I am Hollywood

[Chapter 1097: The Last Thing]

"This is the crux of the matter," the paparazzo continued, "On the surface, they are all Williams' women, but privately, they are a couple. Just think about it, if this gets exposed, wouldn't Eric Williams feel played and throw a fit?"

Carmen Kass' eyes, which had been dull for days, suddenly lit up.

Although homosexuality was rampant in the fashion industry, someone of Eric Williams' caliber certainly wouldn't tolerate two little darlings playing coy with him. The only reason Giselle Bundchen could bully her so brazenly was because of the backing she had from Eric Williams.

Originally, she had asked the paparazzo to sneak some photos just to retaliate against the bullying. But if her adversary was abandoned by Eric Williams, her current predicament would be resolved effortlessly.

Thinking this way, Carmen Kass wanted to pick up the stack of photos again to take a look. But this time, a hand pressed down on the photos, followed by the paparazzo's voice, "Miss Kass, don't forget what you promised. You still need to pay me $100,000."

Recalling how she had worked hard over the years to save a bit of money only for someone to snatch it all away, Carmen Kass suddenly felt a pang of sadness.

Gently biting her lip, she straightened her posture and strengthened her tone, shaking her head, "No, this is not enough. You have to print these photos in the newspaper."

The paparazzo shook his head in response, arguing, "Miss Kass, that was not in the scope of our initial agreement. You said that once I got you the information you needed, you would give me $100,000. Now that I've done what I set out to do..."

Carmen Kass fell silent.

If it was just about getting the photos, she had no channel to disseminate them.

The paparazzo paused for a moment, noticing her silence, then continued, "However, Miss Kass, I can help you complete the last step by finding a very influential newspaper to publish this, of course, this would also come with a fee."

Carmen Kass hesitated and shook her head, "I don't have any money left."

The paparazzo remarked, "I just saw you pull up in a Chrysler."

Carmen Kass felt a flare of anger. How could someone be so greedy, wanting not only all her money but even her car?

"That's my last possession."

"New York Post," the paparazzo casually dismissed her feelings. "It's the most influential gossip paper in New York, with a daily circulation of over 500,000 copies. If these photos get published in the New York Post, Eric Williams will know about it right away."

Carmen Kass only occasionally flipped through fashion magazines and had never paid attention to gossip papers like the New York Post, but she believed that the paparazzo wouldn't try to con her with something so easily disproven.

She was a decisive girl in her actions and, after a moment of hesitation, nodded, "Alright, I'll agree. But I must see these photos appear in the New York Post first before I hand over the car and the final $100,000."

"That's not going to work," the paparazzo insisted in a principled tone, "I've brought the photos to you, so you should pay me the compensation I deserve. As for publication, I can guarantee you'll see the article in the New York Post tomorrow morning."

Once again instinctively biting her lip, she fell silent for a moment. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the cash she had prepared beforehand and coldly pushed it toward the paparazzo.

"Then let's have a pleasant collaboration," the paparazzo said without checking the money, readily accepting it, then pointing at the photos on the table, "Miss Kass, do you need to keep a backup?"

Desperately wanting to say no, she still quietly gathered the photos on the table.

...

Back in her apartment, Carmen Kass's thoughts were a jumbled mess and not wanting to do anything, she curled up on the bed without even changing out of her clothes, staring blankly at the bedside lamp.

She didn't know when she fell asleep, but when she woke, the first light of dawn was spilling in.

Remembering what was about to unfold that day, she mustered up a bit of energy, cleaned up, and headed downstairs.

Looking at her Chrysler parked by the roadside, she suddenly lost all desire to find somewhere for breakfast.

Sitting in the car for a while as the streets began to bustle, she returned to reality, glancing around before she took off an amulet that was hanging from the rearview mirror and tucked it into her pocket.

A taxi slowly stopped nearby. The paparazzo got out of the car and noticed her sitting in the vehicle, so he walked over and tapped on the window.

Carmen Kass opened the door and got out, then the paparazzo handed her a newspaper.

In a prominent position in the entertainment section, the title was glaring: "Supermodel Giselle Bundchen Comes Out, Kissing Her Girlfriend Publicly."

Not wanting to take it at face value, she went to a nearby convenience store, bought another copy of the New York Post, and confirmed the information before she handed her car keys over to the paparazzo.

The paparazzo was well-prepared. After receiving the keys, he pulled out a few A4 sheets of paper and said, "Miss Kass, you need to sign this transfer document."

Carmen Kass didn't want to say another word to him. She hastily scribbled her name on the document and walked straight toward her apartment building.

The troubles she faced should be disappearing now, she thought with a sense of relief. However, she couldn't muster too much enthusiasm and decided to take a good nap, hoping to sleep until the next day.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

But just as she lay on the bed, her phone rang.

...

Looking at the screen, it was Paul Roland calling, so she sat up and pressed the answer button.

Before she could say a word, an agitated voice burst through the line.

Her mind was spinning as she listened to Paul Roland's frustrated rant for a full three minutes before the phone buzzed with a busy tone as she slowly pieced together his fragmented words.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"Bitch."

"Fool."

"Why did you take matters into your own hands?"

"You've been fired."

Before she could react further, her phone rang again, this time it was her agency in Paris calling with the same blunt message: she had been fired.

That wasn't all, shortly after, her small domestic agency also called. She had been scouted by this small agency, and they maintained a good relationship, representing her in Estonia for various matters.

The news from there was also grim -- she had been fired again.

However, because they had been close, they took a bit more time to explain, though it was vague, mentioning they had been under a lot of pressure.

Finally realizing something, a wave of dread washed over her.

Like a zombie, she stumbled onto the street, staring at the moving cars, and suddenly recalled a certain afternoon when she was thirteen.

...

That was in 1991, when Estonia became chaotic; it seemed the whole of Eastern Europe was in turmoil.

Walking home from school along a familiar road, she heard a distant rumble and saw rows of soldiers and tanks heading her way. She didn't understand what was happening, but fear gripped her, causing her to scramble into a small tunnel under a nearby bridge, trembling amid the noise of vehicles, voices, and footsteps.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally dared to crawl out of the tunnel.

The modest concrete bridge bore obvious cracks from being crushed under the tanks, and she felt as if she had nearly been caught under it.

...

From that day forward, she had yearned to leave Estonia.

No matter what, she had to get away.

And she did leave.

But she discovered that there was no place on earth that was a paradise.

Perhaps only the dead could go to heaven.

It was just so unfair.

In a daze, she wandered to an intersection, staring at the blaring red light. She hesitated about whether to walk across.

A taxi stopped nearby; after the passenger got out, the driver looked at her and offered, "Miss, need a ride?"

So, she got in.

The driver turned the wheel and drove off, then asked, "Miss, where to?"

Where to?

Recalling a place name that had recently come to mind, she replied, "Buckshaven, Maryland."

The driver laughed, "Sorry, Miss, this is a taxi, not a witch expedition service."

"Then just keep going straight."

"Straight?" the driver glanced ahead -- the street ran east-west -- "There's no end to that, you could even drive all the way to Long Island."

She pulled her wallet from her pocket, which held her last few hundred dollars, then handed it over, saying, "Just go straight."

The driver took the crumpled bills, realizing she was another girl in a bad mood.

Pretty girls always had their little tantrums.

The driver wasn't going to argue about the money; after all, this stack was equivalent to his entire day's earnings. So, he pressed the gas pedal without a second thought.

He figured it was just a pleasant ride with a pretty girl.

This was an experience a middle-aged driver with a wife and two kids to support had never encountered before, so he figured it'd be a nice change.

...

The taxi quickly left Manhattan, crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, and entered Brooklyn, heading east past JFK International Airport. Further on, the buildings along the road started to thin out but became increasingly elegant.

The driver had been to Long Island before and knew that Route 27 led straight there, so he didn't change lanes and headed straight down.

Occasionally testing the waters with brief conversation, he met cool responses from the girl in the back seat and didn't push it further.

Over three hours later, the taxi stopped near the lighthouse at the end of Long Island.

When she got out, the driver leaned out to say kindly, "Miss, how about I give you a ride back? You won't find any cars around here."

She shook her head and waved her phone, saying, "I'll have my friend come pick me up."

The driver glanced around. Not far off was a private riding stable where he could vaguely see some figures, and with the area being so expansive, he figured a girl wouldn't be in much danger there. So, he nodded and drove off.

...

Watching the taxi disappear, Carmen Kass forced a smile that was tinged with desolation.

What friends?

She had some friends in Europe, but after only six months in New York, most of her time had been consumed with work, leaving no opportunity to make friends.

Now she suddenly had the time.

She scanned her surroundings, tightened her black coat, and stepped off the asphalt road, staggering through dried yellow weeds toward the nearest coast.

When she reached the shore, she found a patch of emptiness to sit down.

Though it was February, the sun was shining brightly on the nearing noon, so it wasn't too cold at all.

Yet her heart held no warmth.

Staring dazedly at the deep blue ocean under the sunlight, the brightness stung her eyes, so she buried her face in her knees.

No one could see her.

Not even the sun.

And then the tears flowed.

She didn't know how long she cried, drifting in and out of consciousness, feeling sleepy.

Maybe she was about to die.

...

In her daze, she momentarily sensed footsteps approaching.

Maybe they were the same footsteps she heard years ago.

But still, she cautiously lifted her head.

Beside her stood a small figure.

It was a little girl, about seven or eight years old.

She had golden hair, big eyes, and wore a pink down jacket along with beige boots, and she held a box, curiously observing her.

Why was there a little girl here?

Could it be an angel?

An angel here to take her to heaven?

So it turned out angels had no wings.

Scanning her surroundings, she noticed a tall man in sunglasses standing nearby, arms crossed in front of him, showing no intention of approaching.

Seeing her glance toward the man, the little girl finally spoke up, "That's Aaron, Daddy's bodyguard."

Carmen lightly sniffed, knowing she must look quite the mess, and touched her face, but the little girl quickly pulled out a pack of tissues from her pocket and handed them over.

"Thank you," she muttered softly, feeling her defenses fade away.

As she wiped her cheek with a tissue, she asked the little girl, "What's your name?"

"Emma," the little girl squatted next to her, eyes sparkling, "And you?"

"Carmen," she replied.

"I know, that's the name of an opera."

"No, that's my name."

"Hmm," the little girl didn't argue, "There's also a movie with the name Emma."

Carmen chuckled softly and asked, "Emma, how did you end up here?"

"Grandpa Jeffrey sent over some foals to be boarded at the stable. Daddy brought us to ride today, and there's a barbecue, too," the little girl said suddenly, remembering something, and handed her the box, "Carmen, would you like something to eat?"

"I..." She almost shook her head but then reached out to accept it, saying, "Thank you."

Inside the box was a roasted chicken leg and a sausage. Although they were a bit cold, she didn't hesitate to grab the skewer and carefully bring it to her mouth.

Seeing her start to eat made Emma visibly happy.

Curious, she asked, "What's wrong?"

"You've been sitting here for so long that I thought you must be very hungry," Emma chirped, "But Daddy says pretty girls don't eat, so I bet Daddy."

*****

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