Hearing the shouting outside, Leo turned his gaze to Grace. A flicker of helplessness flashed across her eyes as she said softly:
"It's Howard Hughes. He's been pursuing me lately."
Leo nodded. Grace had bodyguards protecting her, and if there had been any real danger requiring his intervention, his men would have notified him immediately.
Since there was no warning, that meant Grace herself had no intention of involving him.
In his previous life, Leo had been obsessed with Iron Man. Back then, the internet was full of discussions claiming that the prototype for the character was none other than Howard Hughes.
Curious, Leo had dug up a lot of information about the man—and the resemblance was indeed striking.
What impressed Leo most was Marvel founder Stan Lee's comment about Hughes: "He was an inventor, an adventurer, a millionaire, a ladies' man, and, without question, a madman."
Even in this world, during his time in the army, Leo often saw Hughes's name in the papers. The man made films, built airplanes, ran airlines, and broke multiple world flight records.
Before Leo's rise, Hughes had been the idol of America's youth—the superstar of superstars.
Naturally, Leo was intrigued. And since the man was calling out downstairs with a loudspeaker, ignoring him would have been inappropriate.
At this moment, in front of KTLA's building, Howard Hughes was shouting through a megaphone.
Around him swarmed reporters, all frantically snapping photos and recording, terrified of missing a single word. The more diligent ones were even drafting on the spot, eager to meet press deadlines.
And no wonder—this was the legendary Howard Hughes, a guaranteed headline and a guaranteed boost in newspaper sales.
As for the reporters, Hughes paid them no mind. He was used to such scenes.
But inside, he burned with rage. A friend had just told him that after leaving the Paramount lot, Grace Kelly had gotten into a luxurious Bentley, driven by a well-dressed middle-aged man. The two had talked and laughed as though intimately close.
Hearing this, Hughes felt humiliated in a way he never had before. He had never imagined himself as the man being cuckolded. Clenching his fists and swallowing his fury, he had stormed out of the office he'd holed himself up in for days.
Recently, Hughes had been busy filming. One night after a shoot, he had run into Grace Kelly as she was heading home. In the moonlight, her tall figure, golden hair, and graceful poise had captivated him. But what truly seized his heart was her flawless purity. It touched his obsessive pursuit of perfection deep inside.
He became convinced: a girl that pure was meant to belong to him. And as one of America's earliest self-made billionaires, Hughes had the confidence to believe it.
In America, very few women could resist the charm of Howard Hughes.
Yet for the first time in his life, Hughes encountered crushing defeat.
Grace Kelly wanted nothing to do with him. Faced with his relentless pursuit, she evaded him at every turn. Hughes even rejected MGM producers' suggestion of forcing her hand with movie roles—he thought that would desecrate his "pure" affection.
Her refusal only deepened his obsession. He courted her even harder, and to his astonishment, he found that during this pursuit, his obsessive-compulsive symptoms eased somewhat. That convinced him even more—she was the angel sent by God to save him.
Precisely because of this hope, when he learned today that Grace had been escorted away by another man, his fury exploded.
Glancing at the modest building before him, which looked more like a roadside restaurant than a television station, Hughes sneered. So this was the rival? Pathetic.
Hmph—what class of man dares to compete with Howard Hughes for a woman?
He had completely forgotten that he was nearly fifty.
Then he saw Grace Kelly step out, her arm hooked around an extraordinarily handsome man.
Handsome on a level that even Hughes, who had been considered a looker in his youth, felt dwarfed. His first thought was—Is Grace just collecting pretty boys?
But then he saw the reporters swarm not toward Grace, but toward the man beside her.
Since when is Grace this popular? he thought.
And then he heard it—questions shouted excitedly, not to him, but to that man:
"Mr. Valentino, when did you arrive in the West? Is there a major investment coming?"
"Mr. Valentino, when did you and Miss Grace Kelly get together?"
"Mr. Valentino, are you competing with Mr. Hughes for Miss Grace?"
Howard's frozen mind rebooted. Recognition dawned. That name—Valentino.
Yes, the younger man who had shoved him off the pedestal of America's youth idol, wasn't his surname Valentino?
It just had to be him!
Howard Hughes stared at Leo in disbelief.
Until today, he had been one hundred percent certain he could win Grace Kelly. Men richer than him were older and uglier. Men younger than him couldn't match his wealth or charisma.
Across all America, there was only one exception. One glitch in the system.
Valentino. Younger, more handsome, more charming, and wealthier.
As the reporters' flashbulbs popped, Leo glanced coolly at the disheveled Hughes and said with confidence:
"Don't misunderstand—I have no interest in competing with Mr. Hughes over a woman. If you spoke with colleagues from the East Coast, you'd know Grace's success on Broadway was orchestrated by me.
We've been together for a long time."
"But you're married," came a voice—not from the reporters, none of whom dared confront a tycoon of Leo's stature, but from Hughes himself.
Leo gave a cold laugh.
"Don't be childish, Howard. You've juggled more than one woman yourself. We're both playboys—you're hardly in a position to criticize me."
The sharp reply made the reporters' eyes light up. Their bonuses this month were guaranteed.
Hughes, unwilling to be humiliated, shot back:
"You're not worthy of Grace. She's like an angel, and you reek of money."
Though he himself was a capitalist of the highest order, Hughes prided himself on his image as a genius, a director, an artist, an inventor, even a scientist.
Leo cut him off icily.
"Grow up, Howard. If you want to be friends, come inside. If not, then leave. If you really could win Grace over, you'd have done it in the past six months instead of standing here insulting me."
Then, turning to his assistant Noodles, Leo said:
"Give the reporters some hard-work money."
The sudden generosity stunned the press for a moment, but soon they felt the weight of a billionaire's authority.
"I'm not like Howard. I don't want tabloid gossip dominating the papers every day. Newspapers should focus on things that actually matter.
I hope we can agree on this. I've memorized your faces—next time, I'll prioritize your questions.
But if anyone chooses to expose my private life, I'll make sure he pays for it. You all know my influence in the newspaper industry. We're all just trying to make a living—no need to push it."
With that, Leo turned and strode back inside the station. Hughes's face darkened. At last, with a stomp and a curse, he climbed into his car and sped away.
Inside a small private dining booth converted into a meeting room at KTLA, several people sat around the table for Leo's first meeting after acquiring the company.
"Viggo, how did such a small station manage to attract so many subscribers? From what I know, you only have a single news program."
Viggo chuckled sheepishly.
"I used to run a steakhouse on Sunset Boulevard. My steaks were the best—no one dared claim second place. Priced fairly, the place drew many white-collar workers and corporate executives.
Over time, I built a loyal customer base. When I switched to television, they sometimes tipped me off with news leads. In return, I'd invite them back for steak.
To them, the info might have been trivial, but to outsiders, it was fascinating—like tidbits from Hollywood sets.
Later, when business got busy and I couldn't cook anymore, I started paying for tips instead. That's how the news sources stayed alive.
Our highest-rated program is the late-night news. We can only air after 10 p.m. due to limited capacity, but our viewers are loyal—because here they get business news that affects next-day deals, as well as entertainment gossip like which star is filming where."
Gesturing to the pair beside him, Viggo continued:
"This is Tony and Lucy, our news anchors."
Leo studied them. They weren't exceptionally handsome or stunning, but they had something more important: they were likable, easy to watch.
"Tony used to sell ovens—best salesman around. When his company went under, he worked as a waiter at my restaurant. His communication skills made him the most popular waiter ten months in a row.
When I switched to TV, I kept him—and it was the right call. He's now a modest celebrity. Fans wait outside every day to see him."
Then he introduced Lucy.
"Lucy's a girl from Texas who dreamed of Hollywood. One time, an assistant director tried to take advantage of her—only to get beaten up by this cowgirl.
She was about to return home, stopped by my restaurant for a meal on my last night in business, and I hired her on the spot. Funny thing—she thought I was hitting on her."
"Hey, Viggo, don't lie to the boss," Tony interjected with a grin. "You told me yourself Lucy made you believe in love again."
The room burst into laughter, Leo included—genuine laughter. Suddenly he understood why California had so quickly caught up to the East, despite the latter's century head start.
The people here were like the Western sunshine—open, warm, and generous, a stark contrast to the East's gloom and solemnity.
Viggo's team in the East might have been overlooked as amateurs. But here, this very group had grown into one of Los Angeles's largest stations.
It was a team brimming with creativity. And as a shrewd manager and investor, Leo knew how vital it was to protect such creativity.
With fewer than 200 employees, KTLA hadn't yet hit the limits of personal management. For now, Leo wouldn't impose rigid structures.
"So tell me, Viggo, what kind of support do you need?"
Relieved, Viggo spoke honestly. In truth, when the company had been on the verge of collapse, he'd asked Lawrence to find investors. But East Coast financiers had been arrogant—most didn't even bother negotiating after touring the station.
Those few who did offered outrageous conditions: relinquish control to Eastern managers, fire Tony and Lucy, and hire glamorous new anchors.
Viggo had expected this new billionaire boss to be no different. Yet to his shock, Leo had asked for nothing—and was willing to listen.
"Boss, as I said before, my partners walked away with every cent. I couldn't even pay wages last month. Next month's utilities are a problem too."
Leo pulled out his checkbook, signed for a hundred thousand, and handed it over.
"Pay your staff. Take them to Vegas for a break. Mention my name at any hotel—you'll be well treated."
Having endured blow after blow from reality, Viggo felt like spring sunlight had suddenly broken through. In that moment, he looked at Leo as if at God himself.
"Now that your immediate problem's solved, tell me—how do you plan to develop the station?"
Encouraged, Viggo laid out his vision.
"Boss, I want to buy new signal towers."
He handed over a stack of letters. Leo skimmed them. They were from Oregon, Washington, Nevada, and Arizona—tourists and visitors who had discovered KTLA and wanted to watch back home.
"You said earlier it would cost a million for a transmission network. Would that cover these states?"
"It could reach California's neighbors. But you know how vast the West is. For full coverage, we'd need dozens of towers per state and stronger transmitters.
High-power towers cost fifty thousand apiece, regular ones twenty-five. To cover California and four other states would mean about forty towers each, plus installation—six million total. Add half a million for transport and another million and a half for land and facilities. Roughly eight million just for infrastructure.
And even then, money isn't the only problem. Signal sources need government approval. Each state's FCC branch is protectionist—they rarely allow outsiders. So we'd have to lease local towers, at fees even higher than building our own."
Leo rubbed his chin, thinking.
"So, Viggo, your real business is content. Building towers is just a means to reach more viewers, correct?"
"Exactly, boss. I'm good at making programs, not wrangling with officials and telecoms."
"Then focus on programs. Leave the rest to me. Whether it's the eight million, the FCC, or profiteers along the way—it's nothing I can't handle.
If it's the Commission, I'll deal with the Commission. If it's people, I'll deal with the people."
Leo's voice was ice-cold.