Dominate Showbiz: Media Tycoon Discovered My Talent-Chapter 90: Snap Out of It

"Perhaps I should head back first," Max said, checking his watch as he finished the rest of his wine. "I have a few meetings early tomorrow. Will you leave as well, brother? Or will you stay here and deal with... that security breach your men have been busy with all evening?"

"I’ll be staying here tonight to sort that matter out," Charles said, still calmly enjoying his wine. "Please, see yourself down, brother."

"Hm?" Max set the glass down, eyes flicking around. "Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen your timid-looking assistant anywhere tonight. You know, the one with the umber hair you always send to escort me downstairs. What’s her name again?"

"Camille?"

"Yes! Exactly her," Max exclaimed. "What happened to that woman? Isn’t she always following you around?"

"She got reassigned," Charles replied coolly. "I sent her to work with the Head of Finance you met earlier. She’s no longer fit to work with me."

"Oh, what a shame," Max said, shaking his head without a shred of sincerity. "I always thought she looked a little too severe for my taste, anyway. But now that you’ve gotten rid of her, let me know if you need a more polished-looking one. I’ve got plenty waiting in line at my office."

"That won’t be necessary," Charles said, brushing it off. "I can handle that myself."

Max’s tone turned faintly disapproving. "Still stubborn as ever, brother. Always wanting to do everything yourself, all alone. I admire that about you, but who knows, one day it might become your greatest weakness."

His lips curled into a mysterious smirk as he turned and walked out of the room, waving lazily over his shoulder.

With Max finally gone, Charles set his empty glass down.

Surprised as he was that his brother had noticed even small details like Camille’s absence, just hearing her name already brought back unpleasant memories to his mind.

When the woman had followed him up to his flat in Building S, he’d expected her to act as she always had: staying quiet, being efficient, taking notes, then leaving with the same professional manner she’d maintained for four years.

And yet, the moment he finished giving her final instructions and told her to leave, she suddenly lunged forward.

Before he even registered what happened, her face was pressed against his face, mouth landing on his lips. She even dared to wrap both arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into his back with raw hunger as she clung to him, her body pressing so closely he could feel her bosom against his chest.

"Hey, what are you doing?!" he snarled, gripping both sides of Camille’s head and pushing her away so forcefully several strands of her neatly pinned hair came loose.

But the woman didn’t give up. She forced her lips toward his again, clutching at him so stubbornly his clothes began to wrinkle.

This time, his patience snapped. "Snap out of it!" he growled, pushing her away by the neck to stop her desperate mouth from reaching his.

Camille stared at him with a stunned expression, hurt evident at the depth of her eyes.

And then, like every other woman who had thrown herself at him, only to be rejected in the same fashion, Camille broke down sobbing.

She bowed, apologized, claimed it was a moment of unclear thinking, that something had gone wrong in her head, that she didn’t know what came over her, and started pleading for forgiveness.

Charles, for his part, had heard that script far too many times and had long grown tired of it.

"Get out. Now." He glared down at her trembling, kneeling form with pure contempt, before storming into his room and slamming the door shut.

He should have fired her on the spot, but before her crude confession today, Camille had worked for him long enough to understand his preferences and habits well.

Throwing her away felt like a waste, so he decided to give her a few days off instead, hoping she would clear whatever foolish ideas she’d had in her head, learn her lesson, and straighten herself out.

However, some time later, the woman had deliberately failed to report to him that Kaija was participating in the festival.

He remembered briefing her very clearly from the beginning: always keep an eye on Kaija Sepala, and report even the slightest, most insignificant thing.

And yet here he was, hearing about Kaija’s participation in the festival only two weeks before it happened, and from his half-brother, of all people.

Why Camille had chosen to withhold that information, Charles didn’t even bother to ask. He simply signed the transfer papers and sent her straight to the Finance Department the next morning, so the company could continue making use of her efficiency, but keeping her neatly out of his way.

A small vibration from his phone cut through his unpleasant thoughts.

Two new messages had arrived from his men. One was a text. The other, a video.

"You must see this immediately, sir," the text read, sent from the usual Unknown Sender.

His finger tapped the play button on the video, and the moment he did, his silver eyes narrowed.

The screen showed a long, empty corridor. With the carpet, the white walls, the minimal potted plants at the corners, and the only two wooden doors lining the hallway, Charles recognized it instantly. It was a footage taken from the corridor camera from the 20th floor of Building S.

Right after he’d left the backstage dressing room, after interrogating Kaija face-to-face and hearing her lie without batting an eye, he had immediately called his men while storming back toward the stage, rage still burning through him.

"Check the camera in Building S’s elevator and the camera on the 20th floor from the past two hours," he ordered coldly. "Confirm whether Kaija Sepala returned to Room 1 around the start of the second half of the show, or left again two hours later. Check if anyone followed her. Report to me immediately."

Of course, when his men checked the elevator footage first and found no sign of her, that alone confirmed Kaija’s lie.

But now, they had messaged him again, and sent this video...

On the screen, in the middle of the corridor he knew so well, a male figure appeared.

He wore a black cap and a mask that covered most of his face, but the black leather jacket and the camera bag slung across his shoulder gave away his identity instantly.

A bitter smirk tugged at Charles’s lips as he tossed the phone aside. It was the photographer punk he’d seen with Kaija at the studio the other day.

That punk hadn’t come from the elevator, but from the emergency exit. Within a few quick steps, he swiped a key card at Room 1 and slipped inside in less than three seconds. No wonder neither he nor Kaija had shown up in the elevator footage.

But the biggest mystery to him was, if Kaija wasn’t seen in both, then where had she been during those hours?

Charles exhaled sharply as he clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. Otherwise, he would have hurled the wine bottle along with the glass straight at the window.

Five minutes of barely restrained rage later, he poured himself a full glass of wine and downed it in one swallow.

Then he picked up his phone again, dialing the number that had sent the messages.

"Yes, sir?" the voice on the other end answered.

"No footage of him leaving that room?"

"No, sir," the man replied. "Shall I prepare our men to search the room now, sir?"

"No." Charles slammed the glass down on the table and shot up from his chair.

He grabbed the white jacket hanging on its back, shrugging into it in one motion as he stormed out of the room with quick, heavy steps.

"Do not do anything unless I tell you," he muttered into the phone. "I’m going there myself."