"Director Moran, the fact that I'm standing here means I have the qualifications to be here. I think that should clear up your earlier doubts, don't you agree?"
The reporter's smirk was all show and no warmth. He thought he'd scored a point, but the faces of his team—those who came with him—had all turned pale.
They wished they could rush forward and slap a hand over his mouth—or better yet, pack him up and ship him back to the office before he could cause more damage.
Did he have any idea how hard it was to land an interview with Moran? Did he know the weight of her influence?
How could he stand there and spout such manipulative, antagonistic questions right to her face? Even they, as mere assistants, could feel the malice in his words—how could Laila not notice?
She was the one granting the interview, not someone begging for a favor. What gave him the right to show such arrogance and hostility in her presence?
The photographer and several assistants were frantic, trying to figure out a way to signal the reporter to back off, but they were also terrified that stepping in might offend Laila even further. From the chill in her eyes—so devoid of warmth—it was obvious that she was already extremely displeased.
If they stepped forward now to play mediator, chances were slim that she'd accept their intervention—and the most likely outcome would be that they all got thrown out along with the idiot reporter.
They could already imagine the fallout that awaited them if they returned empty-handed.
Being chosen to interview Laila was a great honor—an indication of trust from their superiors. If they screwed this up, they wouldn't just lose this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; they'd also lose the confidence and support of their bosses. Their future careers could very well be derailed by this one catastrophe.
And yet, right in the eye of the storm, the reporter himself seemed blissfully unaware that everything was spiraling out of control. He was still basking in the smug satisfaction of "standing his ground" in front of Laila Moran.
Was the guy brain-dead?
The photographer and assistants gritted their teeth in frustration as they failed repeatedly to catch the reporter's eye. If they could, they would've loved nothing more than to sink their teeth into his neck and shut him up for good.
Laila, of course, didn't miss any of their reactions—and in an instant, she understood exactly what to do.
Time magazine was an incredibly successful weekly publication. It had built itself up into a global institution, and its cover was considered a badge of honor.
Even the Asian edition was something to boast about—let alone the main English-language edition.
Laila hadn't wanted to sour relations with them. After all, the publication itself had no ill intentions when arranging this interview. It was just their misfortune to have sent a complete idiot to represent them.
But that didn't mean she would tolerate a malicious, arrogant fool spewing nonsense in her presence.
Dealing with people like this? Easy. If she wanted, she could shut down a dozen of them in her sleep.
"You think you deserve to stand here?" Laila laughed outright at his statement, a bright, unrestrained laugh full of amused disbelief. "I think you've gotten one thing wrong. Whether or not you're qualified to stand here isn't up to your magazine—or you. It's up to me! And right now, I don't want to continue this conversation. Let the security team gently escort you out. How does that sound?"
The reporter was furious, feeling insulted. "Do you even know what you're saying?!"
"Of course I do." Laila's smile faded, and her icy blue eyes lost every trace of warmth. The chill in them was the kind that could freeze a man solid.
"But I don't think you understand what you've just said." She rose to her feet, looking down at the seated reporter from above, her tone dripping with mockery. "This is my company. My office. My domain. And you're standing here, thinking your so-called qualifications come from someone else?"
The reporter's face flushed bright red—from anger, not embarrassment. His qualifications came from his position—he was a reporter for Time! Just mentioning that title was enough to get smiles and handshakes everywhere he went.
Sure, Hollywood had no shortage of journalists, but he wasn't one of those paparazzi hounds. He had higher aspirations. A stronger starting point.
And now this director—just a director!—had the nerve to insult him like this?
What did she mean by "gently escort you out"? And asking him how he felt about it?
What was he supposed to say? "No thanks, rough me up a little while you're at it"?
Bullsh*t!
The reporter was ready to explode. In all his years, he had never encountered such a vile, cunning woman. It was like her mouth didn't contain a tongue, but a blade—cutting people down with every word.
"You—Moran, you—!"
He raised a hand to point at her, about to unleash his fury, but before he could utter another word, the photographer and assistants had already moved in from all sides, boxing him in.
God help them—they were scared out of their minds.
Like Director Moran had said, he was provoking her in her own territory, and now he was about to lose control?
They could swear on their lives—if he actually dared to get physical, the Moran Group would have Time magazine listed as a subsidiary by the next morning.
Sure, Time had clout. But who could say that clout would last forever in the face of overwhelming capital?
Even if the Moran Group didn't go as far as buying them out, what if they launched a competing publication—same format, same audience, backed by massive investment? Who could predict what would happen to Time then?
Even if it didn't go under, losing the lion's share of its profits was entirely possible.
And once the money's gone, how long can a magazine survive?
So no matter how much they didn't want to get involved in this mess, they couldn't let the reporter make it any worse.
Laila was practically laughing from how ridiculous the situation had become. She had met all kinds of journalists in her past and present lives, but this one—this brainless, shameless, hotheaded fool—was truly a first.
What was he even proud of?
Where did he get the audacity to act like this in her office?
Even though he hadn't physically acted out—his coworkers had stopped him in time—Laila had already made up her mind. There was no way she was letting this slide.
She needed an explanation. A consequence.
Unwilling to waste another ounce of emotion on this nonsense, she called for her personal bodyguards.
Security protected the company.
But bodyguards—those were hers alone.
"Escort this gentleman out," she instructed coolly. "And inform Demi—his name is to be added to my blacklist, effective immediately. Whether it's Dragon Soul or the talent agency, no one is to see him. No interviews, no access. He's banned."
Laila felt utterly repulsed.
If it hadn't been for Time magazine's repeated invitations—and their previously pleasant collaboration—she would've rejected them just like she did so many other media outlets.
But now? So much for goodwill. In his eyes, her kindness had meant nothing.
She didn't eat from his table—so where did he get the gall to act like this in front of her?