled toward the boat, clambered onto the rear deck, and gratefully accepted the warm blanket handed to her by an assistant. Wrapping it around herself, she made her way to the front deck where Martin was in conversation with Steve Downton.

"There's something off with this scene," Martin was saying. "Nancy is supposed to be this beautiful, sexy, single woman who stumbles upon two strangers on a deserted beach..."

Steve immediately caught on and added, "Given what happens later, she should be more guarded, more cautious."

As Blake approached, Martin gestured to a chair next to him. "Sit down."

Blake lowered herself into the chair and asked, "Was there something wrong with my performance?"

Traditionally, most Hollywood directors wouldn't allow actors to review footage during filming, unless they were exceptionally powerful in the industry. This had been an unspoken rule for years. But times had changed, and Martin, who had transitioned into directing later in his career, wasn't bound by these old practices. Without hesitation, he adjusted the monitor and replayed the footage for Blake.

Blake watched the playback intently. While she was known for her presence, she was not a natural when it came to acting. In Hollywood, there were countless supporting actors with more refined skills.

Martin turned to her and asked, "Do you see what the issue is?"

Blake, still dripping from her time in the water, ran a hand through her wet blonde hair and hesitated. "Is it because of my posture? Maybe I flattened out too much and it made my body look less... well, sexy in the shot?"

Steve glanced at her, finally understanding why, despite her pedigree as a second-generation Hollywood star with a famous producer father and Martin's support, she hadn't reached the top. She had the connections and resources but lacked the raw talent that could propel her beyond mediocrity.

"Nancy should have been more cautious when she encountered two strange men on a deserted beach," Martin repeated, his tone patient but firm.

Blake nodded, a look of realization crossing her face. "Yeah, I totally missed that. I'll make sure to keep it in mind for the next take."

Martin gave her a brief nod. "Take a break."

He and Steve then moved to the side of the boat, waiting for another vessel to pull alongside them. There, they discussed the next steps with Dan Rostesin, the director of photography, focusing on what adjustments needed to be made for the upcoming shots.

The break passed quickly, and soon enough, Blake was back in the water, ready to resume filming. Despite the brief reprieve, the demands of the scene hadn't lessened.

During the pause in filming, Martin asked Blake to take some surfing selfies while still in her bikini. She complied, snapping a few shots and then posting them on Twitter and Instagram with the caption, "Started shooting my new film today! Can't reveal much yet, but let's just say the sea plays a big role."

With that, she steeled herself for the next take, determined to channel the cautiousness and edge that the scene demanded, ready to prove that she could rise to the challenge.

The gossip queen's latest social media post quickly became a magnet for fan attention.

"Blake is still in such amazing shape."

"I'd say she has the best body in Hollywood!"

"Is this movie going to be all swimsuits? If so, I'll gladly pay $20 for a ticket just to see that!"

"We need the entire movie in swimwear! Who's with me?"

"Support +1!"

"Count me in…"

Blake Lively, after years of carefully crafting her image as a fitness guru, fashion icon, and social media maven, had cultivated an influence that far outstripped her actual standing in Hollywood. If she had been just another actress, she might have ended up as an internet celebrity, riding the waves of fleeting fame. But Blake was different. Coming from a Hollywood family, she had a deep-rooted desire for prominence in the industry. Her skills in self-promotion and marketing were second to none, surpassing her acting abilities by a wide margin.

Blake was keenly aware of the spotlight that would shine on Martin's directorial debut. She knew that, regardless of the film's outcome, Martin's name alone guaranteed attention and where there was attention, there was money to be made.

As for whether the movie would be a critical success, Blake wasn't so sure. She didn't have full confidence in Martin's directorial skills, but she was certain of his knack for turning a profit. The crew surrounding him was testament to that. They were seasoned veterans, the kind of behind-the-scenes talent that insiders recognized as the backbone of any successful production. Martin himself, though new to directing, was not one to let ego get in the way; he was decisive but open to input, a rare combination.

Then there was Louise Lail, the film's producer, one of the few female powerhouses in Hollywood. With her steering the ship, Blake knew the film was in capable hands. Even if it didn't soar to great heights, it was unlikely to sink.

After several more grueling takes, Blake felt the toll of the day's work. She collapsed onto the boat, too tired to move, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her gaze drifted to Martin, who was deeply engrossed in discussing the next scenes with his team of assistant directors.

The whole production ran like a well-oiled machine, and if you didn't know better, you'd never guess the director was a novice. Watching him, Blake couldn't help but marvel at Martin's ability to pull it all together. It was impressive his focus, his command of the set. Maybe, just maybe, this film would be a hit after all.

But even if it wasn't, Blake wasn't overly concerned. She had known Martin since 2005, almost a decade now, and she understood exactly what kind of man he was. His reputation as a super playboy was no exaggeration, if anything, calling him a sex addict might be closer to the truth. Yet, Martin was also a man of his word. If the movie failed, Blake was certain he would find a way to make it up to her. She was confident about that.

Lost in her thoughts, Blake suddenly snapped herself back to reality, a pang of regret piercing her. If only she had played her cards differently, it might have been her, not Elizabeth Olsen, who secured that coveted role. Frustration flared up, and she smacked herself lightly on the forehead, chiding herself for the missed opportunity.

Just then, the assistant director, Robert Eggers, called out, "It's almost evening! Let's change the scene! Props team, get that buoy out here, drag it to the marked point!"

A speedboat zipped across the water, towing a buoy toward the deeper part of the bay. The crew sprang into action, the urgency in the air palpable as the sun dipped lower on the horizon.

Martin checked his watch and called out, "Let's move it, people! We've got one hour to capture the sunset scene!"

The entire crew kicked into high gear, hustling to get everything in place.

Blake got to her feet and began stretching, mentally preparing herself for the next shot. The scenes where her character fights the shark would mostly be done in the studio, but this, this was the real deal, with the sun setting over the ocean as her backdrop.

Martin turned to his assistant, Steve. "Get a wide-angle shot of the sunset," he instructed, glancing at the glowing orb nearing the water. "Time's not on our side. We start shooting in ten minutes."

Steve nodded, already moving to set things in motion.

As the crew rushed to capture the perfect shot, Blake felt a renewed sense of determination. This was it, the kind of scene that could make or break a film. And if Martin believed in it, she would give it everything she had. The sun wasn't the only thing setting on that horizon; Blake could feel the future of the film hanging there too, and she was ready to face it head-on.