Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

"Hey, have you seen Charles?"

Wentworth Miller had just arrived on set.

His scenes were scheduled for the afternoon, so he didn't need to come in early.

The first thing he did upon arrival was look for Charles.

That guy's second-hand car had broken down, so he borrowed Wentworth's car last night, saying he had to pick up a friend. After that, he vanished without a trace.

No calls, no messages, no sign of him anywhere.

Wentworth had to take a cab to the set since Charles hadn't returned the car.

After asking around and still not finding Charles, a troubling thought crossed his mind: Did that bastard sell my car and run off? But why?

His car was just a second-hand Cadillac—not worth much.

Would he really abandon his job on set for such a small sum of money?

Wentworth couldn't make sense of it.

Then, he overheard that Amanda had gone missing.

Suddenly, he connected the dots—both Charles and Amanda had disappeared at the same time.

At first, he didn't think much of it, reasoning:

"Maybe that lucky bastard hooked up with Amanda! She's a total knockout. They probably spent the night together somewhere, partied too hard, and lost track of time. Borrowing my car was just an excuse to pick her up..."

For a brief moment, Wentworth felt envious.

That was until he heard more details—Amanda's luggage was missing from her hotel room, there were signs of forced entry on the balcony door, and Lindsay Lohan had called the police.

A chill ran down his spine.

Could Amanda have been kidnapped?

There was no way she'd just abandon her job for Charles. That alone made her missing luggage suspicious, not to mention the forced entry.

And if Charles was also missing…

If they hadn't gone off to have fun together, then what did that mean for Charles?

For the first time, Wentworth realized he knew almost nothing about Charles—where he lived, his past, what he had done before joining the crew…

Damn it. I never should've recommended him!

If Charles really was responsible… and he was the one who vouched for him…

The more he thought about it, the more anxious he became. Sweat poured down his back, and his face turned pale.

He had worked so hard for this opportunity—he couldn't afford to have it ruined because of Charles.

Finally, he mustered the courage to call Martin.

—

"Hello, this is Martin. Wentworth, right? What's up?"

Wentworth was startled. Martin actually remembers my number? Did he save it?

That realization only made him feel even more foolish.

"M-Mr. Martin, something happened on set. I think I messed up big time!"

Martin's voice immediately turned sharp. "Who? Lindsay? Did something happen to her?"

"No, not Miss Lindsay. It's an actress named Amanda. She's missing, and it might have something to do with a guy I recommended for a crew job. He's missing too. I'm really sorry…"

Hearing it wasn't Lindsay, Martin relaxed slightly.

He listened as Wentworth recounted the situation and how he had brought Charles onto the set. Martin could tell the guy was worried about his own involvement.

After a moment of thought, Martin said, "If Charles really did this, then yeah, you bear some responsibility. But the priority right now is finding them. Do you have any leads?"

"I actually d—"

Wentworth had been about to say he knew nothing about Charles when he suddenly remembered something—Charles had once mentioned working as a bouncer at Queen's Bar on Sunset Boulevard.

That could be a clue.

"Mr. Martin, I think I know something…"

After hearing Wentworth out, Martin thought for a moment and said, "Stay on set. I'm coming over."

—

Half an hour later.

Martin arrived at the set but didn't get out of the car. Instead, his bodyguard brought Wentworth to him.

"Let's go. We're heading to Queen's Bar."

On the way, Martin called Lindsay.

Over the phone, Lindsay sounded on the verge of tears. Clearly, she had truly come to see Amanda as a friend.

"Martin, you have to find Amanda! The police are here, but they haven't found anything."

To the little troublemaker, "Daddy Martin" was capable of anything.

—

Two black Mercedes pulled up outside Queen's Bar.

From the first car, four bodyguards stepped out, scanning the area. After ensuring it was safe, one of them opened the door to the second vehicle.

Martin and Wentworth stepped out, followed by Gordon from the driver's seat.

The group headed straight inside.

At this hour, the bar was nearly empty.

Only two old men sat at a corner table, drinking in silence.

Behind the bar, a bored bartender was wiping glasses.

Martin motioned for Wentworth to handle the questioning.

Wentworth walked up to the bartender and started asking about Charles. Within moments, the two were arguing.

Martin frowned and, along with Gordon, approached the bar.

As they got closer, the bartender's voice carried over:

"Who the hell are you? Why should I tell you anything?"

"Charles is suspected in a kidnapping. A girl might be in danger."

"How do I know you're not making this up?"

"Trust me, we're trying to save someone. You wouldn't want your bar dragged into a criminal case, would you?"

"Oh, now you're threatening me? Do you even know who owns this place?"

"The cops will be here soon anyway. You'll have to talk eventually."

"Then I'll wait until they get here."

"You—"

Wentworth was about to lose his temper when a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

"Easy, man. Let me handle this."

Martin's calm voice came from behind him.

"Sorry…"

Wentworth turned back, feeling useless.

"This isn't on you."

Martin patted his shoulder reassuringly.

The bartender sneered. "It doesn't matter who asks me."

Martin wasn't angry. He simply smiled.

"Look, I respect your loyalty to your colleagues. But we're trying to save someone. Every second counts. You wouldn't want a girl's life to be lost because you stalled, would you?"

As he spoke, Martin removed his mask and sunglasses.

The bartender scoffed. "I don't care what you s—holy shit! Y-you're Martin? Martin Meyers?!"

His expression instantly shifted from disdain to pure shock.

"So, you do recognize me. Good. Then I hope you'll trust me too. The kidnapped girl is my friend."

"Oh, of course I trust you! You once risked your life to take down a bank robber, and you even jumped into a raging ocean to save a friend. You're a hero—I trust you."

With a complete change in attitude, the bartender now looked at Martin with respect.

"Mr. Martin, what do you need to know?"

"Everything about Charles Gagliro—where he lives, who he hangs out with, his habits."

"Alright, I'll tell you everything I know."

The bartender thought for a moment, then frowned.

"Shit… I just realized I don't actually know much about him. I don't even know where he lives. He's worked security here, but he never really got close to anyone."

"He drinks, but never to the point of getting drunk. He's a hell of a fighter—super strong. Last time, he tossed out a rowdy customer who must've weighed over 180 pounds…"

"Hm… let me think… Oh! Chelsea! Chelsea's slept with him plenty of times. She might know where he lives."

"Who's Chelsea?" Martin asked.

"A dancer. I have her number and address."

"Can we have it?"

Martin took a $50 bill from his wallet and slid it across the bar.

The bartender grinned. "Of course. Hell, if Chelsea knows you're the one looking for her, she'll probably thank me for it."