"Baby, push harder."
Now he finally understood why Hollywood stars loved buying detached houses. That scream—anyone too close could call the police; someone unfamiliar with the situation would think a murder had occurred.
An hour later, the panting in the room gradually subsided. Ernst, a satisfied look on his face, walked into the bathroom, at least proving he was alright.
Young people don't know the value of mature women, mistaking young girls for treasures.
Are those underage girls who haven't fully developed really that good? He didn't know why the original owner of this body, that scumbag, liked choosing such targets so much.
In Ernst's memory, of the girlfriends he had "dated," only two were over twenty-five, including the current Naomi Watts.
After a quick shower, Ernst emerged with water droplets clinging to his body, glistening under the light.
On the bed, Watts was still lazily sprawled there, the exaggerated curves of her hips tempting one to commit a crime.
"You're a little different today,"
Ernst said, startled. According to his memory, he had slept with her no more than five times. Had she discovered something?
"How is it different?" Ernst asked nervously.
"You're excited, extremely excited."
Standing by the bed, the mammoth facing him, Ernst didn't see anything wrong with it. "Shouldn't it be? If he could remain calm in the face of this moment, he wouldn't be a man."
Naomi Watts gave Ernst a serious look, then struggled to sit up. "It seems Jessica's affair has greatly changed you. Before, you were always excited during foreplay, but the main act was rushed. But today, your foreplay was clearly lacking in passion; I didn't even feel that piercing pain."
What a pervert, making Ernst understand Hollywood once again.
No wonder they say hell is empty and all the devils are here on earth.
How could someone write such a script without experiencing it firsthand?
And Jessica... Ernst suddenly remembered, wasn't the bitch who sued him Jessica Alba?
"Maybe," Ernst replied dismissively.
There are no secrets in Hollywood. Less than 24 hours after he entered the police station, Naomi Watts knew everything.
Ernst also wanted to use her to convey his changing tastes.
After all, he wasn't the original owner of this body, and he wasn't that interested in flower buds; he didn't like them too small.
Besides, there were those perverse hobbies, some of which he genuinely couldn't accept.
Naomi Watts didn't dwell on this, finding a comfortable spot on the bed and holding up two fingers.
"What do you mean?"
Naomi Watts asked as she stared at the money on the table.
Naomi was stunned again, staring at Ernst in disbelief.
"Are you really Ernst? Didn't you always use one afterward?"
Familiar memories flooded back. Ernst pointed to the bedside table. "Take it yourself. I have things to do, so I won't sleep with you tonight."
Ernst didn't dare stay any longer. Women's minds were too meticulous, especially women in the entertainment industry. He was afraid of revealing too many flaws; he needed to quickly familiarize himself with the original owner's consciousness.
In the study, after a busy night, Ernst was woken by Craig's doorbell.
"FXXK, you're already a high-class person, why are you still working like a slave? This habit isn't good."
Naomi Watts had left sometime earlier; the rooms were a mess, both the master bedroom and the living room.
Craig seemed used to this, tossing the sticky props aside and sinking his plump body into the sofa.
"Ernst, you should settle down and start writing. You know your contract with the publisher has less than four months left".
"You must publish your next work before October 1st, or you'll have to pay a hefty penalty."
His first book had already made the bestseller list, and Ernst was hailed as a rising star.
Otherwise, why would so many Hollywood women be so eager to be with him? It was all about investing in potential adaptations and roles.
Of course, the most important factor was undoubtedly his powerful father at MGM.
Because of his talent and Hollywood connections, the publisher signed him to a five-year, three-book contract with a signing bonus of $1.2 million, payable in five installments.
October 1st was the agreed-upon deadline for the first book; Ernst had to produce and publish it before then, or he would have to pay five times the signing bonus he had already received.
This is the second year, and the second signing bonus of $240,000 has already been deposited into Ernst's bank account.
If he can't fulfill the contract, he'll have to pay the publisher $2.4 million.
"I'm already preparing, and I'll start writing soon."
Ernst's words were met with Craig's resentment. "You said the same thing to me two weeks ago, and then what? You almost killed someone; you strangled that girl to death."
"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 out a pair of ripped fishnet stockings, which Ernst recognized as the ones Naomi Watts had worn yesterday.
"Now, do you think I'll believe you? I think we should find some countryside, away from this glitz and glamour."
Craig kept rambling on and on, showing no sign of stopping. Ernst really couldn't understand how he could have chosen such an agent in the first place.
Ernst's head was buzzing. He pressed his temples, which felt like they were about to explode, and said impatiently, "Alright, I know what to do. Just tell me what you found out. Don't tell me you didn't find anything."
Craig pouted unhappily. "That's 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 girls with dreams?"
Before Ernst, Craig was one of Hollywood's well-known paparazzi.
His fame didn't come from discovering big news, but from his ability to navigate social situations.
Many reporters who had discovered big news would come to him for clues. He always managed to give them a satisfactory answer by leveraging his powerful connections, making him the middleman among paparazzi.
"Alright, enough nonsense, just tell me the results."
"It's Cockerillion."
"MGM?" Ernst immediately grasped the key point.
Cockerillion, the tycoon who made a fortune by repeatedly entering and leaving MGM, was actually the one who set him up.
In 1969, Coccrian acquired a 40% stake in MGM, then leveraged the MGM brand to expand into the hotel and casino industries.
In 1986, they sold MGM to Tyler Turner of Warner Bros., but quickly bought it back at a lower price.
In 1992, Coccrian sold MGM again to an Italian consortium.
Even the Italian consortium couldn't save this former Hollywood giant. An agreement was reached: Cochrane intended to take over MGM again, and the price was agreed upon at $1.3 billion.
However, no one expected a stumbling block to the deal: Ernst, who had inherited his father's shares.
Ernst knew Cochrane was incapable of properly managing MGM, but he wanted it to thrive. His motivation? A successful MGM would allow him to expand his reach to higher levels.
With Ernst's limited shareholding, theoretically, only a two-thirds majority vote was needed for major company decisions; his opinion was irrelevant.
But in practice, it was a different story. Acquisitions required confirmation from all shareholders, a process involving signatures.
Ernst refused to sign, preventing the share transfer from being completed.
"Cochrane," Ernst muttered, a sharp glint in his eyes.
He had initially looked down on MGM, intending to enter the media industry, but now Ernst wasn't going to let him have his way.