The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

Page 167

"I have to go,"

She said in a calm voice, devoid of any emotion, "otherwise I would miss my flight."

Victor stood up and handed over a key: "I have a house in Brooklyn. We can live there if you'd like."

"Never mind... little Viktor, I'm twelve years older than you... and don't you like being in my and my husband's bedroom?"

In the porch, Alice turned to face him and suddenly reached out to gently stroke his cheek: "Be careful, Channing, Victor. Unlike me, she doesn't know she can only be a passerby in your life."

Then she kissed him and turned to leave without looking back.

Chapter 141 Telephone Calls from All Parties

Victor stood in the doorway until he heard the elevator doors close.

The waiter brought breakfast and a large stack of newspapers.

Viktor sipped his black tea while flipping through the newspapers.

The Daily Mirror's front page featured a large photograph of his victory, with the headline proclaiming: "Far East Tiger Shatters Russian Ambition! 21-Year-Old Prodigy Becomes Youngest Boxing Champion!"

The Times Sports section provided a detailed analysis of his fighting technique, stating that his style "blends the elegance of classical boxing with the ruthlessness of street fighting, reminiscent of Mike Tyson!"

The Sun, on the other hand, focused on the locker room murder, with the sensational headline: "Boxer or killer? Bloodstains on a gold glove!"

However, the content actually leans towards the argument of self-defense, condemning the xenophobic and violent behavior of certain individuals in the British boxing community.

American newspapers were equally lively.

The Brooklyn Eagle published a lengthy feature article reviewing his journey from the South Side of Chicago to becoming a world champion, highlighting his Chinese American background and family upbringing.

The New York Post's front page was simple and blunt: "Chinese fat man shocks the world!"

Viktor put down the newspaper, feeling a strange sense of alienation.

The "Victor Lee" portrayed by the media is both similar to and different from the self he knows.

They needed a hero's story, an inspirational tale of rising from the slums to the top of the world, and he was the perfect template—if you ignore the long-overlooked issue of skin color.

This is an unavoidable topic. Some newspapers even suspected that Victor was of Black descent because of his bronze skin—Victor had already asked Franky to inquire about this reporter and then decided to give him a wheelchair.

The phone rings again.

This time it was Donald Trump, whose voice was as flamboyant and confident as ever.

"Victor! An amazing victory! I told you, investing in you was the right choice!"

Trump practically shouted on the other end of the phone, "You're a superstar now! Listen, when you get back to New York, I'm going to throw you the biggest victory party ever, right here at Trump Tower! All the city's celebrities will be there! If possible, I'd like to host your game at the Las Vegas Hotel in Atlantic City!"

Viktor managed to get through to the call, and just as he hung up, Ivana Trump answered almost immediately.

“Victor, you are a brave warrior.”

Ivana's voice was softer but equally assertive: "Your Asian face paired with a world champion title would make you the perfect spokesperson. I would really need you."

Victor's words had a double meaning: "I'd be happy to perform for you again."

When he put down the microphone, he felt a throbbing pain in his temples.

The world suddenly seemed to have turned into countless hands eager to grab a share, tearing him to pieces.

Frankie called at 10 a.m.

He was another person involved in the incident involving the five people in the alley that night.

"Victor? The media hasn't swallowed you up yet?"

Frankie's voice was tired but tinged with laughter.

"Almost done. How are you?"

"It's okay. Sarah is with me, and we had a pleasant night together."

Frankie was referring to his girlfriend. "The lawyer said we were fine, the evidence was clear, and he found witnesses in the bar who testified that the five men had been watching us there. But they still want us to stay in London to await the formal verdict."

Victor nodded, though the other person couldn't see him: "The hearing is next Monday. You're over fifty. Don't risk your life on a Mexican woman."

“Hahaha, of course I know, but you know what? Listen, Viktor,”

Frankie's tone turned serious. "I read the papers. Everyone's talking about your future. Trump, Ubelman, and all those brand endorsements... Don't let them take advantage of you, kid. Remember why you started boxing."

Frankie's words struck a chord with Victor.

What is the purpose of boxing?

Of course, it's so that I won't be treated like a pig after I become rich!

After the call ended, Viktor stood by the window for a long time.

The streets downstairs began to get crowded, and the London morning fog completely dissipated, revealing a greyish-white sky.

He saw a crowd gathered by the newsstand, pointing at the photos in the newspaper and discussing them.

Occasionally, someone would look up at the hotel window, as if they knew he lived there.

His gaze fell on the gold belt in the corner of the room.

In that instant, he suddenly realized that this belt would not truly belong to him, at least not for long. The throne in the boxing world changes hands too quickly; today he is the king, but tomorrow he may become someone else's stepping stone to the top.

This is the rule in the boxing world.

But Viktor just held it in his hand—it was a golden age of boxing!

What man could refuse to rule the world?

Around noon, the doorbell rang.

Half asleep, Victor thought it was food delivery, but when he opened the door, he found Caroline Channing standing outside.

"Caroline? You said you'd take the earliest flight—"

"I changed my flight,"

She walked into the room with a smile, her Chanel suit flawless. She took off her clothes, revealing a sexy black stocking outfit underneath: "How can I let the world champion spend his first morning after victory alone?"

Caroline's beauty now is not as delicate and charming as Alice's; it is sharp and aggressive—her blonde hair is meticulously styled into a bun, her eyes are cold blue, and she scans the room with an assessing gaze, picking up a curly hair and a few stray golden hairs from the sheets.

Finally, their gaze fell upon him.

"Iris again?"

She said casually, taking off her leather gloves, "Luckily, I didn't run into her."

Victor frowned: "You're spying on me?"

"I'm just concerned about you. I'm your girlfriend!"

She approached, her fingers tracing the collar of his robe. "You know how I feel about you, Viktor. Now that you're a world champion, we need to seriously talk about the future."

Victor opened his wine glass and poured himself a glass: "Did your dad include me in his plans? Or did he just come out and find out the stock price has dropped by 5%?"

Caroline's smile remained unchanged. "My father is willing to set up a dedicated marketing company for you and manage your career entirely. Trump's offer may sound glamorous, but we can provide a more professional team."

Viktor suddenly felt suffocated and downed his wine in one gulp—at that moment he needed a bright-minded person to give him some advice.

But no one heard from the woman who liked to drink red wine.

"Caroline, have you seen the land you bought in Tulsa for five million dollars?"

"You don't have much time,"

Caroline's voice hardened, and Viktor, for reasons unknown, emboldened her: "The hype will die down, and you'll fail too. There are no invincible boxers, Viktor. The media is fickle. You must maximize your commercial value now. I've already arranged several interviews and endorsement deals for you—"

Have you even visited the land you bought in Tulsa for five million dollars?

Viktor suddenly raised his voice.

Caroline was stunned, not understanding what Victor meant.

Silence spread through the room.

"I don't know, it's just a few pieces of broken land. Of that five million dollars, you'll only give me two million at most..."

"Two million?"

Victor sneered: "Not a penny, just a few large machines, and they were auctioned off by some Asians after incurring losses."

When he turned to face Caroline, he saw not only surprise in her eyes, but also a hint of—fear?

"Not a single penny left?"

Caroline flew into a rage: "You damn Chicago bastard! How dare you double-cross me?"

Victor dismissed it: "Chicago has always been like this."

Caroline screamed in terror, "That's mine..."

"It's mine now."

Victor poured himself another glass of red wine, taking a small sip: "Someone as high and mighty as you, don't you know our customs? Offering money and women? Of course I won't refuse!"

“You told me you would help me enter high society, and I was very interested, but your father must be having a hard time! He should be under investigation and under a restraining order now.”

Victor said sarcastically, "So you're still wearing last year's Chanel..."

Caroline finally gave in again: "Victor, my father needs you. I can be your real girlfriend, and we can even get engaged..."

"Oh? I'd love to try it..."

Viktor poured the red wine, the red flowing down the white, and in high spirits, he ate his fill—a thousand words omitted here.

After eating and drinking to their hearts' content, Viktor immediately turned hostile:

“Caroline, tell your father, Martin Channing, that out of five million dollars, I’ll only give you 30% of the profits from one of the food trucks!”

“Victor! Fuck you! I’m still wet! And you’re telling me this?”

Even between brothers, accounts should be settled clearly!

"Chicago people are all bastards!"

"Bastard? It's been a long time since anyone used such a neutral term to describe Chicagoans!"

“！@#￥%……&……%#@*&￥@@！”

“Your father is about to go bankrupt. This money is enough for you to live on. Martin will accept it.”