Hollywood original director

The cheers. The lights. The headlines. Ronald Smith had made it—really made it. His Superman movie hadn't just been a hit. It had taken flight, broken records, and changed how people looked at superhero films. Almost overnight, he'd become the most sought-after director in Hollywood. A visionary. A name people dropped in rooms with closed doors and expensive drinks.

He had the money, the influence, the legacy—at least the one that shows up on screen.

He was having good sex with Charlie and nicole. 

Some time 2 actress some three he having odd times .

But quietly, in the background of all the noise, something else had been growing inside him. Something harder to define. Not ambition, exactly. Not loneliness either. More like… a craving. For something real. Something that wouldn't fade when the spotlight moved on.

Roland was thinking what he do next make more movies or fuck more girl.

Despite the glamour and chaos of his life, Ronald often found himself alone at night, staring out from the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Beverly Hills home. The view was perfect—city lights glittering like a dream—but it didn't feel real to him. Not always. Sometimes he wondered if any of it was. The premieres, the handshakes, the box office milestones—it all moved too fast, too loud.

He just thinking with sleeping with five heroines. 

He thought a lot about legacy—not the Hollywood kind, but the human kind. Something that lived beyond the final credits. Not a film, but a family.

He'd always wanted children. That wasn't new. But now, the feeling had taken on weight. It wasn't just about having a child. It was about building something lasting. A family that could stretch across generations. A name that didn't just trend—it endured.

Or he just want fuck more women. 

But he didn't see it through the lens of a typical white-picket-fence family. That model felt small, boxed-in. He'd spent his whole life thinking differently, dreaming bigger. Why would this be any different?

So he started doing what he did best: planning.

He called in Arthur Thompson, his longtime attorney, a calm, silver-haired man who had negotiated some of the biggest deals in Hollywood without ever breaking a sweat. This meeting, though, wasn't about a franchise or a studio. It was personal.

Very personal.

"Arthur," Ronald said, "I want to have kids. A lot of them. With different women. And I want it to be done the right way—respectfully, responsibly, and with complete legal clarity."

Arthur thinking he gone nuts .

But latest Forbes rich says his net worth 3.2 billion doller. 

Arthur blinked. He wasn't shocked, exactly—he'd heard stranger things—but he was quiet for a beat.

"That's… certainly ambitious," he said. "We'd have to consider the legal, ethical, and reputational risks. And of course, the emotional side. For you, for the mothers, for the children."

Ronald nodded. "I've thought about it. A lot. I'm not rushing into this. I want to build a family—but with structure, fairness, and full support. No chaos. No hidden strings."

And so began one of the most unusual legal projects Arthur's firm had ever handled. Over the next few months, they worked together on what came to be known—half-jokingly—as the Ronald Smith Family Compact.

It wasn't just paperwork. It was a blueprint for a new kind of fatherhood.

The Plan Was Detailed, Thoughtful, and Deeply Personal:

1. Security and Support for the Mothers and Children

Every mother would receive a $5 million home, no strings attached, in a safe, family-friendly neighborhood with excellent schools. On top of that, a $1 million annual stipend per child would be placed in a trust—only to be used for the child's well-being, education, and future. It wasn't a bribe. It was peace of mind.

2. Defined Roles and Boundaries

Ronald wouldn't be a distant figure. He wanted to be present—but realistically, the day-to-day parenting would rest with the mothers. The agreements spelled that out clearly, with built-in support to keep things stable for the kids.

3. Privacy Above All

In a world where privacy barely exists—especially for someone like Ronald—every agreement included strict NDAs. No interviews, no tell-all books, no social media posts. Not to silence anyone, but to protect the children from the circus that followed fame.

4. No Power Plays, No Grey Areas

The contracts made sure everything was clear: no one could use the children—or their relationship to Ronald—as leverage. No extra demands. No unexpected claims on his estate. Everyone would know exactly where they stood.

5. Fairness for Every Child

Whether it was the first or the tenth, every child would get equal support, equal access to opportunities, and an equal inheritance. Ronald was determined: no favorites. No second-class siblings.

6. Real Connection, Not Just Obligation

Ronald wasn't interested in being a name on a birth certificate. He wanted to know his kids. Be there. Celebrate birthdays, show up at games, take them on trips. He even dreamed of creating a shared family space—a house where they could all come together, grow up knowing each other, and understand they were part of something bigger or he gone nuts.

At first, Arthur had his doubts. The whole thing sounded like something out of a sci-fi novel. But over time, as the meetings stretched on and the contracts grew more detailed, something shifted. Ronald wasn't messing around. He wasn't doing this to feed his ego. He was building something with intention.

But he gets commotion 4% of deal this is huge if find 100 women and they gave 100 children birth .

Then 5 ×100 = 500 million and 100 million per year he will earn 20 million homes and 4 million year from commission every year .

"Most men your age are thinking about slowing down," Arthur said one night, half amused, half amazed. "You're planning a legacy like a dynasty."

Ronald smiled—genuine, tired, a little sad, maybe. "I've spent more than decade building stories," he said. "But none of them are permanent. This? This is real. This is mine. And maybe, in the end, this is what actually lasts."

He knew it would never be simple. Not with the media, not with the courts, and definitely not with the emotions involved.

But that didn't scare him.

What scared him was the idea of dying and leaving nothing behind but movie posters.

This—this strange, sprawling, heartfelt plan—was his way of writing something bigger than a film.