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Chapter 122 The Real and Fake Paris

"Ernst, you bastard."

"Ernst, you're a bastard."

A sharp curse pierced the tranquility of the luxurious apartment. The first sentence was in Italian, which Ernst couldn't understand, but the second sentence was shouted in English, which Ernst understood clearly.

Google's Series B funding round has been finalized, but Ernst cannot leave New York yet. The framework of Ernst Asset Management is not yet complete, and he will need to stay in New York for a while longer.

The night was long, but what Ernst didn't expect was that the ball flower was actually in New York.

The media was flooding in with reports about him, and analysts were debating on financial programs whether he would become the next Bill Gates.

Ernst's mobile phone was naturally bombarded with messages, including greetings from the Apennine Peninsula.

Because of the casting for "Tomorrow Never Dies," Ernst and this Italian muse had their first encounter.

Ernst's Adam's apple bobbed involuntarily as he recalled his first meeting with this Italian muse during his solo audition, her voluptuous figure encased in a velvet gown.

I just wanted to flirt a bit, but it turned out the other person was in New York, attending an event.

A knock sounded at the door, and the bodyguards all returned to their bedrooms. Ernst, being a gentleman, went to open the door to greet them.

But who would have thought that when the door opened, what greeted his eyes was not Monica Bellucci, but another radiant face: Paris Hilton, the eldest daughter of the Hilton family, the blonde beauty with whom he had played billiards all night in San Francisco.

"What are you doing here?" Ernst asked, somewhat surprised.

"What, you're not welcoming me?" Paris's smile froze on his face instantly. The young girl was clearly very dissatisfied with the attitude of the man who had taken her virginity.

She strode into the living room in ten-centimeter red-soled high heels, the hem of her Chanel suit carrying a waft of fragrance.

"People say they don't care anymore once they've had their fun, but am I that bad that one time is enough for you?"

Ernst didn't mean that at all. He frowned and said, "What I want to ask is, how did you get in?"

This top-tier apartment building on Central Park West has a security system comparable to the Pentagon. Without resident authorization, even the elevator cannot stop. When did privacy become so poor?

If that's the case, Ernst doesn't want to live here anymore because he feels insecure.

"Oh, is that what you're asking about?" Paris Hilton realized she had misunderstood, and a smile returned to her face. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the dazzling Manhattan skyline, and sat down before slowly saying, "Because I'm also a resident here, aren't I?"

"You're a resident here too?" Ernst raised an eyebrow, secretly marveling at how being born into the right family was truly an art.

Each floor of this building is independently owned, with only one family living on each floor. They are either one family per floor or one family per multi-story building, and their prices are comparable to those of villas in Beverly Hills.

An ordinary person can't afford a toilet even after a lifetime of hard work, while this person lives in a palace without spending a penny.

"How did you get to my floor?"

"Didn't you receive a notice that the emergency exit was under maintenance today? That's why I climbed up here."

Ernst wanted to say more, but Paris Hilton was clearly not there to chat. She trotted up to Ernst and breathed warmly into his ear, her small mouth whispering sweet nothings.

"Don't waste time, I only have three hours, or I'll be found out." Her fingertips traced the buttons on his shirt, her voice carrying an irresistible allure.

Thinking of Monica Bellucci on the road right now, I felt the tickling sensation from my earlobe being licked.

I think Monica Bellucci's character in "Tomorrow Never Dies" was also named Paris.

Ernst's lips curled into a wicked smile. This is interesting.

"Go and run the bath water first, and I'll come over and soak with you in a bit."

Paris Hilton was pleased with Ernst's arrangements, gave him a kiss, and followed Ernst's finger to the master bedroom.

Before disappearing, she struck a seductive pose, as if to say, "Hurry up!"

Paris Hilton disappeared, and Ernst pushed open the door to the room where the bodyguards lived.

"Boss, what's the matter?"

This is Mueller's room. Because there are enough rooms, each of the six bodyguards has their own room.

"It's nothing. Go tell them not to come out, no matter what happens tonight."

Muller's strange expression flashed by. Did they know Ernst had made an appointment, but were they really going to play this wildly?

"Don't worry, boss, I'll let them know."

Ernst left satisfied, only two or three minutes later, a phone call came from downstairs saying that a guest had come to visit.

Without waiting too long, when Monica Bellucci appeared before him in a black velvet halter dress, Ernst immediately picked her up and carried her to the master bedroom.

When the door to the master bathroom was pushed open, Monica Bellucci, already half-undressed, and Paris Hilton, who was naked and playing with bubbles in the fish tank, met each other's eyes. Ernst was so startled by the woman's loud voice that he had to cover his ears temporarily.

Running was their first thought.

Even the two fools could understand what Ernst was thinking and what he wanted to do at that moment.

But can he give them that opportunity? Obviously not.

What followed was a chaotic scene reminiscent of a Hollywood action movie, with Monica's screams and Paris's rage eventually escalating into a chase between two women and a man in a duplex apartment.

"Why are you running?"

When the two women were cornered in a room, Ernst leaned against the doorframe, watching the two panicked women huddle around the curtains, a smirk playing on his lips. "Weren't we having a great time chatting?"

Paris was the first to suffer. This young lady tried to resist, but Ernst pinned her against the wall at the door.

Monica tried to slip away, but Ernst pulled her back with his other hand as soon as she opened the door.

When Ernst carried the two of them, both exhausted, to the large bed in the master bedroom, they uttered those two furious curses at the beginning.

But Ernst didn't care. Let them curse; it wouldn't hurt him anyway.

"Go ahead and curse me, the more you curse me, the more energetic I get." Ernst leaned close to Monica's reddened earlobe, watching her utter Italian words, his smile deepening.

Early morning, a mansion in Central Park.

When Ernst woke up, Monica Bellucci was still fast asleep beside him. Her long, curly hair was spread out on the silk pillowcase, and dried tear tracks still clung to the corners of her eyes. It can only be said that Paris Hilton was truly cunning; she slipped away after Ernst's first round, and Ernst didn't even notice when she left.

Thus, in the second battle, the Muse had no allies and had to fight the Great Demon King alone.

After a quick shower in the bathroom and putting on his bathrobe, Ernst felt extremely hungry.

This was only the second time Ernst had felt this way since arriving in America; the last time something like this happened was at the Playboy estate.

Of course, this happened almost every day, but Ernst referred to it as the first time.

Downstairs in the restaurant, six bodyguards were having breakfast around a long table.

Upon seeing Ernst walk in, Tom Wilson, a large, outgoing black man, immediately raised an eyebrow, concealing a malicious smile with his coffee cup.

Moen Lambert gave a thumbs up, his eyes filled with admiration for his boss's competence.

Royce Newman blushed, looking down at the bacon on his plate, too embarrassed to look at him.

He was the youngest of the six, only 24 years old.

Ernst pulled out a chair and sat down, blurting out the question that had been on his mind: "You're not still a virgin, are you?"

His words made everyone burst into laughter, which opened up a floodgate of conversation, with everyone chiming in.

Ernst happily joined in the atmosphere until his eyes fell on the newspaper on the table, and his gaze sharpened.