Thomas Hart let out a sigh as he stopped his thundering motorcycle and removed his helt. He kicked the old machine irritably before heading to the apartnt he rented.
"Thomas?" As soon as he walked through the lobby door, a voice reached his ears, "I need to remind you that rent is due in a few days, and you’d better pay up the 50 US dollars you owe from last month as well, otherwise I’ll have to call the police!"
In the hallway, a white woman in her thirties stood looking at him with a displeased expression. Although she had a round face that seed affluent and gentle, her words were quite harsh.
"I know, Mrs. Regisamo, I’m about to make so money, and as soon as I do, I’ll pay you first thing," Hart replied, biting back the anger welling up inside him, keeping in mind what Mark Ruffalo, the editor-in-chief of the Los Angeles Tis, had told him.
"You best keep your word," said the woman suspiciously, eyeing him as if she sensed sothing different about him today. But not dwelling on it too much, she frowned, a flash of disgust crossing her face before she stomped back to her own apartnt.
Damned woman! Hart clenched his fists. He’d dealt with an people before, but none quite as an as her. Like these unpaid rents, he had accrued debt elsewhere before but other landlords had allowed him up to four months of grace—of course, he always paid them back. However, this woman, despite being only in her thirties, was extrely money-minded. Last month, it was only after pleading repeatedly and emptying every penny from his pockets that she grudgingly agreed to let him owe the 50 dollars.
If it hadn’t been for repeatedly owing rent at his previous place—even though he always caught up, leaving him embarrassed and feeling bad for the kind landlord—he would never have moved to this even more dilapidated place.
I have to close this deal, I must! Hart told himself. It was divine providence; he never would have thought that by rely taking a wrong turn, he’d accidentally wander onto a private beach and from a distance, capture such a sensational scene. It was unbelievable, looking at the list—Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Catherine Zetajones, Britney Spears... Any one of these nas, even one of the two lingerie models, would drive countless n wild, yet here they were, all at the sa ti, in the sa place, partying with the sa man. If this news hit the papers, it would undoubtedly cause a massive upheaval.
If this deal could be made, he would certainly turn his fortunes around! Hart unlocked the door to his apartnt and took a deep breath. Despite trying to rally himself, his face was still overcast. He had thought that after going to the newspaper office and insisting on seeing the powerful editor, the deal would be done, yet there were unexpected complications. He had almost forgotten that the Miracle Director was also one of the world’s top dia magnates.
Hart knew these dia tycoons couldn’t be trifled with; he had been a reporter before, and if it weren’t for... He genuinely didn’t care about his reputation; now, he was more focused on tangible benefits like opportunities and money. But after hearing Ruffalo’s description, he realized he had been naively optimistic. Although he didn’t think more high-resolution photos were necessary, Ruffalo’s advice to be cautious and secretive was sound.
So he’d gone to the New York Tis branch in Los Angeles today, t the editor recomnded by Ruffalo, and, playing coy, didn’t explicitly say who had sent him. The subsequent conversations were much the sa, with repeated admonitions to be careful not to let the news leak prematurely, and upon making clear that it was Ruffalo from the Los Angeles Tis who had sent him, the editor imdiately called Ruffalo and they exchanged views; Hart also spoke with Ruffalo.
This reassured him, and he agreed to keep a low profile until they could involve more influential people in discussing how to proceed.
Maybe I should ask them for a loan to pay off this damned rent? Thomas Hart, who had sat down to massage his face with his hands to ease his fatigue, suddenly had this thought. Then he chuckled ruefully, shaking his head, his hands clenching into fists as he let out a dejected sigh before getting up to prepare to organize the backup photos and find a safe place to hide them.
Then, a voice spoke up, "Sorry, I saw you didn’t have anything to drink, so I made myself so instant coffee. You don’t mind, do you?"
The intrusion startled Hart, who almost threw the backpack in his hands and knocked over a chair before he could steady himself. He then grabbed sothing, assuming a defense posture as he anxiously looked at the figure who had suddenly appeared in his room: "Who are you? What do you want?!"
"Relax, Mr. Thomas Hart, that inflatable plastic stick in your hand poses no threat to , and your room lacks suitable ans for self-defense: no guns, no knives, not even a baseball bat," the other man replied calmly.
He was a middle-aged man of indeterminate age—perhaps 35, perhaps 45—with an utterly forgettable face that would fade from mory the mont he turned away. Dressed in a suit, he stood at the doorway of Hart’s modified darkroom, cup in hand, exuding an air of leisurely calm, as if he were in his own ho.
"I also didn’t bring anything lethal, though I’ll admit to having a few bodyguards, but they’re all outside, down in the lobby," he casually sat on Hart’s old sofa as if he were at ho, "So, sit down and let’s talk, Mr. Hart."
"Who are you?" Even though he had a hunch, Hart couldn’t help but ask, clutching the plastic inflatable stick in his hand the whole ti.
"My na is Martin Modimr," the other man crossed his legs and gestured for Hart to sit, "Adrian Cowell’s private representative."
Thomas Hart’s heart sank imdiately. Although he had sensed trouble, he hadn’t expected it to be true. What was this all about? He had just gone to see Ruffalo yesterday, so how did that dia magnate’s guy find him today? It even looked as though they had searched his room. Who betrayed everyone?!
"Is that so?" Hart managed a smile amidst the whirling thoughts in his head, "So, what do you want to do next? Find a bag to stuff into and toss into the sea?"
"Of course not," Modimr chuckled, spreading his hands, "We are law-abiding citizens."
Seeing his behavior, Hart’s anxiety lessened a bit; it seed they were here to negotiate. Then, an idea suddenly popped into his head, stirring a bit of excitent, but also hesitation. If the other party found out... But it could bring him more, and make his safety more secure. They couldn’t possibly be so familiar with him, let alone know what he had on him.
"Alright," Hart swallowed hard, striving to keep calm, straightened his clothes, and sat down in front of Modimr, "What do you want to do?"
"No, Mr. Hart, the question is what do you want to do," Modimr imdiately kicked the ball back to him.
"What else can I do? This is explosive news. The wealthiest and most powerful man in Hollywood, along with several of Hollywood’s most famous stars, having a sex party on the beach. It will attract quite a lot of attention. Whichever newspaper publishes this, their circulation will jump several notches," said Hart, licking his lips.
"Do you think readers will believe it? The recipients of two Oscars for Best Actress, two winners of the Oscars for Best Supporting Actress, two of the most popular current idol singers, and two popular lingerie models, together with the wealthiest and most powerful man in Hollywood holding a sex party on the beach?" Modimr asked slowly with a smile.
"Why wouldn’t they believe it? Everyone knows that the Miracle Director is a playboy and every Miracle Girl has ambiguous relationships with him, not to ntion..." Hart laughed, "there are so many photos."
"Those were photoshopped," Modimr said lightly.
"What?" Hart frowned.
"Adobe’s programrs would be quite happy to demonstrate to the jury how such photos are composed, and they are willing to provide thods of distinguishing between composite and real photos," Modimr spoke up with ease, "Then, as the news breaks and people start doubting the veracity of the whole affair, soon soone will co forward, the owner of a porn website. He specializes in making composite photos of celebrities to sell. He’ll admit that soone ordered these photos from him. He didn’t care at first, but only realized how terribly wrong he was after this case ca to light. He’s not a good person, but he has his standards. Mr. Cowell’s charity once helped him through a tough ti in his life."
Hart’s face turned pale. By this point, he had mostly understood. If it really got reported, Adrian would sue imdiately, and all the backup plans were ready... How could this be?!
"I can testify, I saw it with my own eyes..." He still tried to struggle.
"The jury won’t believe soone with a history of fraud, especially when that person has been divorced by their wife due to it, and is prohibited by court order from approaching their own children," Modimr dropped another bombshell.
"It was that bastard who set up!" Hart’s face turned bright red as he shouted, his throat thick with anger, and the calm he had been desperately maintaining completely collapsed. This was the greatest pain in his heart.
"I believe that, especially after reviewing your background," Modimr remained unruffled, "but you have to convince the jury and the court as well. Of course, there might be so lawyers eager for fa who will take your case for free, but trust , most dia groups will stand with us, and the jury won’t let them succeed."
Such a blatant alignnt of the jury on his side revealed his ulterior motives clearly. Hart panted heavily for a few monts before he managed to control himself once again, but he didn’t speak, just staring intensely at Modimr, despite still having one move left.
Unfortunately for him, the ever-composed Modimr seed to have guessed his intention; once he had cald down, he opened his coat to reveal a rectangular black box neatly hung on the inside right, with several wires connected to sothing unseen.
"The Pentagon’s latest purchase, a recording disruptor; the FBI and CIA have used it, too—it’s not for civilian use. Whether it’s tape recording or digital, nothing escapes it," Modimr explained calmly.
Hart was dumbfounded, looking incredulous.
"Try it," Modimr raised his hand slightly, "I’m sure you have more than one recorder here, just pick one and try."
Despite telling himself not to believe in Modimr’s smooth words, he involuntarily reached inside his jacket, took out the recording pen he had activated earlier while straightening his clothes, and tremblingly pressed the play button close to his ear, staring at Modimr. Imdiately, his face turned ashen; the recording pen only emitted static noise.
His opponent was so thoroughly ticulous; not only had he found all of Hart’s background information in a short ti, but he had also considered all aspects, making all of Hart’s strategies useless. In his despair, Hart finally realized what Ruffalo ant by calling him shallow and the imnse power of Adrian.
"What do you want to do?" he asked, his face deathly pale, his body slumped in the chair like a deflated ball.
Modimr smiled slightly, his mood seemingly unchanged: "A check for two million dollars, visitation rights to your son, and an opportunity for advancent."
"A what?" Thomas Hart widened his eyes, looking sowhat bewildered at the middle-aged man before him.
"If you pass the advancent program, you’ll receive a letter of recomndation, and depending upon your final performance, you could be assigned to work for so well-known magazines or newspapers and advance to a managerial position within a few years," Modimr continued, "If you don’t qualify, you can get another check for three million dollars and a plane ticket to Monaco—of course, if you’re not interested in advancing, you can directly get a five-million-dollar check and a ticket to Monaco."
Hart was even more confused. Why was his adversary, who had shattered his confidence so thoroughly, now offering such generous conditions? What was the reason? But he quickly ca to his senses, realizing that having all his cards played by his opponent was normal. He himself would have done the sa—in negotiations, the one who sees through the other’s hand first gains the upper hand.
From this perspective, their negotiation was sincere, and moreover, although the man before him had used every ans to undermine him, he never spoke in a condescending tone. But why such conditions... wait a second!
An idea struck, and Hart suddenly looked up: "Mark Ruffalo, editor of the entertainnt section at the Los Angeles Tis! And Louis Hoffmann, editor of the New York Tis Los Angeles bureau!"
He paused, taking a deep breath, before adding, "If I’m not mistaken, the editor of the Washington Post’s Los Angeles bureau was treated the sa way."
Modimr clapped lightly: "You’re a smart man, Mr. Hart. After reviewing your information in detail, I made a judgnt. Even when your colleague betrayed you back then, you still managed to find a loophole and made a deal with the prosecutor that was beneficial for you—even though it cost you your reputation, you avoided prison. So, I made a suggestion to my boss, and now—you can give your answer, can’t you?"
"I agree." With a slight nod of his throat, Thomas Hart gave a definite answer. Just for his son’s visitation rights, he couldn’t refuse, not to ntion he needed the opportunity now.
"Very well, let’s go then," Modimr promptly stood up.
"Go?" Hart was a bit confused.
"Yes, this should be enough to sell off everything you have here," Modimr said, handing over a check for 100,000 US Dollars, "You don’t have backups made elsewhere, do you?"
"Of course not." Modimr quickly caught on, couldn’t help but laugh a little, "Do I need to leave my clothes here as well?"
"No need, but it’s best to leave behind everything on you except for essentials, like keys, like your driver’s license," Modimr said nonchalantly, "I can have soone find you a suitable rental property, or you can do it yourself."
"Alright, alright." Hart took so small items out of his pockets and dropped them on the ground before taking the check and leaving the room with Modimr.
Then, Modimr reached into his own pocket and pressed sothing, and two efficient-looking n ca up the stairs. After he nodded at them, they entered the house and began to clean up.
"You’re really thorough," Hart sighed with a hint of nostalgia as he watched them enter. Although there wasn’t much of value, so things had been with him for a long ti.
However, he soon snapped out of it. This was not so bad, like making a clean break with the past.
"You must have a lot of trust from Mr. Cowell," he then said.
"Thanks for the complint," Modimr patted his shoulder, "Let’s go. I can give you a lift. Which hotel do you plan to stay at?"
After exiting the apartnt building and getting into Modimr’s car, Hart finally couldn’t hold back, "What if I had never agreed? What if I insisted on going public no matter what?"
"Why ask that question?" Modimr raised an eyebrow.
"I’m just curious," Hart explained, "I believe you must have more than just this one approach prepared, and I also believe Mr. Cowell would never want this to go public, much less to a courtroom. Although ti is short, I’ve read so about him. I’ve heard that he... has a good reputation in certain respects and is very protective."
Modimr, with his hands on the steering wheel, couldn’t help but chuckle, then lightly patted Hart’s shoulder after a mont, "You know, Mr. Hart, the United States is a vast country, with millions of square miles and a population of three to four hundred million. So... there will always be ard vagrants and drunken truck drivers."
Having said that, he smiled again slightly and then started the car. Hart sat in the passenger seat, stunned for a while before he realized, glanced at Modimr who was focused on driving, and then let out a sigh.
"Law-abiding citizen..." he murmured half mockingly, half in a sigh.
Then, Hart bowed his head and tightly clenched his fists. No need to worry about those things anymore; he had made his choice, he was on board. It was a great opportunity, and all he had to do was seize it firmly! (To be continued. If you like this work, welco to Qidian (qidian) to vote for recomndation tickets, monthly tickets. Your support is my greatest motivation.)
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