1431-1435

Chapter 1431: A Showdown Between Pretty Faces

Frank Miller – Sin City—

For the general public, this name might not be all that familiar. After all, comic books, especially those with a niche audience, don’t always have widespread influence.

But in Hollywood? People know it well. Over the past decade, more than a few producers have tried to buy the adaptation rights to Sin City, only to hit a brick wall every time.

Until now.

Finally! Someone has convinced Frank Miller. Finally, the Sin City adaptation is happening!

And it’s not just some no-name filmmaker at the helm. It’s Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino—two eccentric geniuses. When you think about their styles, it’s clear this project is something to keep an eye on.

On top of that, Rodriguez had box office success with Spy Kids, and Tarantino’s Kill Bill was a hit as well. With over a decade of industry experience, connections, and resources, they don’t lack for investors.

So how did a newcomer like Forest Pictures get involved?

Well, the reality is—

Sin City isn’t just a blood-soaked, ultraviolent spectacle that pushes Hollywood’s limits. It also challenges the industry's entire aesthetic system with its fully stylized comic book visuals.

People like to think of Hollywood as a breeding ground for innovation, creativity, and bold risks.

But that’s a myth.

On the surface, Hollywood seems open-minded—packed with raunchy comedies like American Pie, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, The Hangover, and Sausage Party. But deep down, it’s conservative. The industry was built by Protestant immigrants, and that traditionalism still lingers.

If you want real creative freedom, Europe is the place to be.

Aside from that, what truly separates Hollywood from other film industries is its factory-like production system.

In simple terms—an assembly line.

Three-act screenplays, formulaic storytelling, character archetypes—all strictly follow industry templates. These formulas were refined over years of testing, and they guarantee a certain level of success. As long as filmmakers stick to them, they won’t fail.

Even indie films from the Sundance and Independent Spirit Awards crowd follow this structured approach.

Over time, this rigid system stifles creativity. Filmmakers recycle the same templates, and movies become predictable. While this guarantees a baseline level of quality, it makes true innovation increasingly rare.

A film like Sin City challenges everything—the norms, the formulas, the entire Hollywood machine. No studio wanted to take that risk, even with Rodriguez and Tarantino attached.

Frank Miller wasn’t surprised.

See? I told you. If Hollywood were to adapt my work, they’d completely butcher it. They can’t handle my vision. Now that we’re making this film exactly as I imagined, suddenly no one in Hollywood wants to touch it. They’re afraid. Afraid of being labeled outsiders—

Not just in a religious sense, but in the industry itself.

So, in a twist of fate, the opportunity landed in Forest Pictures’ lap.

Well, more accurately, it landed in Anson’s hands. He was offered a role, but at the time, Forest Pictures wasn’t even on Rodriguez and Tarantino’s radar.

But Anson saw the potential—an incredible opportunity.

After Anson explained the project, Lucas finally grasped its significance. This wasn’t just special—it was groundbreaking. Any producer or studio that successfully brought Sin City to the screen would instantly grab the industry’s attention. It was simple math—

The visuals, the style, the colors—everything about it would be unique.

Yet Lucas was still more focused on Anson.

“You just said the role doesn’t suit you?”

Anson waved his hand. “No, not that it doesn’t suit me. It’s just... dull. Yeah, dull.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “What role?”

“Dwight,” Anson replied.

“A former criminal who gets reconstructive surgery and lives a quiet life. Then, when he steps in to teach his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend a lesson, he realizes the guy is a violent abuser terrorizing a group of women. The women team up to kill him—only to find out he was actually a cop. Now, Dwight has to protect them.”

Lucas tilted his head, his expression one of mild understanding. “Yeah... that does sound a little boring.”

Anson nodded. “In a film as stylized as this, acting isn’t the key factor. The characters don’t really have arcs—they’re more like snapshots of personalities. The ones with the strongest edges stand out the most.”

“Compared to Dwight, the ex-boyfriend is a way more impactful role.”

“But in their eyes, I’m still just a pretty face without enough personality.”

Edgar had chosen Sin City partly to help Anson break out of his clean-cut, boy-next-door image from Spider-Man. Moving beyond the “high school student” label was crucial, and Walk the Line was just the first step. This project was meant to take it even further.

In reality, Edgar didn’t just choose Sin City—he chose Robert and Quentin.

But to Tarantino, Anson was still too... well-behaved.

Anson knew this. Maybe Lucas didn’t, but he did. Tarantino had a wild, unpredictable way of casting actors. He didn’t care about star power—if he liked someone, he’d make the offer.

Take Sin City, for example. There was a minor villain named Little Rock, barely a blip on the screen. Tarantino wanted Leonardo DiCaprio for the role.

Most people would say he was crazy. But for Tarantino, that was just part of the vision.

That’s why, even if Anson asked to play the ex-boyfriend, Tarantino wouldn’t care.

Anson knew that.

The truth was, Sin City had such an overpowering directorial vision that every actor faded into the background. Only one performer truly benefited from the film—

Jessica Alba, who played Nancy.

In his past life, Jessica Alba skyrocketed to fame thanks to Sin City and Fantastic Four, both hitting theaters back-to-back. She instantly became a pop culture icon.

This film already had one stunning, scene-stealing “pretty face.” Anson had no interest in competing for that spotlight. That’s why he wasn’t particularly excited about the role.

But if Forest Pictures was the one financing the movie?

Now that was a different story.

*Chapter 1432: Making a Name*

A faint smile appeared in Lucas’s eyes. Anson’s effortless self-deprecating humor always managed to add a lighthearted touch to their serious discussions about work.

“So, you think the company’s second project should be a film you’re not starring in… a cult classic?”

Anson liked Lucas’s choice of words. His smile widened. “Yes, that’s exactly what I think.”

“Lucas, because of Walk the Line, Forest Pictures is already tied to me. All of Hollywood knows that it’s ‘Anson’s company.’”

“I know you haven’t tried to hide that. It’s no secret,” Lucas replied, his sharp gaze making Anson tense up slightly.

“I’m not denying it either, but it’s not good for business.”

“We need to make a statement before Hollywood completely equates Forest Pictures with me.”

“Yes, Forest Pictures is absolutely willing to produce more of my projects. But at the same time, we’re open to new opportunities—writers, producers, actors—the ones Hollywood has ignored, cast aside, or trapped in stereotypes. The ones who don’t fit into the traditional Hollywood narrative.”

“Hey, don’t put all your eggs in one basket. There’s a whole forest out there.”

“I believe Sin City is that opportunity.”

Lucas listened intently, surprised by Anson’s perspective. Originally, Forest Pictures was just a company Lucas had founded to support Anson—everything revolved around him. But now, Anson was giving it a new meaning. The company’s vision was evolving.

And honestly? It didn’t feel bad.

Bringing his thoughts back to the project at hand, Lucas reconsidered Sin City—so bold, so unique, so unapologetic. He wasn’t an expert in filmmaking or marketing, but he did understand investment.

Assess the risks. Calculate the returns. Envision the future.

Was this film worth it?

If this were Anson’s movie—like Walk the Line—Lucas wouldn’t even hesitate. Anson’s involvement would be the priority. But this wasn’t Anson’s project, which changed everything.

Lucas flipped through the script, his focus sharpening. It was a screenplay, not a business proposal—meaning it lacked details on creative intent, target audience, key personnel, or budget. That wasn’t ideal from an investment standpoint.

The dialogue on the pages meant little to him.

After a moment, he turned to Anson. “I should talk to the producers. Robert Rodriguez and Frank Miller, right?”

Anson nodded. “Mostly Robert. Frank doesn’t know much about filmmaking.”

Lucas smirked. “Then we should start with Frank. If he doesn’t understand the process, we just need to assure him that we’ll respect the script and his vision. He’ll be easy to convince.”

“Once he believes everything is in place, he might even help us persuade others. After all, I’ve already granted him his biggest wish, haven’t I?”

Frank Miller might just be the key.

“The real issue is the budget. Can we make a profit?”

“A film like this challenges both Hollywood’s production formula and the market’s willingness to accept it.”

“Sorry, Anson, but I need to look at this from a numbers perspective.”

Anson’s grin widened. “I get it. I completely understand—our CEO is being professional.”

Lucas gave him a look of exasperation.

Anson chuckled. “I know where you’re coming from.”

“In my opinion, this film has to be profitable—100%. A young company like ours needs that success.”

“But going back to my original point—”

“I see this movie as a statement, an entrance, a marketing campaign. A way to announce our presence by breaking stereotypes.”

“We’re not like the other studios.”

“This publicity? It’s necessary.”

“Now, about the film itself—yes, it challenges the mainstream market. But think about Dawn of the Dead. A remake, yet it still found an audience. That proves there’s a significant market for these kinds of films.”

“In fact, because Hollywood keeps ignoring this audience, they’re even more eager—and more loyal. They’ll cheer for even a decent film, so what if we actually give them a classic?”

“So, I’m not worried about demand. The real concerns are: first, the quality of the film, and second, how we market it.”

Lucas considered this. “Do you trust…” He glanced at the script. “Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino?”

Anson replied, “I trust Robert to convince Frank Miller and to do what other Hollywood producers and directors wouldn’t dare.”

“Of course, budget control will be tricky. These two are wild. If given unlimited funds, they’d burn through it all without hesitation. But they also come from the world of B-movies—they know how to deliver great work on a tight budget.”

Lucas nodded. “So, the key is negotiation.”

“Exactly. The producer has to keep them in check.”

“Plus, Sin City is unique—it relies heavily on CGI and experimental cinematography. The costs won’t be cheap. Negotiating with the directors will be full of pitfalls.”

Lucas looked at Anson. “What’s the budget limit for us to turn a profit?”

Anson laughed. “Wow, tough question.”

“I’d say… 30 to 35 million dollars? That’s the cap. We also have to consider marketing costs.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow, deep in thought.

In his past life, Sin City struggled to find a major studio partner. Even with Robert, Quentin, and Frank attached, no Hollywood company wanted to take the risk.

Some feared it might bomb at the box office.

Others worried it would be as controversial as The Passion of the Christ, potentially alienating audiences.

It was a tricky situation.

No one in Hollywood wanted to jeopardize their market standing for a single project. Even if it became a huge success, it might not be worth the risk.

If not for Forest Pictures’ unique position, Lucas would understand why other companies were so cautious.

In the end, Robert Rodriguez had to rely on his own young production company, Troublemaker Studios, to make the film.

But Troublemaker didn’t have enough funding.

So Quentin used his name to raise money from Hollywood insiders—and eventually, he found backing from the Weinstein brothers.

*Chapter 1433: Snatching Food from a Tiger’s Mouth*

The infamous Weinstein brothers, who would later become notorious, had yet to see their downfall at this point. Of course, they weren’t quite at the pinnacle of Hollywood either—

They were still climbing.

In March 1999, Shakespeare in Love unexpectedly defeated Saving Private Ryan to win the Oscar for Best Picture. That was only five years ago.

The Weinstein brothers were in the early stages of revolutionizing awards season campaigning, reshaping the game with their aggressive Oscar strategies. Their methods were still inconsistent—sometimes successful, sometimes not—but they hadn’t yet completely upended the Academy’s long-standing traditions.

To put it simply, they were trying to change Hollywood’s landscape.

The Weinstein brothers’ company, Miramax, named after their mother, was acquired by Disney in 1993. The acquisition brought them into Disney’s fold, where they were tasked with producing and distributing awards-season contenders.

Fast forward a decade, and the Weinstein brothers had continuously pushed Disney’s boundaries by releasing a slew of films that clashed with Disney’s family-friendly image. Finally, Disney had had enough and officially severed ties with them this year.

The Weinsteins also realized that if they wanted to be true power players, they needed their own platform—just like Forest Pictures.

On one hand, they were still battling Disney over the rights to the Miramax name, which they wanted to reclaim because of its personal significance.

On the other hand, since Disney refused to compromise, they had no choice but to start fresh under the Weinstein Company banner.

But the Weinsteins weren’t new to Hollywood. Long before parting ways with Disney, they had been laying the groundwork for independence. Dimension Films, their genre-focused division specializing in horror and thriller films, was one of their backup plans—its Scream franchise was a major asset.

Now, Tarantino was turning to the Weinstein brothers for support.

Tarantino was a Miramax loyalist. Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill were both produced and distributed by Miramax—the latter being a key reason Disney was furious. Tarantino and the Weinsteins had a strong personal relationship.

Even though the Weinsteins were hesitant about Sin City, Dimension Films still provided Tarantino with some funding. Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez then chipped in with their own money to cover the rest, scraping together $40 million to complete the film. That’s how Sin City became the cult classic it is today.

So... were the Wood brothers now trying to snatch a meal from the Weinstein brothers’ plate?

Was all of this just a coincidence?

Forest Pictures and the Weinstein Company were founded around the same time. The Weinsteins’ fallout with Disney made them realize they needed to take control of their destiny, while Anson’s entanglement in Sony-Columbia’s power struggle forced Lucas to take charge of their own fate.

One after another, they struck out on their own, ready to make their mark.

Of course, for now, it was just a coincidence.

After all, the Weinstein Company had just been established, but the Weinsteins had already built a formidable reputation over the past five years. With Shakespeare in Love, The English Patient, and Chicago all winning Best Picture Oscars, they had become the hottest power players in Hollywood.

Even though their new company was fresh on the scene, they had an abundance of resources and experience, putting them miles ahead of Forest Pictures.

It’s likely the Weinsteins didn’t even see Forest Pictures as competition—

Anson?

Just a pretty face. No matter how popular or respected he was, could he possibly surpass Tom Cruise or Leonardo DiCaprio at their peak?

And even Cruise and DiCaprio weren’t exempt—if they wanted to win an Oscar, the Weinsteins were still the safest bet in Hollywood.

From the Weinsteins’ perspective, Anson was neither a threat nor a factor.

Yet now, Anson was about to take a bite out of their pie. This was getting risky.

But that wasn’t Anson’s concern—he had faith in Lucas.

The Weinstein brothers weren’t invincible.

Lucas fell into a brief moment of contemplation but didn’t dwell on it for long. He looked up again. “Thirty million dollars. I think we can make this deal happen.”

Anson raised an eyebrow.

In the previous timeline, Sin City had a production budget of $40 million. It swept across the world as a cultural phenomenon, its striking visual style and Jessica Alba’s breakout performance making a lasting impact—even twenty years later, it remained a unique cinematic landmark.

But the truth was, its box office numbers weren’t as impressive as expected: $74 million in North America and $84 million overseas, totaling $158 million worldwide.

From a business standpoint, Dimension Films made a $20 million profit—a solid success. But the real triumph was cultural. The film sparked widespread discussion and even influenced Hollywood’s approach to stylized filmmaking.

Nine years later, a sequel was released.

Same style, same production approach—but this time, it was a disaster both critically and financially. The failure cost Dimension Films over $40 million in losses.

In the end, whatever the first movie had gained, the second one lost.

In Anson’s eyes, Sin City succeeded largely due to its fresh aesthetic. The marketing positioned it as a novelty—new visuals, new storytelling techniques, a unique blend of comics and film. That worked for its initial success, but it failed to tap into the deeper themes of fate, the inescapable grip of the city, the despair and pain beneath the violence.

That’s why Anson believed Forest Pictures should produce Sin City not for profit, but to establish credibility.

But if Lucas could control costs while maintaining quality—and with Anson’s marketing expertise—maybe they could turn this film into something even more impactful.

Still... thirty million dollars? Was that really enough? Would it compromise the film’s quality?

Anson turned to Lucas. “Are you confident you can convince them?”

Lucas set the script down on the coffee table. “Didn’t you just say Robert put up his own money to film the opening sequence just to persuade Frank Miller?”

“People who work with passion aren’t motivated by numbers or logic. They believe in hope and dreams. As long as I can give them that, they’ll give 200% to make it happen.”

Anson: … “Lucas, I feel like you’re calling me out.”

Lucas remained expressionless. “So, you’re working for dreams too? Then I guess we don’t need to negotiate your paycheck for Spider-Man 3.”

Anson scoffed. “Tch. Only kids make choices. Adults want it all—I want my dreams and my paycheck. I’m not leaving anything on the table.”

His matter-of-fact attitude showed zero shame or hesitation—completely unapologetic.

Lucas gave a slight nod. “That’s exactly what I expected from you.”

*Chapter 1434: Guest Reporter*

The afternoon sun was just right.

A rare sight of bright, lazy sunlight streamed down without the obstruction of towering skyscrapers. Central Park embraced the warmth openly, welcoming all with its lush greenery filling every corner of the view. The world felt more alive, the air fresh and crisp, carrying the scent of moisture and the sound of laughter.

New York had finally bid farewell to the bitter winter, with summer quickly approaching.

Compared to Los Angeles, late spring and early summer in New York weren’t as scorching hot. Instead, it was one of the most pleasant times of the year—comfortable and refreshing.

So, Anson had quietly returned to New York.

The recording studios here were just as well-equipped and plentiful as those in Los Angeles, but without the constant scrutiny of paparazzi lurking around every corner.

Today, however, Anson wasn’t heading to a recording studio. Instead, he was going to his family’s townhouse in the Upper West Side for lunch with Charles and Nora. The Woods, usually too busy with work to have lunch at home, had made an exception today because their youngest son was in town.

After lunch, Anson stepped out of the house. He didn’t drive, nor did he hail a cab. Instead, he took a stroll towards Central Park. It was only a few blocks away, and from a distance, he could already see The Ritz-Carlton standing tall beside the sea of green. The entrance buzzed with activity—cars coming and going, people moving in and out, creating a lively scene.

Standing across the street, Anson paused for a moment, quietly observing. Most of the people seemed to be leaving rather than arriving. Only then did he slip on a pair of black-rimmed glasses, cross the street, and walk toward the hotel—unhurried, casual, and without any attempt to hide.

His tall, lean frame blended seamlessly into the hustle and bustle of Manhattan’s luxury-laden Upper East Side. No one in the fast-paced crowd stopped to take a second glance. The swarm of people rushing past served as the perfect cover. Strangers brushed past him, completely unaware of who he was.

Anson didn’t act sneaky or try to hide. He carried himself with the poised confidence of a businessman checking into the Ritz-Carlton for a work trip.

Soft, elegant piano music filled the hotel lobby, creating a gentle buffer against the noise and chaos of the streets outside. The calming melody made it easy to let go of the tension of the city.

Ahead, the afternoon tea lounge was already filling up, even though lunch had just ended. Some guests had wasted no time settling in for a leisurely cup of tea. Anson weaved through the quiet hum of conversations and made his way to the elevators, which were just to the right of the front desk.

As he stepped inside, a man in a black suit and a blue dress shirt followed him in. The man held a coffee cup in his left hand and a PDA (personal digital assistant) in his right, his head tilted down, focused on the small screen. A black leather briefcase was tucked under his right arm, leaving him no time to even glance up.

Smartphones hadn’t hit the market yet, but glimpses of the future of mobile work were already evident.

Life, in many ways, didn’t seem all that different.

Anson’s lips curled into a slight smile as he politely asked, “Which floor?”

“Third,” the man replied before quickly adding, “Thanks.”

Third floor—Anson’s destination as well.

The elevator ride was brief. When the doors slid open, the man gave a quick nod of thanks before hurrying off. Anson stepped aside, letting him pass, then followed, glancing around to get his bearings. The man was already striding down the hallway toward the far end.

Checking the room numbers, Anson started in the same direction.

At the end of the hallway, the man in the suit stopped at a suite and rang the doorbell. Noticing movement in his peripheral vision, he instinctively glanced up. His expression was one of mild fatigue and hesitation, his focus still on his own business. He gestured toward the door.

“You… sure about this?”

Anson made a gentlemanly gesture, motioning for him to go ahead. “I’m not a stalker.”

The man tilted his head slightly, puzzled. His expression grew even stranger as he instinctively gave Anson a quick once-over—not scanning his face, but assessing his outfit.

A beige tennis shirt, a mint-green wool blazer, and light-wash blue jeans—simple yet stylish. Casual but with just a touch of polish, effortlessly blending relaxation with refinement. He looked like the first warm ray of sunshine after a long winter, a fresh sprout of green against bare branches.

The man in the suit took a second look, just as the suite’s door swung open.

A woman with long, sandy-blonde hair appeared, holding a thick stack of brochures and greeting them with a practiced smile.

“Hey, good afternoon! I’m Sandra.”

“Sorry, it’s been a hectic day, and I’m running on fumes. Hope you’ll excuse me,” she said, her smile professional but distant. It was clear her mind was elsewhere. She quickly handed them each a brochure, her movements efficient and routine.

“This is our press kit. Please, follow me.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and disappeared into the suite.

Anson glanced down at the brochure in his hands. The cover featured a grand, gilded picture frame, inside which was an oil painting of a classic European castle. In the foreground, Anne Hathaway stood smiling, dressed in a simple yet elegant medieval-style princess gown, as if engaged in a conversation with the viewer.

—*Ella Enchanted.*

Before Anson could process anything further, Sandra’s voice called from ahead, urging them forward. He followed behind the suited man into the suite. The hallway was lined with white lilies, their fragrance filling the air. As they stepped into the main room, they were met with a bustling scene.

People filled every corner—men, women, young, old, all busy with their own tasks. Laptops, notepads, PDAs, brick-sized cell phones, stacks of brochures—the room wasn’t noisy, but the energy was palpable. The air felt thick with focus, as if you could hear the gears in everyone’s minds turning at full speed.

Sandra stepped behind a temporary reception desk near the couch and smiled. “So, what do you think of the movie?”

The man in the suit took a sip of his coffee. “Oh, I think it’s a fantastic film. It reminds me of The Princess Diaries and other Disney movies. There’s something uniquely charming about live-action fairy tales.”

Sandra turned to Anson. The man in the suit did the same.

Anson blinked.

His first thought: I don’t like it.

The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but realizing it was best not to draw attention to himself, he pivoted.

“I agree.”

Sandra nodded. “Sorry, I just need to log your names. Which media outlet are you with?”

The man in the suit answered first. “The Village Voice.”

A second later, Anson felt both their gazes land on him.

“…Seventeen.”

Sandra and the suited man exchanged looks of understanding, even giving Anson a small nod.

At the time, Seventeen was the leading teen magazine in North America, boasting high sales and a strong reputation. Focused on fashion, culture, beauty, dating advice, and lifestyle, it wasn’t a movie magazine per se, but given that Ella Enchanted targeted a teen audience, Seventeen’s presence here wasn’t out of place.

*Chapter 1435: A Pile of Merchandise*

"...‘Seventeen.’"

Anson gave a somewhat awkward answer. He couldn’t just throw out the names of top media outlets carelessly—what if they were already present? What if the illusion was shattered? What if his identity was exposed?

Crisis number one was averted, but Anson quickly realized he was walking through a minefield.

This was definitely not the best time to play Minesweeper.

"By the way, I’m Michael Moscovitz. I believe Miss Hathaway should be expecting me."

Anson added, using the name of the nerdy band frontman from The Princess Diaries. But he wasn’t sure if Annie would recognize the reference. He was starting to think this surprise visit might have been a bad idea.

The woman named Sandra turned and entered the adjacent room, leaving Anson standing in place, instantly feeling a sense of danger. His skin tingled, his senses sharpened.

It felt like a lamb walking into a den of tigers.

A small, helpless lamb standing amid a pack of predators, shoulders hunched, trembling, hoping desperately that the carnivores wouldn’t notice him.

The man with the PDA glanced at Anson again, making him acutely aware of the black-framed glasses resting on his nose—they felt suddenly warm.

Seriously, who gave Superman the confidence to think a pair of glasses could fool everyone?

"That suit… is it Dior?" the PDA man finally asked. "Sorry, I mean, it’s rare to see a suit in that color."

Anson: "...No, not Dior. I found it at a second-hand shop. Not sure about the brand."

PDA man: "Oh, very stylish. I think it’s a great choice."

Anson: "Well, since we’re here to cover a Disney fairy tale movie, I figured I should leave a unique impression. Not sure if it worked."

The PDA man snapped his fingers and gave him a playful wink of approval.

"Mr. Moscovitz? This way, please."

Sandra’s voice called from ahead.

Anson straightened up and followed, his steps steady. As he passed, the PDA man cast another glance at his back and hesitated, squinting as if something was off. He took another look but, before he could scrutinize further, Anson had already disappeared around the corner. Shaking his head, the man dismissed his thoughts and returned to his PDA.

"You have five minutes."

Sandra’s voice reached Anson’s ears just as she pushed open a small sitting room door and called out inside:

"Annie."

Then, without another word, she turned and left.

Anson took a step forward. Right away, he saw a large floor-to-ceiling window left wide open, golden sunlight streaming in, casting a glow over a slender silhouette.

A white lace gown hugged the curves of a graceful figure, its airy skirt swaying gently like a blooming lily. Her sleek, shining hair was elegantly coiled into a high bun, leaving her entire face exposed—sophisticated and radiant, a vision stepping straight out of the sunlight.

The room, like the outer lounge, was filled with lilies—baskets, vases, bouquets of every size and arrangement. The sheer volume made it impossible to overlook, as if the entire space had transformed into an ethereal fairy-tale realm.

Everything, all of it, revolved around her.

Anson paused mid-step, caught off guard by the sight.

Instinctively, he glanced down at his own outfit. Too casual. The contrast made him chuckle as he prepared to make a joke.

But then he noticed—Anne Hathaway looked uncomfortable.

"Like a Barbie doll," she muttered, tugging slightly at her skirt, a touch of bitterness in her smile. "But PR says it fits the brand image."

Anson was about to respond, but just as he opened his mouth—

"Achoo!"

A sneeze burst out of him.

Quickly, he covered his nose, stepped forward, grabbed a couple of tissues from the table, and dealt with the situation as gracefully as possible.

Anne, caught off guard, watched him struggle. Then, she couldn’t hold back—a soft giggle slipped out, her expression relaxing completely.

"Oh my God, are you allergic to pollen?" she asked, still grinning but now slightly concerned.

Anson shook his head. "Not that I know of. But with this many lilies, I think I’m starting to feel it. Guess that rules out any roles as a fairytale prince for me—what a shame."

Anne laughed again, glancing around at the sea of flowers before letting out a long sigh. "PR thought this would set the mood."

Clearly, she wasn’t a fan.

Anson shrugged. "Yeah, meeting public expectations usually means sacrificing some personal preferences. At the end of the day, we’re all just products of Hollywood."

Anne’s eyes widened. "You too?"

Anson: "Me too. Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt—no exceptions. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have our own personality beneath the surface. Otherwise, if all products were the same, no one would want to buy them."

As he spoke, he reached into a vase, pulling out a few lilies and sprigs of baby's breath. Standing there, he quickly wove them together into a small floral crown.

Under Anne’s surprised gaze, Anson gently placed the crown on her head, stepped back, and gave a satisfied nod.

"Trust me, your PR team won’t just approve—they’ll thank you."

Anne let out a soft snort, then fully burst into laughter.

Trying to suppress her grin, she playfully lifted her gown and curtsied like a proper princess. Only then did she finally ask:

"So… what are you doing here?"

She gestured toward his completely un-disguised outfit. "And… you’re not worried about being recognized by the press outside?"

Anson remained perfectly calm. "Right now, the last thing Disney wants is a scandal. I trust your team will handle the reporters accordingly."

Anne’s eyes widened in disbelief—he was even teasing Disney now?

It made sense, though. During the promotional period for a new film, Disney definitely wouldn’t want Anne caught up in rumors. Even if they did recognize Anson, they’d likely keep it quiet.

Jokes aside, Anson waved a hand dismissively. "No, I’m not worried. You know, in New York, people only care about themselves. Or rather, they don’t have the bandwidth to care about anything else—life’s already overwhelming enough. People don’t look up, they don’t have time to notice others."

"It’s completely different from LA."

In LA, people greet each other, even if it’s just polite small talk. At the very least, they make eye contact.

But in New York? Even in social settings, most people can’t be bothered to register each other’s expressions or moods.

"So, I’m really not worried. In fact, I’d bet no one in this entire building has even realized I’m here."

Just as the words left his lips—the door swung open.

Anson turned his head, startled.