“Baby, harder.” Now I finally understand why Hollywood stars like to buy detached houses.
This kind of sound would lead to an alarm if anyone lived too close.
Someone who didn’t know might even think a murder had occurred.
An hour later, the gasps in the room gradually subsided.
Ernst walked into the bathroom with a satisfied expression, at least proving there was nothing wrong with him.
Young men don’t know the beauty of older women, mistaking young girls for treasures.
Are those undeveloped minors really that good?
I don’t know why the original owner, that scumbag, was so fond of choosing such targets.
In Ernst’s memory, among the girlfriends he had ‘dated’, only two were over twenty-five, and one of them was Naomi Watts.
After a quick rinse, Ernst still had a layer of water beads on his body when he came out, shimmering under the lights.
On the bed, Watts was still sprawled there languidly, the curve of her buttocks so exaggerated it made one want to commit a crime.
“You’re a bit different today.” Ernst froze for a moment.
According to his memory, he had been intimate with her no more than five times.
Had she discovered something?
“What’s different?” Ernst asked nervously.
“You’re very excited, extremely excited.” Standing by the bed, his ‘mammoth’ facing her, Ernst didn’t think there was any problem.
“Shouldn’t I be?
If a man could remain calm in front of you right now, he wouldn’t be a man.” Naomi Watts looked at Ernst seriously, then sat up with difficulty.
“It seems Jessica’s incident has changed you a lot.
Before, you were excited during foreplay and rushed through the main event.
But today, your foreplay was clearly lacking passion; I didn’t even feel that bone-chilling pain.” What a pervert.
This made Ernst realize Hollywood’s true nature once again.
No wonder they say hell is empty, and all the devils are here.
How could one write such a script without experiencing it?
And Jessica—Ernst just remembered—wasn’t that the bitch who sued him, Jessica Alba?
“Maybe,” Ernst replied perfunctorily.
There are no secrets in Hollywood.
It hadn’t even been 24 hours since he entered the police station, and Naomi Watts already knew everything.
Ernst also wanted to use her to convey his change in taste.
After all, he wasn’t the original owner; he wasn’t that interested in ‘flower buds.’ He didn’t like them too young.
Also, some of those perverted hobbies were truly unacceptable.
Naomi Watts didn’t dwell on the matter.
She found a comfortable position to lean on the bed and held up two fingers.
“What does that mean?” Naomi froze again, staring at Ernst with an incredulous expression.
“Are you really Ernst?
Didn’t you always have one after every time?” A familiar memory surfaced.
Ernst pointed to the headboard.
“Get it yourself.
I have things to do, so I won’t be sleeping with you tonight.” Ernst didn’t dare to stay any longer.
Women’s minds are too meticulous, and women in the entertainment industry even more so.
He was afraid of exposing too many flaws and needed to quickly familiarize himself with the original owner’s consciousness.
In the study, after a night of work, Ernst was woken up by Craig’s doorbell.
“Fuck, you’ve become a successful man, why are you still working like a dog?
This habit isn’t good.” Naomi Watts had left at some point, and the room was a mess, both the master bedroom and the living room.
Craig seemed used to it.
He tossed the sticky props on the sofa aside and settled his plump body into the sofa.
“Ernst, you should calm down and start writing.
You know your contract with the publishing house has less than four months left.” “You must publish your next work before October 1st, or you’ll have to pay an exorbitant penalty.” His first book became a bestseller, and Ernst was hailed as a rising star.
If not for that, why would so many Hollywood women flock to him?
Wasn’t it an investment in potential adaptations and roles in the future?
Of course, the most important reason was undoubtedly his father, who wielded immense power at MGM.
Because of his displayed talent and connections in Hollywood, the publishing house signed a five-year, three-book contract with him, with a signing bonus of 1.2 million US dollars, paid over five years.
October 1st was the deadline for the first work to be delivered.
Ernst had to have his first work approved and published before then, or he would have to pay five times the signing bonus he had received as compensation.
This was the second year, and the second installment of 240,000 US dollars for the signing bonus had already been deposited into Ernst’s bank account.
If he couldn’t fulfill the contract, he would have to pay the publishing house 2.4 million US dollars.
“I’m already preparing; I’ll start writing soon.” Ernst’s words were met with Craig’s resentment.
“You told me the same thing half a month ago, and then what?
You almost killed someone; that girl was choked until she suffocated.” “Ten days ago, you said the same thing, and what happened?
You took that little bitch to Washington State, and yesterday you even ended up in the police station.” Craig picked up a torn fishnet stocking.
Ernst recognized it as the one Naomi Watts had worn yesterday.
“Now, do you think I’ll believe you?
I think we should find a countryside, far away from this glamorous world.” Craig kept chattering, showing no signs of stopping.
Ernst truly didn’t understand how he had ended up with such an agent.
His head was buzzing.
Ernst pressed his temples, which felt like they were about to explode, and said impatiently, “Alright, I know what to do.
Now, tell me about your investigation results.
Don’t tell me you didn’t find out anything.” Craig pouted in dissatisfaction.
“This is an insult to me.
Have you forgotten what I used to do?
No information in Hollywood can escape my grasp.
Otherwise, how could I have found so many dream-chasing young girls for you?” Before Ernst, Craig was one of Hollywood’s moderately famous paparazzi.
His fame wasn’t due to him breaking huge news, but rather his ability to navigate complex social situations.
Many reporters who found big news and needed clues to corroborate it would come to him.
He, relying on his strong network, could always provide a satisfactory answer, making him a middleman among paparazzi.
“Alright, stop rambling and tell me the results.” “It’s Kirk Kerkorian.” “MGM?” Ernst immediately grasped the key point.
Kirk Kerkorian, the tycoon who had made a fortune by entering and exiting MGM three times, was actually the one setting a trap for him.
In 1969, Kerkorian acquired 40% of MGM’s shares for $82 million in a hostile takeover.
In 1981, he bought United Artists for $380 million and combined the two studios.
In 1986, he sold MGM to Ted Turner for $1.5 billion.
But months later, Turner sold most of the film library back.
In 1990, Kerkorian sold MGM to Italian financier Giancarlo Parretti for $1.3 billion.
Parretti financed the deal through Crédit Lyonnais, but after he defaulted, the French bank took control.
In 1996, an investment group led by Kerkorian and Australia’s Seven Network reached an agreement to reacquire MGM from Crédit Lyonnais for $1.3 billion.
The deal closed on October 10, 1996.
However, no one expected a roadblock to appear in this transaction: Ernst, who had inherited his father’s shares.
Ernst knew that Kerkorian would never manage MGM properly, but he hoped MGM would get better and better.
For no other reason than, if MGM developed, he might be able to expand his targets to higher circles.
With Ernst’s small shareholding, theoretically, only two-thirds of the shareholders’ consent was needed to pass major company decisions; his opinion was simply not important.
But in practice, it wasn’t that simple, because the acquisition process required all shareholders to confirm, show their faces, and sign.
And Ernst just wouldn’t sign, so the equity transfer couldn’t be completed.
“Kirk Kerkorian,” Ernst muttered, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes.
He was already going to enter the media field, and he hadn’t thought much of MGM before.
But now, Ernst wouldn’t let him have his way so easily.