(This Chapter contains mature themes and sexual content. Reader discretion is advised)
The music gradually died down, and darkness enveloped the villa. Matthew slipped out through a side door, quickly shutting off the DV camera. Under the faint glow of a streetlamp, he spotted someone approaching. Instinctively, he crouched behind a bush, avoiding the patrolling security guards. Once the coast was clear, he tucked the DV into his bag and covered it with his jacket. He glanced around cautiously—the surroundings were eerily quiet—before heading towards the estate's gate.
Images from the villa's banquet hall flickered through his mind, stirring a mix of envy and awe. This is the life, he thought.
The camera's red light blinked steadily as Matthew's fingers trembled. Through the lens, the scene inside the mansion unfolded like a twisted, forbidden dream. Johnny Lee Miller was fucking six gorgeous women at once—each one a perfect mix of sweat, silk, and raw desire.
Their bodies writhed together, skin slick with sweat and lust. The women moaned and screamed, nails digging into Johnny's back, breasts bouncing wildly as he slammed into them one by one.
One girl's mouth was latched onto Johnny's neck, teeth grazing his skin as she whimpered, "Harder... fuck me harder..." Her hands roamed over his chest, clawing at his muscles, desperate for more.
Johnny's eyes burned with hunger, thrusting deep and fast, his cock pounding into her dripping wet cunt like a god possessed. The sounds were filthy and intoxicating—the wet slap of skin, the desperate gasps, the harsh growls as he called out her name between thrusts.
Another girl was sprawled across the couch, hips bucking uncontrollably, pussy clenched tight around his cock. "Don't stop... please... harder... harder!" she begged, voice trembling with pleasure and pain.
Matthew's heart thudded as he captured every filthy detail. The heavy panting, the slick moans, the way Johnny's hands grabbed and squeezed, leaving red marks on pale, trembling flesh.
One girl's thighs were wrapped tight around Johnny's waist as she rocked against him, her back arching in wild abandon, lips parted in a ragged scream. She cried out, "Fuck me deep... fuck me like you want me to drown in your cock!"
Matthew swallowed hard, his body flush with heat, even though he was just the watcher, the recorder of this obscene symphony.
The camera caught a flash of tongues flicking between breasts, fingers teasing swollen nipples, hands sliding down to slick folds, coaxing more cries and shudders.
Johnny pulled one girl up, spinning her around roughly, slamming into her ass from behind while she gasped and moaned, nails raking his shoulders as she begged for more.
Matthew's breath hitched. Every filthy sound, every desperate plea, every obscene gasp was burned into the tape.
This was the underbelly of Hollywood's glamor—the brutal, raw hunger behind the smiles and lights.
And Matthew was right in the middle of it, capturing the ugly, beautiful truth.
"These rich bastards sure know how to have fun!" Matthew muttered as he passed the fountain, no longer hiding his thoughts. "One against six is a bit much."
He shook his head in disbelief at how well-off and carefree these Hollywood stars lived.
Soon Matthew reached the estate gate and waved at the guard. "Thanks, buddy!"
The guard nodded, having no reason to suspect anything after just a few minutes. "If you need to pick someone up, just give me a heads up."
"Got it! Thanks!" Matthew replied eagerly.
Taking the small gate beside the guard, he exited the estate and walked toward the waiting Ford van. The job had gone smoothly, without a hitch.
Climbing into the driver's seat, Matthew noticed Angelina Jolie eyeing the bag in his hands. "Did you get the footage?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out the DV camera, switched it on, and played the recording for her. The screen showed scenes too explicit to describe, accompanied by a chorus of wild screams.
Angelina's face darkened. "Good," she said grimly. "I'll have someone bring the money."
She reached for her phone, but Matthew stopped her.
"Wait, Miss Jolie," he said softly.
She looked up, her brows furrowing.
Matthew turned off the camera and spoke cautiously, "Besides the five thousand dollars, I have a small favor to ask."
He looked at her earnestly. "It's really small."
Angelina stared at the DV camera in his hands and said coldly, "Go on."
"Well, Miss Jolie…" Matthew chose his words carefully to avoid any misunderstanding, "I'm also an actor—a nobody, really. I haven't had a role in a long time."
Angelina's expression darkened further, but Matthew rushed on, "Please hear me out, I beg you."
Whether she wanted to listen or not, he spoke quickly, "I just want to ask if you could help me get a role at some point."
"Impossible!" Angelina snapped. "I'm giving you money already—you're being greedy!"
Matthew shook his head. "I'm not asking for a named role or lines, just to appear on camera—even if it's as an extra in the background."
He spoke with sincere humility, careful not to sound demanding or threatening.
He knew Angelina wouldn't agree to anything too outrageous. This crazy woman might be eccentric, but she wasn't insane.
He thought it through—he just wanted to take the first real step into Hollywood tonight. Someone he once met had warned him that even that small first step—appearing as a background extra—was hard to come by for dreamers like him who arrived in Los Angeles with nothing.
The beginning was always the hardest, like waiting for a job in a labor market where even minor skilled positions go to experienced hands.
Though he didn't know much about Hollywood, he figured that getting a background role should be no big deal for a star of Angelina's level. After all, she was the film's second lead—an assistant could easily mention it to the casting director.
Was ruining her cheating husband's reputation and winning the divorce battle more important than granting this tiny favor?
Angelina suddenly laughed.
Years ago, she wouldn't have agreed. She might have sent her bodyguards to rough him up. But people grow up. She wasn't the confused, scatterbrained girl she once was. Her career had steadily improved, and her mind was clearer than ever.
She finally spoke, "Got a business card?"
Matthew quickly scribbled down his phone number and handed it over. She slipped it in her pocket and dialed. "Bring the money."
Matthew exhaled in relief—he might just have grabbed his chance.
But he stayed alert. A burly white man approached, handed Angelina a small package, then left quickly.
Angelina opened it—a thick stack of crisp bills. Without a word, she tossed the cash to Matthew. He caught it, handed back the DV camera, and put it away.
As she prepared to leave, Angelina turned back with a curious look. "You're not worried I'll renege?"
"Worried," Matthew admitted honestly. "But I can only bet on your honor."
Their statuses were worlds apart. Angelina had bodyguards—maybe even guns. What could he do? He knew this was an unequal, verbal agreement from the start. If she backed out, he'd just have to accept it.
Still, Matthew figured this favor wasn't worth much trouble for her. He'd gotten five thousand dollars already—if she deceived him, he still came out ahead.
Angelina's mood clearly lifted. "Just don't blab."
Without the video, there was no leverage. In Hollywood, every star had rumors swirling—without proof, they stayed rumors.
Matthew made a zipper-lips gesture. "I promise."
He wouldn't spill a word. Without Angelina's help, he'd eventually get his shot, but tonight's experience made him impatient—he wanted a better life, like Johnny Lee Miller living it up in the estate.
If Angelina kept her word, his climb would speed up dramatically.
Though in a new country, Matthew believed connections made things easier.
Angelina got into her car and disappeared into the night. Matthew guessed she'd soon divorce Johnny, and that he'd be the one suffering huge losses.
"Is this too low?" Matthew thought about professional ethics, then shook his head. "A nobody like me can't afford to be rigid."
As for ethics? That could wait until he was rich.
He flipped the five thousand dollars in his hand. The crisp sound was music to his ears.
"Being rich… feels damn good."
He stowed the cash, flipped through a magazine, checked the time, locked the car, and rested on the backseat. When he woke, dawn was breaking. After a quick wash, he waited—soon, the estate guard signaled it was time to pick someone up.
Matthew drove to the villa's front door. Six disheveled women climbed into the van, smelling of alcohol, cigarettes, and something else unnameable. Their faces showed exhaustion, like they hadn't slept.
None spoke. Even Rachel, who had chatted with him before, collapsed silently into her seat.
Matthew shook his head. Their glamorous appearance belied a harsh reality.
He drove the women home one by one, then returned the keys to the company. The day's work was done.
After work, Matthew went to a nearby real estate agent. With some cash in hand, he was ready to rent a place.
Feeling refreshed from last night's rest, he visited three agents, viewed seven modest studio apartments, and finally rented a small, ready-to-move-in unit in a worn-down complex on the outskirts of Westwood.
The room was tiny—less than 20 square meters—with a tiny private bathroom. The old plaster was peeling, but the rent was only $400 a month. Matthew paid half a year upfront—finally, a foothold in Los Angeles.
That evening, he returned to driving for Red Penguin Company. The routine didn't interfere with his rest and left energy for other pursuits.
The next morning, just as he finished work and stepped outside, his phone rang.
A professional female voice greeted him: "Hello, this is Vanessa, Miss Jolie's assistant…"