Date: October 1996
Location: Paris, beneath Pont Alexandre III
Actress: Juliette Binoche
Alexander's Status: Just secured silent equity stake in The English Patient through Miramax-Europe deal; deep in talks to form AEG Europe to control Euro distribution channels
Actress's Status: Riding high from Cannes acclaim, The English Patient poised for Oscar season; torn between European art and Hollywood pull, afraid of becoming an ornament
"The Bridge Between Us"
The Seine shimmered like mercury beneath the bridge.
Pont Alexandre III arched above them, baroque and glowing — gold-winged horses watching the night like guardians of old France. The city bustled nearby, but here, under stone and lamp and silence, it was just the two of them.
Juliette Binoche stood with her hands in the pockets of her long navy coat, her breath fogging in the October chill. Alexander Kaine, suited in charcoal and black cashmere, leaned against the moss-darkened railing beside her. They didn't speak. Not at first.
She broke the silence.
"Do you ever get tired of pretending you don't care?"
Alexander's green eyes flicked toward her. "Do you?"
Juliette smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm French. We're born pretending."
He tilted his head. "And yet you keep making films that bleed."
"Bleeding is easier than smiling."
She turned to face him fully now, the lamps painting halos in her dark hair.
"Tell me," she said softly, "do you like The English Patient?"
He didn't answer at first. The river moved below them, slow and cold.
"I like what it cost you."
She blinked.
He stepped closer, voice like smoke curling through the dark. "You had to make yourself small. Still. Silent. To carry that kind of pain onscreen."
"It wasn't performance," she murmured. "It was memory."
Alexander nodded. "That's why it works."
She looked away, suddenly restless. "Everyone wants to talk about Oscar odds. About the dresses. Harvey says I need to smile more. I don't know if I'm actress or advertisement anymore."
"You're a soul trying not to be sold," he said.
That stopped her. Her mouth opened. Closed.
He continued. "They'll keep trying. Hollywood likes to dress its wild things in sequins. And they'll tell you it's for your own good."
She laughed, bitter and low. "And what would you dress me in, monsieur?"
He stepped into her space, his presence sudden and terrifyingly still.
"Fire."
Juliette's breath caught. "You're not here to seduce me, are you?"
"No," he said. "I'm here to remind you you don't need permission."
They stared at each other beneath that golden bridge — France above, the world watching from shadows. Her expression softened.
"I was going to show you the city," she said.
Alexander shook his head.
"You were never the guide tonight," he said. "I've always known the way."
She moved toward him — not rushed, not hesitant. Purposeful. She stopped inches from his chest and looked up.
"Then lead me," she whispered.
He didn't smile. He just took her hand, warm against the cold, and turned toward the stone stairs leading down to the banks of the river.
Behind them, Paris glittered. But under the bridge, something quieter began. Something that wouldn't end with an award.
They reach a tucked-away inlet beneath the bridge, the stone curving overhead like the inside of a cathedral. The city hums far above. Here, it's only candlelight from a flickering boat moored nearby, waves lapping in rhythm.
She steps out of her coat first. Not dramatically — reverently. She begins to unbutton her blouse, her eyes never leaving his. He watches, entranced, as she reveals herself slowly, a striptease born of confidence and intent. She slips off her skirt, then her underwear, until she stands before him naked, her body a silhouette against the flickering gold light.
He doesn't speak. He cups her face like she's something he's remembered from a dream but never dared touch. When he kisses her, it isn't hunger. It's recognition. Their bodies press together, the cold stone against her back contrasting with the heat of his touch. His hands explore her, reverent and sure, as if memorizing every curve and line. She responds in kind, her fingers tracing the contours of his chest, his arms, his back, undoing his buttons with a deliberate slowness that builds tension.
He turns her around, his body pressing against hers from behind. He enters her slowly, his hands on her hips, guiding her against him. They move together, a dance as old as time, the stone cold and unyielding against her palms. He leans down, his teeth grazing her earlobe, his breath hot against her neck. "You are incredible," he murmurs, his voice a low growl.
He pulls out, turning her to face him. He lifts her onto a marble ledge, cold against her thighs, heat blooming between them. He teases her, his fingers and mouth exploring, bringing her to the edge of orgasm before backing off, his touch feather-light, his breath hot on her skin. She squirms, her breath coming in short gasps, her body begging for release.
She turns around, bracing herself against the stone, her body arching as he enters her from behind. He starts slow, his movements deliberate, his hands on her hips, his body leaning over hers, his lips at her ear. "You are a goddess," he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. She moans, her body pushing back against his, urging him deeper. He obliges, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate.
He pulls out, turning her to face him again. He lifts her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and enters her, his body pinning hers against the stone. He moves within her, his hips rolling in a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure through her body. She wraps her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, her lips capturing his in a passionate kiss. He walks them to the ground, laying her down gently, his body covering hers, his movements slow and deep.
He rolls onto his back, pulling her on top of him. She straddles him, her hands on his chest for leverage. She rides him, her movements slow and sensual, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. He reaches up, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples. She moans, her movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. He sits up, his arms wrapping around her, his lips capturing hers in a passionate kiss. She grinds against him, her body seeking release, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He flips her onto her back, his body covering hers. He enters her, his movements fast and hard. He leans down, his lips capturing hers in a passionate kiss. She wraps her legs around him, her heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. He obliges, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. He reaches between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in fast circles. She comes undone, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm, her inner muscles clenching around him. He follows soon after, his body tensing, his seed spilling into her.
She collapses against him, her body slick with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He holds her, his arms tight around her, his lips pressing soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. "Je suis encore moi," she whispers, her voice hoarse with emotion. He doesn't answer. He only holds her, his embrace saying everything that needs to be said.
Afterward, she rests her head against his chest, the bridge lit above them, the sounds of the city hushed. "Will you stay in Paris?" she asks, her voice soft, her body relaxed against his. "No," he says. "But Paris will stay in you." She laughs — just once, real and soft — and tucks herself beneath his coat as they walk slowly along the riverbank, disappearing into a city that knows how to keep its secrets.