Actor in Hollywood

The atmosphere was buzzing, lively. 

Inside and outside the tent, the excitement spread like wildfire. The media and reporters were already deep in discussion, as Anson's reputation soared to new heights—boldly provoking a lion and emerging unscathed.

In fact, this description doesn't do justice to the situation because not only did he walk away unscathed, but Karl even praised Anson's modifications.

This one action sent shockwaves throughout the industry.

It was now certain that the entire fashion world would be focused on Anson, as a new storm was brewing, ready to sweep across the globe.

Even those who had no interest in the unconventional and transformative designs of Dior menswear were now compelled to pay attention. It was clear that things had spiraled out of control.

As murmurs and greetings filled the space, more and more eyes inadvertently turned toward Anson. Even though Chanel's show was about to begin, the focus remained on him. The intensity of those hidden glances made the air around him grow warmer.

Well, perhaps not all eyes were on him.

The woman sitting to Anson's left hadn't even glanced at him. With her head slightly bowed, her short hair fell across her face, covering half of it. Her shoulders trembled slightly, as if she wasn't fully awake.

The memory of his chance encounter with Anne Hathaway on the plane resurfaced, and Anson found himself wondering if he should maintain some distance this time.

*Annie: Achoo!*

Anson glanced at the woman before him and then looked around at the crowd. The feeling was a bit odd. Everyone in the room was focused on his every move, yet no one approached him. Anna, Eddie, and even Edgar were all busy, leaving him, the center of attention, somewhat isolated.

In the end, Anson was just a label, a symbol, carrying various meanings but lacking life, color, and edges.

Just like Malèna in *Malèna*.

When Anson looked around again, those glances quickly averted, except for a very few who met his gaze with a smile.

Anson's lips curled into a slight smile. He wasn't nervous or restrained; he welcomed those gazes with ease.

It wasn't because he was entirely at ease but because he knew that the more he avoided those stares, the more relentless they would become.

It had been the same in his past life.

After his father's business went bankrupt, he had to face those strange looks. No matter what he did—whether he apologized, felt guilty, or repented—those looks would still convey a sense of condemnation.

They wanted him to die, to atone for his father's sins, but he refused. Even if not for his mother's sake, he had a stubbornness deep within him. The more others wanted him to fall, the more he couldn't let them have their way. He carried his pain forward until he finally reached a day where he could breathe again.

Now, the nightmares of his past life intertwined with his present, but he wasn't afraid. He had already survived the most terrifying and thorny hells, so how could he be intimidated by the situation before him?

The only correct response was to openly and boldly enjoy the scrutiny.

Then, Anson's attention returned to the woman before him.

In the end, he didn't turn to leave.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed that the woman was clutching her stomach. Her delicate eyebrows, visible beneath her messy hair, were tightly knit together, and the tension in her shoulders extended down her arms and back.

On the surface, she seemed half-asleep.

But was she in pain?

Anson's instincts kicked in, and he crouched slightly in front of her, keeping their eyes level. "Miss, hello, are you feeling unwell?"

The woman weakly nodded, her body seemingly too drained of energy, her slight nod causing her to sway.

At that moment, Anson noticed her face, pale and devoid of color, covered in tiny beads of sweat, as her body's energy rapidly drained away.

Without thinking, Anson reached into his pocket—

His phone!

Anson realized with frustration that he didn't have his phone on him. To ensure his outfit remained sleek and unencumbered, he hadn't brought anything with him—all his belongings were in Edgar's backpack.

Damn it.

Without wasting any time on pleasantries, Anson asked, "Do you need an ambulance?"

The woman slowly regained some awareness, took a deep breath, and weakly shook her head. "No, I… I'm fine. I just… need some hot water."

But as she spoke, her words trailed off, becoming more disjointed. It was clear she was using all her willpower to fight through the pain.

Anson quickly scanned the room and came up with an idea. "Hold on."

This was Paris, and it was unlikely anyone would be carrying a thermos. However, this was also Fashion Week, where models often dealt with irregular eating schedules and frequent stomach aches. This meant that finding some aspirin or a similar pain reliever shouldn't be too difficult.

Anson stood up and made his way to the Chanel backstage area.

The security guard instinctively tried to stop Anson—no one wanted to be responsible for any designs being leaked early—but recognizing who he was, the guard allowed him through.

Entering the backstage area, Anson paused for a moment, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the scene:

It was a delicate situation.

Unlike Dior's recent show, this was Chanel's major event for women's fashion, and the room was filled with female models, none of whom Anson knew.

Fortunately, while Anson didn't recognize them, they certainly knew who he was. The parties and social events from the previous day had helped him make some new acquaintances.

After a bit of searching, Anson managed to find a bottle of water and two aspirin tablets.

"Here, aspirin. This should help you get through the worst of it," Anson said as he returned to his seat, opening the water bottle and handing it over.

The woman took the aspirin and tried to lift the water bottle, but her hands were shaking so badly that she nearly dropped it.

Anson gently supported the bottom of the bottle with his fingers, helping her drink without taking the bottle from her. It was a subtle but perfect display of gentlemanly conduct, assisting without overstepping boundaries.

She barely managed to murmur her thanks as she swallowed the aspirin. Once she had drunk a little water, Anson removed the bottle, and she bowed her head again, cradling her heavy, throbbing head in her hands.

*Snap.*

She felt warmth envelop her. Glancing to the side, she saw it wasn't a jacket but a deep brown Chanel scarf—likely something Anson had borrowed on the spot.

The warmth began to ease the tension in her nerves and muscles, allowing her to relax.

By now, the Chanel Spring/Summer fashion show had begun, and the audience had taken their seats. Anson was sitting next to Anna, a remarkable honor for someone attending the Big Four fashion weeks for the first time.

It wasn't until the show had been going on for a while that the woman finally recovered, sitting up straight as the pain subsided.

She leaned back gently against the chair, and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a handkerchief and the bottle of water resting nearby. Her gaze naturally followed the long fingers holding them, leading up to a warm, bright smile.

The sight caused the tightness in her chest to finally release, allowing her heart to open up and relax.