As the award ceremony moved toward the later stages, Gilbert presented the award for Best Male Pop Vocalist to John Mayer, completing his assigned task for the event.
There was still a reception afterward, but Gilbert clearly wasn't interested in attending, and Avril Lavigne didn't care much for it either.
This year's ceremony was actually quite lively. Perhaps because Gilbert was participating, the Grammys' viewership seemed slightly higher than in previous years.
But unfortunately, despite rumors that Michael Jackson would appear at this year's Grammys, he ultimately didn't come.
Although the child-molestation case had settled, Michael Jackson's inner turmoil wasn't so easily pacified. According to Donald, Michael was still undergoing treatment.
So Gilbert suggested to Donald that Michael Jackson should go to the Landrini–Jobs–Gates Medical Center in New York instead.
That medical center had even received investment from Bill Gates; situated in the stronghold of Wall Street, it was like a nail stabbing them in the throat.
Michael Jackson was still considering it, but Donald was trying his best to persuade him.
If Michael Jackson really went there, the people who had harmed him would probably lose sleep.
Gilbert didn't know exactly how Michael Jackson had died, but judging by the fact that he was currently receiving treatment, Gilbert suspected the doctor treating him had been the real problem.
But once he changed hospitals and doctors, at the very least, the issue of medical safety would disappear.
And because Gilbert's own security company was in charge of the medical center's protection, and he had specifically instructed them about safety concerns, using physical means to eliminate Michael Jackson would no longer be viable.
Of course, they could still manipulate the media and fabricate a second molestation case. That would be effortless for them.
But Gilbert, who controlled his own media outlets, could help Michael Jackson. Even if they couldn't win, public opinion wouldn't be as one-sided as it had been last time.
Gilbert felt that the groups who had harmed him were the same ones who had harmed Michael Jackson. These beasts were like crawling insects—disgusting and vile.
What he could do was limited to this. As for mental trauma, that was something Michael Jackson would have to overcome himself; Gilbert couldn't help much there.
After the ceremony ended, Avril Lavigne went to the restroom, and when she came out, she had changed into a new outfit.
"Why did you change again?" Gilbert asked, waiting beside the car.
The girl smiled sweetly, twirling in front of him and winking cutely. "Well? How is it? Nightclub style. Do you like it?"
"I do like it," Gilbert answered honestly, "but it's still pretty cold. Aren't your legs freezing in such a short skirt?"
"Hee-hee." Avril held onto Gilbert's arm and acted coy. "But I think it looks good, so I wore it."
If her fans saw their cool, rebellious punk princess acting like a soft little girl, their glasses would probably shatter on the floor.
Gilbert played with a strand of rose-red hair beside Avril's cheek and chuckled. "Vivienne, maybe be a little more normal? Where did the punk princess go?"
"Is that so? You said it yourself."
With that, Avril grabbed Gilbert and started running.
"Hey! Where are we going?"
"The bar…"
The explosive music that made heads shake, mixed with the smell of alcohol and perfume, filled the room as countless people swayed in the center of the dance floor.
Everywhere were women dressed provocatively—big hips, long legs, tiny waists—every type imaginable. But the lighting was so dim that faces were hard to see.
If the mood struck, you could slip into a private room or behind the bar and have a wild time. Of course, after the alcohol wore off, some might regret it.
Gilbert hadn't been to a bar in ages. His identity made visits inconvenient, but Avril had dragged him along this time.
Fortunately, inside the bar no one seemed to notice that a major Hollywood director had walked in; everyone was immersed in the fun.
In the new environment and vibe, the punk princess pulled Gilbert straight to the center of the dance floor.
Perhaps she had been provoked by Mary J. Blige's earlier fiery performance; though rather clumsy compared to seasoned club-goers, she danced with great enthusiasm.
Gilbert was embarrassed—he couldn't dance.
Well, not exactly. He knew ballroom dancing for upper-class social events. Charlize Theron had taught him and complained he stepped on her feet.
Because the crowd was huge and the colorful lights were flashing nonstop, the two were quickly separated. Gilbert was pushed to the edge.
He shrugged, found a seat, and waited for Avril to come out.
He had just sat down when someone came over to greet him. "Hey, are you… Director Gilbert?"
Gilbert looked up, puzzled. "And you are?"
"I'm Eminem. You might not know me—I'm a rapper."
Gilbert realized immediately. "Dr. Dre's protégé. Nice to meet you."
Thanks to the Dr. Dre connection, the two quickly started chatting. Eminem even called over a server, intending to buy Gilbert a drink.
But Gilbert had to drive, so he only ordered a glass of orange juice.
"Director Gilbert, what are you doing here?" Eminem asked.
Gilbert replied helplessly, "Vivienne dragged me over."
"Where is she?"
"She should be over there dancing happily."
No sooner had Gilbert finished speaking than Avril Lavigne's voice came from the dance floor. In front of Gilbert she always used her soft, cute voice, but in front of others she was a full-on rebellious girl.
"Get your filthy hands off me, f**k—"
"B**ch, don't you know the rules here?" A fierce, intimidating voice from a muscular Black man rang out, scaring the surrounding people enough that they backed away. Avril Lavigne was soon surrounded at the center of the dance floor by several bulky men.
The DJ even cut the music. It was obvious someone drunk was starting trouble again—something that happened often in bars.
Security would be there soon, and usually the mess would be handled quickly.
Apparently many Hollywood celebrities frequented this bar, because in just a few moments, Gilbert spotted quite a few familiar faces. No wonder Avril had dragged him here—she probably wouldn't go to a random bar otherwise.
At this moment, the group of men surrounding Avril Lavigne grew even more brazen in their tone.
"Little b**ch, your face looks familiar. Are you some kind of star?"
"Your dancing earlier was real tempting. How about we find a place where you can give us another round?"
"Yeah, don't worry. You look like you don't have much experience. We'll teach you well. You'll enjoy it."
Facing the predatory gazes of several big men, Avril Lavigne didn't back down at all. She swung her hand and slapped the leader across the face, then lifted her leg and kicked straight toward his groin.
The lead man let out a scream of agony, his body curling up like a shrimp, his face twisted in pain. Judging from that kick, if he didn't get treated soon, he might never have children again.
But this only enraged the man's companions. A guy with cornrows shouted, "Grab that b**ch—tonight we're gonna—"
Before he could finish, a glass bottle came whistling across the room, striking him squarely on the head. Blood immediately streamed down his face.
Clutching his head, the cornrowed man yelled furiously toward the direction the bottle had flown from. "Who the hell—?!"
Before he could finish, he saw more than a dozen men in suits approaching and surrounding them. He froze in disbelief.
Bar security? No, they didn't look like it.
The suited men parted, and Gilbert appeared in front of Avril Lavigne. Avril teared up with relief, as if her savior had arrived.
It turned out Gilbert had already summoned his security team.
For someone of his status, bringing security everywhere was normal—after all, plenty of people wanted to harm him, and he had to protect himself.
He hadn't expected it would come in handy here.
Meanwhile, everyone else in the bar was stunned. Only now did they realize Gilbert himself was inside the bar. Thinking back to the Grammys that had just ended, the crowd silently mourned for the thugs.
Of all the people they could have provoked, why provoke Gilbert's woman?
Sure, she was pretty, but did they think she was someone they could touch?
Great—now they were done for.
May they rest in peace.
...
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