Everything was new and unfamiliar.
This was true even for Edgar, who, despite his excitent, couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy.
Typically, agents don't concern themselves with or even acknowledge the psychological discomforts of their actors. Their job is to persuade the actor to focus on the financial gain.
It was precisely for this reason that, in the late 1990s and early 2000s, nurous top Hollywood stars flocked to Japan to shoot comrcials.
The endorsent fees were exceptionally lucrative.
Top-tier stars like Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Will Smith, and even European actors like Alain Delon, were among those who headed to Japan for comrcial endorsents.
Such actions were often looked down upon and even ridiculed in the film industry, but because the internet wasn't widespread, those Japanese comrcials rarely made their way to Europe and the U.S. Agents used this as leverage to persuade their actors to take the jobs, urging them to smile for the paycheck.
At this mont, Edgar should have been doing the sa—after all, the check was already in hand.
But Edgar didn't. He had higher expectations for Anson's acting career, and he knew that Anson was soone who could think independently.
So, instead of assuming, Edgar asked.
"Are you worried?"
Anson snapped out of his thoughts, slightly surprised, taking a mont to understand Edgar's question. Then he smiled, "No, I'm not worried at all."
"If opportunities like this co up in the future, we can still sit down and discuss them. After all, a high-fashion campaign is far more respectable than endorsing diapers."
Edgar imdiately understood, a smile creeping up his face—
The stars who went to Japan for endorsents weren't necessarily endorsing diapers, but they were often promoting everyday products, which seed at odds with their public image, leaving people puzzled.
"We don't need to talk about art all the ti. Art is important, but art without financial backing is just a monologue. Everyone admires Van Gogh, but no one wants to be Van Gogh."
Vincent Van Gogh lived in poverty and obscurity, struggling throughout his life, only to be recognized after his death. His paintings now fetch astronomical prices at auctions—
Unfortunately, Van Gogh himself would never know this.
Edgar relaxed as well. "So, what were you just contemplating?"
Anson blinked. "Oh, I was just marveling at the photographer's skill. Honestly, I barely recognize myself."
"Wait, or did they heavily edit the photos?"
Edgar looked puzzled. "Editing? What editing?"
Anson had montarily forgotten that in 2001, digital editing technology wasn't as advanced. Photographers relied more on their skill, and so did the models.
"Never mind. I was just reflecting."
"So, for the next three months, I'm the face of Dior. I must say, it's not a bad feeling."
As Edgar had predicted, Anson's recognition and popularity soared.
At first, Anson thought the attention would be limited to the fashion industry or just the fashion weeks. After all, fashion is a small, tight-knit community, and the noise and excitent are often just within that circle. Once fashion week is over, all the glamour and applause might disappear, like Cinderella's magic fading after midnight.
But that wasn't the case.
The airport check-in hall was crowded with people, all waiting for Anson, caras at the ready. This treatnt was comparable to that of a major star.
In 2001, airport photography hadn't yet beco a widespread trend. Not even in Los Angeles, let alone Paris, were reporters swarming airports to catch celebrities coming and going. Only a very select few gastars received such attention.
And now, Anson was witnessing this scene at Paris's Charles de Gaulle Airport.
"If I had just co from the Cannes Film Festival and seen this, it would have been perfect; but there's no need to nitpick—this is pretty great too."
Anson joked, then stepped out of the car, diving into the sea of flashing caras.
Although it was Anson's first ti being surrounded at the airport, he remained composed and calm, continuing the dignified deanor he had shown at Paris Fashion Week.
"Anson, what's your relationship with Winona?"
"Did you know each other before Fashion Week?"
"Did you exchange contact information with her?"
"How are you feeling about this Fashion Week? Will we see you again next fall/winter?"
"Are you planning to walk for any other brands? Perhaps Chanel?"
"Are you the third party in Winona's relationship?"
"What exactly happened at the Chanel show? Can you respond to that?"
Question after question ca at Anson in rapid succession, like waves crashing over him, even though he was on solid ground, it felt like he was surfing—wave after wave, with no end in sight.
However, Anson kept smiling and didn't respond to any of the questions—this wasn't a press conference, and he had nothing to clarify. He didn't rush to leave either but stood his ground, accepting the barrage of flashes. His upright posture made all the reporters' attacks futile.
Patience, calmness, composure.
It seed as though Anson intentionally lingered, allowing the reporters to exhaust their questions, letting these ravenous wolves vent. Then, with a bright smile and a slight nod, he gracefully left, protected by Edgar and the airport security staff.
This left the crowd staring at each other—
The reporters were flushed and drenched in sweat, looking utterly disheveled. Yet, the person they had ambushed remained composed, calm, and effortlessly poised.
Sothing didn't seem quite right.
anwhile, Anson had smoothly made his way into the airport, completed check-in, luggage drop-off, and boarding procedures through the VIP channel, without a hitch.
Even Edgar let out a long breath.
No matter the ti or city, dealing with the dia and the relentless paparazzi was always the hardest part. They hadn't expected to face such a situation in Paris, nor had they anticipated resolving it so effortlessly.
Edgar glanced at Anson, "At this rate, Eve might be out of a job soon."
Anson shook his head slightly, "Not necessarily. I'm good at improvising, but Eve excels at planning ahead and cleaning up the aftermath. She's the strategist, and we always need a strategist."
Edgar looked shocked, "Wait, did you just quote 'The Art of War'?"
"Wow, you actually know 'The Art of War'?"
One second, Edgar felt like he had discovered sothing new; the next, Anson had already taken control of the conversation, leaving Edgar utterly bewildered.
They had just boarded, and there were no other passengers in the cabin yet. The flight attendant approached them with a smile, offering a morning greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Wood."
Anson was genuinely surprised that the flight attendant knew his na, but evidently, there was more.
"We've upgraded you to first class. We hope you have a pleasant journey."
Actually, they were concerned that Anson's presence in economy class might cause unnecessary commotion, but the airline's clever wording made it feel like special treatnt.
Anson turned to Edgar, who looked just as puzzled—
They had booked economy class, both ways.
They never expected such VIP treatnt.
Sensing Anson's questioning gaze, the flight attendant added, "Mr. Cook as well."
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