971-975

**Chapter 971: The Date**

"…That's Anson, right?"

"Anson? That Anson? Jesus Christ, how is that possible?"

"Why is he here?"

"Oh my God, he’s so charming, ahhh!"

"Even more captivating up close, God, I can barely breathe."

"So, who’s that woman? Could Anson be on a date?"

"Wait, Anson likes older women? Does that mean I don’t stand a chance? Ugh, this is heartbreaking."

"I can’t believe Anson is dating a woman like that! What do I lack? Why won’t he date me?"

"Anson actually likes modern art? You’d never guess from his usual demeanor."

Whispers and muttering filled the air.

The buzz was unstoppable.

Inside the gallery, three staff members huddled together, whispering nervously.

Outside the gallery, a small crowd began to form, silently gathering and slowly blocking the view—

Not just by the entrance, but across the street too, where a small group had already started forming. For now, you could count them—less than ten people—but watching them excitedly chatter into their phones, it was clear they were calling friends to join. The situation was starting to get out of hand.

However, Nora and Anson, busy touring the gallery, didn’t notice any of it.

"…Ahem, excuse me, sorry to interrupt. Would you like something to drink? We have coffee, soda, and milk."

Carol Bright, pushed forward by her colleagues, stepped up to serve Anson. She felt her voice trembling, her palms sweating, and her knees shaking. Just speaking took all her energy.

Nora turned to Anson, “Did you eat anything on the plane? If not, maybe you shouldn’t have coffee on an empty stomach. How about some soda?”

Carol’s eyes widened in disbelief—

Were they that close?

Anson nodded slightly, "Soda it is. Oh, and could you warm up some milk for me too?"

Nora asked, "Are you going to hold two drinks?"

Anson replied, "The warm milk is for you. You need to stay hydrated more than I do."

Carol: ??? What is this couple's banter?

Instinctively, Carol nodded and turned to head to the break room.

Nora, amused, called out, "Carol, wait! You don’t have to take his orders."

Carol stopped in her tracks, "I don’t?"

Confused, she looked at Anson, her eyes full of hope.

Nora… found herself unsure how to respond.

Nora noticed Anson smiling kindly at Carol, "Of course, you should listen to her. She’s the boss here. But I bet she won’t turn down some warm milk."

Carol nodded, dazed.

Nora noticed Carol’s cheeks blushing slightly, unable to believe what she was seeing. She was still not used to moments like these.

Carol looked at Nora.

Nora sighed, "Warm milk, why not?"

Carol nodded obediently, hesitated for a moment, and finally couldn’t resist asking, "So, you two know each other?"

Anson nodded slightly, "I’m not sure if she remembers, but we’ve met a few times over the past six months."

Carol’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

Nora, exasperated, raised her hand and smacked the back of Anson’s head.

Anson, "Ouch."

Nora looked at Carol, "Yes, Carol, we know each other. I’m his mother."

Carol: …

Jaw dropped, stunned, frozen in place, like a robot with its CPU fried, bolts, springs, and gears all flying out.

After a long pause, Carol finally blurted out, "Nora Wood… Anson Wood… Oh! Jesus Christ!"

Nora spread her hands, "Yes, that’s the same Wood."

Carol, "Oh, crap!" She swore, immediately covering her mouth.

She straightened up, spun around, and fled, not even noticing that she was walking in an awkward, clumsy manner.

Nora shook her head repeatedly, "What on earth are they thinking?"

Anson, "They just want to figure out who my date is."

Nora blinked, her flu-fogged brain finally starting to catch up, "Wait, you? Her? What’s going on here?"

Anson calmly replied, "Well, technically, you’re my date today. Hey, honestly, how long has it been since Dad took you out for a date night?"

Nora looked at Anson, who still had the energy to joke around, and couldn’t help but shake her head in disbelief, "I can’t believe what’s going on in their heads."

"Welcome to Hollywood," Anson said, completely unfazed, already used to it.

At that moment, Nora finally noticed the small crowd gathering outside the gallery—

About twenty people, standing across the street, craning their necks to peek into the gallery. There was even someone who looked like a paparazzo, lugging a huge camera, aiming its long lens directly at the gallery, ready to capture any moment.

"Mom, I’m sorry," Anson’s voice brought Nora back to reality.

"I know you and Dad don’t like media attention, but it looks like you’ve been exposed."

Nora couldn’t help but laugh, letting out a small chuckle, "Don’t worry, I’m not surprised. Your dad actually expected this when you decided to head to Hollywood. He’s even a bit excited about it. 'Anson Wood’s father,' he wouldn’t mind walking around with that title."

"But what about you? Are you okay? God, they must never leave you alone."

Nora’s first instinct was concern.

She hadn’t realized how much Anson’s life was already fully surrounded by the spotlight. Compared to the Palme d'Or or being number one at the North American box office, this scene was far more direct and impactful.

It wasn’t until now that Nora truly understood what being a superstar meant.

But before her worry could spread, she caught the mischievous glint in Anson’s eyes. She knew that look on her youngest son all too well. "What are you plotting?"

Anson looked at her with an innocent expression, "Mom, I’m the victim here, okay?"

Nora didn’t believe him.

Anson raised his hands in surrender, "I don’t want to disrupt my everyday life just because of outside attention. If I start hiding, they win. So, I figure, if they’re curious, let them watch. Eventually, they’ll get bored."

Nora waited, sensing there was more.

Sure enough.

"And while they’re watching, I figured, why not use their attention?"

Nora, "What do you mean?"

Anson didn’t answer. Lucas had told him earlier that Nora’s latest work project was struggling with some promotion issues and that the art exhibit wasn’t getting the expected exposure. Anson thought, maybe he could help a little—

Not with the media.

The photographers outside weren’t invited by Anson, but since they were there, he thought, why not take advantage of it?

Nora studied Anson carefully. She wanted to scold him, worried that he might be playing with fire, especially since these media people were no joke. But looking at Anson, clearly eager and full of ideas, she swallowed her words.

After all, no matter what happens, they could always help him deal with the aftermath.

And besides, Anson’s such a good kid. How much trouble could he really cause?

Anson brought the conversation back on track, "Don’t you think the exhibit layout feels off?"

Nora’s focus returned, her tone lifting, "What do you mean?"

Chapter 972: Stimulating the Market
On a professional level, Nora instinctively adopted a guarded stance, even toward her husband and son. But professionalism is professionalism—Nora had her own principles and pride, as if she could don a cape and transform into Wonder Woman in a second.

Anson noticed and quickly raised his hands in surrender, "We're just discussing, purely discussing."

Nora raised her chin slightly, crossed her arms over her chest, and struck a pose that said, "Go ahead, let's hear it."

Anson cleared his throat. "Ah, why does this suddenly feel like we're in a professor's pop quiz mode?" he teased playfully.

Nora cooperatively pushed up her imaginary glasses, patiently waiting for him to continue.

Anson said, "I understand your concept. Start by talking about the changes in urban space, present the narrative's beginning, middle, and end chronologically, and clarify the development and evolution of this art form. That way, outsiders can quickly grasp and immerse themselves in this space."

"But, Mom, do you know the script formula for Hollywood movies?"

"Within the first three or five minutes, they throw out a crisis or conflict. While the protagonist solves it, not only does it capture the audience's attention, but it also reveals the protagonist's personality and sets up future plot points."

"The key is to increase the appeal."

Nora frowned slightly, "Are you saying we should compromise with commercialism? Although the main purpose of planning an art exhibition is for commercial operation, this kind of blatant approach may not work well in an exhibition."

Anson shook his head. "If it were the Upper West Side, where the elite consider themselves cultured and maintain their composure, they wouldn't reveal their superficiality even if the exhibit were dull. So, the planning shouldn't be too shallow or direct."

"But in the East Village, there are no such pretensions. If they don’t like it, they don’t like it. If you don't throw something heavy at them from the start, they won’t be interested."

Art?

Anson and Nora were really discussing art!

Carol knew she shouldn't be surprised. If Nora was Anson's mother, it meant Anson had been exposed to art all his life, so of course, he should have some artistic insight. Besides, they were in a gallery, so talking about art should be normal.

Still, Carol couldn't help herself, her mind racing with thoughts.

As she turned, two coworkers immediately surrounded her with gossip-filled expressions. Carol had just handed them soda water and hot milk and was about to set the tray down when she was dragged aside to quietly discuss the situation.

Then, one of her coworkers with a strange goatee paused, "Great, now can someone tell me who he is?"

Carol stared at him in disbelief. "You don't know who he is, then what were you gossiping with us about?"

He replied seriously, "I'm just trying to fit in. I don't want to be the only guy in the office who's left out. I thought I’d pick up some clues from your conversation, but now I see I need a little more help."

"Anson, that's Anson Wood. You don’t know him?"

"Do I need to?"

"Oh my God, what era are you living in, the Jurassic?"

"A man in his thirties, I have no interest in those pretty-boy idols."

As soon as he said that, the two women replied in unison, "He’s not a pretty boy."

The man looked at the two women in surprise, like a startled rabbit. "See, this is exactly the situation I was hoping to avoid."

The next second, all three of them fell silent, nervously glancing toward Nora and Anson, afraid they’d been overheard.

Luckily, Nora and Anson remained focused on their conversation.

Nora was carefully considering Anson's words.

To be honest, Nora didn't like people interfering with her work—she had her own expertise. But this time, the exhibit had encountered some challenges, and Anson’s suggestions, though simple and logical, didn’t seem so hard to accept, especially since they came from her youngest son.

Nora thought for a moment. "So, you’re suggesting we pick one of the most important pieces from the last section of the exhibit and place it at the front?"

Anson shook his head. "No, that would spoil the climax. If people get hit with the peak moment right away and the rest of the exhibit falls short of their expectations, they might criticize it harshly and even impact the overall review."

"We should choose a distinctive, impactful piece from the later middle section and put it up front as a hook."

"Through it, we can showcase the relationship between people and the city, which is a core theme of the exhibition. By skipping the buildup, we grab the attention of passersby in a direct and visually striking way, stirring their curiosity and making them interested in the exhibit."

Nora nodded. "We can do that. Do you have any suggestions?"

Anson stopped in front of a particular painting.

Following Anson's gaze, Nora looked at the painting—a unique piece:

It used vivid colors to construct a steel forest, vibrant and dazzling, with an obvious pop-art style. Yet, in the center of the forest, there was a small, gray figure, lost.

Undoubtedly, it was a visually striking piece, using color to present the noise of a modern city. But on closer inspection, one could notice the gray figure nearly swallowed by the colors. And if you looked even closer, you’d see more gray figures hiding in the shadows of the chaotic colors, like the little spirits hidden in the grass in "My Neighbor Totoro," visible only to the observant.

Color dominated all sight and sound.

Although the work wasn’t quite mature, its impact was palpable.

"Interesting choice." Nora showed some admiration.

Anson appreciated it in detail. "I like the sense of lines within the colors. So, how much does this piece cost?"

Nora looked surprised.

Anson smiled. "Hey, my apartment in New York is missing a painting. At least I can support my mom's work with action."

Nora smiled. "I don’t see a reason to refuse. This painting is by a young artist, just starting out. He hasn’t made a name for himself yet, so it’s priced at $5,000."

Anson raised an eyebrow slightly. "That low?"

Nora replied, "It’s probably his rent for half a year."

Anson glanced at the artist's name, "Sebastian Orsino." Indeed, a young artist he’d never heard of.

"That name," Anson’s smile widened. "A fan of Shakespeare?"

Sebastian and Orsino were both names from William Shakespeare’s early work "Twelfth Night," obvious to anyone who knew it was a pseudonym.

Nora shrugged lightly. "Shakespeare might be significant in film and theater, but in the art world? Sorry, son, I don’t think his name carries much weight here."

Anson chuckled. "Maybe that's why he hasn’t gotten much attention. People don’t even understand the meaning behind his name."

Nora sighed lightly. "I’m just glad he didn’t pick a name like Banksy."

Anson didn’t hide his surprise. "Oh, Mom, you know Banksy?"

Nora exhaled softly. "His work isn’t my area of expertise, but during a trip to London for this exhibit, I visited his first official exhibition."

**Chapter 973: Impenetrable**

Banksy, the most renowned street artist in London, quickly became the world’s leading street artist, at least in terms of commercial value. He managed to elevate street art to the same level as traditional paintings, fetching astronomical prices.

Interestingly, however, the artists who have been doing street art in London for years often don’t like Banksy. They see him as an opportunist, someone who knows how to tap into trends and market himself. From the perspective of pure graffiti, they argue that Banksy's work lacks true artistic value.

In 2003, Banksy was an emerging artist with growing influence. Not long ago, he held his first solo exhibition in a warehouse in East London.

What surprised Anson was that Nora was also interested in street art. “So, do you like it?” he asked.

Nora replied, “No.”

Straightforward and direct.

Anson couldn’t help but smile. He thought Nora might make some polite small talk, at least expressing some public relations-level respect.

But no, she didn’t.

Nora was very candid, “Kid, in essence, art is a commercial activity. Although I don’t want to erase the cultural value of art itself, the harsh reality of today’s market is that art is business. Clearly, Banksy understands this—he’s an excellent product manager.”

Anson asked, “But not an excellent artist?”

Nora raised an eyebrow, not giving a definite answer.

Anson understood. “A good product manager deserves recognition, at least. He ensures success. I’m sure there are plenty of people in Hollywood who think I’m just a good product manager.”

Nora was momentarily surprised, then chuckled, “Oh, you're much more than just a product manager. That would be such a waste of your talent.”

Anson raised his soda in a mock salute, “I’ll remember that. But for now, this product manager might be able to give you a bit of inspiration.”

Nora looked at him, intrigued.

Anson didn’t beat around the bush. He pointed to the painting in front of them. “I have an idea. Why not add a zero to the price tag, put it at the entrance as the first piece, and mark it as sold with my name next to it?”

A “red dot” typically indicates a piece has already been sold. As for the signature, some people like to sign, others don’t—it’s entirely up to them.

Nora immediately understood.

In an exhibition of young artists, if a famous collector shows interest in a piece, or if several collectors start competing over a painting, the market buzz will follow, just like at an auction.

That’s why top collectors often hire agents to attend exhibitions or auctions, so they don’t reveal their interests too soon.

But conversely, if a collector wants to drive up the price, they’ll put their name out there to attract attention from others in the art world.

Now, Anson was about to do the same thing—use the name “Anson Wood” to stir up the market.

But the key issue was, “Kid, your name might work in Hollywood, but it’s not guaranteed in the art market. I don’t want to discourage you,” Nora said, her face full of warmth.

Anson’s smile grew wider, “It’s worth a try anyway, right?”

Nora laughed along with him, “Of course. So, any other ideas?”

Knowing when to stop, Anson didn’t push further. When it came to her field of expertise, Nora had her strengths, and Anson trusted that his mother didn’t need an amateur’s advice. “Yes, I do. Would I have the honor of inviting you to dinner tonight?”

Nora glanced at the street outside. The number of people seemed to be growing. “Are you sure? I think tonight might not be the best time.”

Anson replied, “Don’t worry, James Bond always has a backup plan.”

Nora smiled, “Well then, I’m looking forward to it.”

...

Lucas Wood wasn’t sure if he was seeing things.

The streets ahead were packed, crowded with people spilling out onto the sidewalks. It was as if the streets of New York, which were already not that wide, were getting narrower and narrower, like a bottle of soda about to overflow. He felt like he could be swallowed up at any moment. He wondered if he had taken a wrong turn.

This was New York, after all. The Lower East Side inherited the chaos and congestion of centuries past. Many roads weren’t planned or named carefully, and the addresses didn’t follow any logical order. A small misstep could land you in the wrong alley.

So what was going on up ahead? Was Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez making another high-profile appearance?

But Lucas didn’t care. He wasn’t curious at all.

All he needed was to find a street sign or address to recalibrate and get back on track.

He was in New York on a two-week business trip, and one phone call had turned him into a chauffeur. He had just finished an afternoon meeting and was rushing to the East Village, without even having time to change into more comfortable clothes.

Wait—

It seemed like this was the right place. He hadn’t taken a wrong turn, but the crowd was so dense that he couldn’t see clearly. He couldn’t be entirely sure just yet.

Until he saw the gallery.

But—

The crowd was three layers deep, packed on both sides of the street. It looked more like the scene of a movie premiere than anything else.

So what were they all gathered for?

Lucas looked around, searching for any sign of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez, or maybe Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. It took him a few beats before a lightbulb went off in his head, and he made a bold guess:

Were these people here for Anson?

But why?

Lucas couldn’t figure it out. Did these people have nothing better to do than crowd around to see Anson? Wasn’t New York supposed to be so busy that no one even had time to stop and watch?

His thoughts swirled.

His face darkened even further, and now he finally understood why Anson had called for “help.” He thought Anson was inviting him to dinner.

The murmurs of the crowd focused on the sleek black Bentley that had pulled up in front of the gallery. Its sleek lines reflected the thin Manhattan sunlight, its surface spotless, understated yet exuding an air of luxury. Without being flashy, it easily caught people’s attention.

Whispers floated around, with wild guesses flying through the air.

Then.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the gallery, and for a moment, the murmurs paused, as if everyone had held their breath.

All eyes were on it.

The door opened, and a man in a black suit stepped out.

Black suit, black shirt, black shoes.

A tall, imposing figure perfectly clad in a custom-tailored black suit. His cool and aloof demeanor made it hard for anyone to look directly at his face; they could only sneak glances at his sharp, chiseled jawline, which resembled a glacier’s edge.

His presence was overwhelming.

“…Who is that?”

“An actor?”

“Maybe a model.”

“Is he here by coincidence?”

“Could he be the driver?”

Whispers and speculation mixed with the heat of their stares, stirring the air around them. Any small movement could cause the entire street to erupt.

**Chapter 974: The Part-Time Driver**

"...Could it be the driver?"

The murmur of scattered conversations softly brushed against Lucas’s ears, making his expression darken.

**Lucas**: *Ha, driver. Correct answer. After all, isn't that exactly what he is tonight—a driver?*

But outwardly, he remained unmoved.

His face was as calm as still water, and his demeanor steady. Lucas stood tall, as straight as a pine tree, fastening the button on his suit jacket with his slender fingers before turning and walking toward the gallery, skirting around the car.

Inside, they had already noticed the commotion outside, and someone came out to open the door.

"Anson..."

"Anson!"

"Anson."

In an instant, the murmuring outside morphed into whispers calling for Anson—some loud, some soft, some excited, others shy, some joyful, and others lost in thought.

The scattered sounds continued to surge, as if the surrounding buildings had all broken into a tap dance, making the world around them undulate with waves of heat.

**Lucas**: *Driver and bodyguard.*

Anson didn’t avoid it. He stood confidently in place, scanning the crowd, nodding slightly with a smile as if he were exchanging morning greetings with neighbors—no waving necessary.

It was precisely this casual and natural demeanor that made him appear less like a superstar receiving cheers. The crowd, receiving his calm signal, responded politely with nods as well. The boiling atmosphere of the crowd, akin to bubbling lava, stayed just below the surface.

Then, Anson stepped aside politely, making room for the lady behind him like a true gentleman.

In that moment, Nora could feel the crowd's gaze pouring down on her like a summer downpour, intense and overwhelming. It was so fierce that she found it hard to breathe, causing her to momentarily pause.

Just a few moments ago inside, Nora had seen the chaos outside and couldn’t help but feel concerned for Anson.

Nora suggested Anson exit through the back door to avoid the public eye as much as possible.

But Anson had a different opinion.

Sure, they could leave through the back door, but the paparazzi had probably already surrounded that area too. Besides, even if the back door was clear, leaving that way would imply they were trying to avoid attention.

Firstly, it would make them look guilty. They had nothing to hide, but sneaking away would only fuel media speculation and lead to fabricated stories.

Secondly, it would spark more curiosity. The more they avoided the paparazzi, the more determined they would become. The more they hid, the harder the paparazzi would dig.

To put it plainly, it was a cat-and-mouse game. And the point was—

The starting positions were the same. Whoever ran first became the mouse.

Anson had always faced the media with integrity and openness, willing to engage with the paparazzi and the public on equal terms. Whether he became the cat or the mouse in this game, one thing was certain—he would never play the role of the mouse.

Even so, Anson left the decision to his mother.

Nora thought it over carefully and ultimately chose to face the situation head-on.

However.

Nora soon realized she had underestimated the power of the crowd. It looked chaotic from a distance, but experiencing it up close felt downright insane.

Unconsciously, she paused.

*Click. Click, click, click, click.*

Though there weren’t many paparazzi, the sound of camera shutters broke through the roar of the crowd, the silver flashbulbs proving their presence.

But precisely because there weren’t too many, the sporadic flashing from different corners made it harder for her eyes to adjust.

Nora then noticed Lucas walking ahead, standing beside the car and respectfully opening the door. With a formal invitation gesture, he said:

"Please, Mrs. Wood, Mr. Wood."

Without thinking further, Nora quickly got into the car.

Anson, however, glanced at Lucas, catching a glimpse of the playful sarcasm in his words. Was this some kind of role-playing game?

"...Driver, huh?" Anson teased.

Lucas stared at Anson, his expression blank.

But Anson could see the sheer resignation in Lucas's eyes, which made him chuckle softly. Without further teasing, Anson followed Nora into the car.

Lucas, a bit annoyed, reminded him, "Watch your head."

As Anson tucked his left leg into the car, Lucas shut the door with a heavy thud.

*Bang.*

The muffled sound signaled the crowd and paparazzi to finally snap out of their daze.

Was that it?

Was Anson really about to leave like this?

Suddenly, the crowd panicked.

A raucous chorus of shouts erupted like a torrential downpour on a summer afternoon, roaring with no warning, filling the world with deafening noise.

It was all happening right in front of them, without any tricks or deception. But the crowd hadn’t fully processed it, and in that moment of hesitation, they didn't think to chase, block, or approach him. Instead, they instinctively maintained their distance, watching as Anson got into the car.

...That was it?

A beat too late, the realization finally struck—the paparazzi and the crowd alike became frantic. Questions and screams of all kinds came rushing in like a tidal wave.

*Ahhh, ahhh!*

The world seemed to quake.

But Lucas was a step ahead.

With his long legs, he circled around the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

Then, without hesitation, they were off.

No pauses, no second thoughts. Before the crowd could react, they had already driven away.

By the time the crowd realized what was happening, they poured into the street like a broken dam, engulfing the road. Flashbulbs and shouts desperately reached for the vehicle, but all they could catch was the car’s retreating silhouette.

Eyes filled with reluctant longing.

"Ah, Anson, ahhhh..."

A cry, piercing the sky, came from a figure that suddenly broke free from the crowd, charging forward like a leopard at full speed—

No joke. For a split second, it felt like an Olympic 100-meter dash, with all eyes locked on the sprinting figure.

That man ran with all his might, shouting as he went, his strong, muscular frame and desperate cries creating a bizarre, yet oddly harmonious scene. The visual impact of the moment was hard to describe, leaving everyone else frozen in place, watching the car turn the corner.

And then, it was gone.

The man, finally exhausted, stopped, resting his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Even from half a street away, you could feel his sadness and frustration. His lonely silhouette made the bystanders feel awkward—after all, they were just curious onlookers. His feelings ran much deeper.

Meanwhile, inside the gallery.

Carol and the other two were pressed against the window, standing on tiptoe to get a better look at the scene, which instantly reminded them of the St. Patrick’s Day parade.

"If he shouts, 'Hey, Anson, you dropped your wallet,' it would be a comedy," one of the men joked quietly.

Carol gave him a blank stare.

The man raised his hands. "Humor. It’s called humor. No sense of humor at all. Life must be exhausting for you."

After a brief pause, Carol quietly responded, "If he shouts, 'Hey, Anson, you forgot your phone,' it would be a horror movie."

Inside the car.

Nora looked back through the rearview mirror at the figure who had stopped in the street, still filled with regret and frustration. "Anson, are you sure this is okay?"

Anson’s face was serious. "If we stop the car now, I go over and thank him, then give him a hug—what do you think?"

Before Nora could answer, Lucas shifted gears and stepped on the gas.

Anson: "...Hey, driver, is that your way of casting a vote with your feet?"

Lucas chose not to respond.

**Chapter 975: Family Dinner**

The engine hummed softly as the car sped away.

However, as they glanced back, a massive sea of people had filled the entire street, making it seem like half of New York had gathered here. The further the car moved away, the more imposing and overwhelming the crowd became, as if the power of it was still growing.

So, this is the energy of Hollywood?

After the initial shock, Nora slowly regained her composure. It was only then she noticed, well, Anson’s calm demeanor was expected, but why was Lucas also so unfazed?

More importantly, “Lucas, why are you here?”

Lucas glanced at the rearview mirror, casting a meaningful look at Anson.

To his surprise, Anson returned the gaze with a completely indifferent expression, as if he didn’t understand the significance of Lucas' look. In the end, Lucas gave up.

“Dinner,” Lucas replied, his eyes still on the rearview mirror, though now he directed his words at Nora. “I booked a dinner to celebrate Anson’s Palme d'Or win and the successful end of his European tour.”

Sure enough, Nora's mood lifted immediately. “Lucas, well done. I was just telling your dad the other day that we should throw a party and ask Darren to invite some special guests to celebrate Anson properly.”

Anson looked slightly exasperated. “Mom…”

Nora patted Anson’s arm. “I know, you’ll be starting your next project soon and need time to read the script, not attend parties.”

“But a small family dinner to celebrate, that’s totally fine, right?”

“Unfortunately, your dad is still stuck in L.A. and can’t join us, but the three of us are enough. Your dad’s not important. We are the Wood family.”

Charles Wood: ???

“Lucas, where did you book?”

“Chef Keller,” Lucas answered.

“Oh, Thomas, nice choice. Very tasteful,” Nora responded.

In New York, top-tier restaurants are everywhere, offering different price points, styles, and experiences—whether it's upscale eateries aimed at the upper-middle class, secret spots focusing on privacy, or themed venues offering unique experiences. Picking the right restaurant is an art in itself.

For most people, five-star hotels and Michelin three-star restaurants represent the pinnacle of fine dining, and a reservation made six months to a year in advance is a status symbol.

This is true.

However, the true elites often know about secret restaurants hidden away from the public eye—places most people wouldn’t even know existed, let alone how to get in.

The Wood family hadn’t quite reached that level yet; they didn’t have the depth or capital for it.

But thanks to their work, they could walk among the top-tier elites and slowly push open the door to this mysterious world.

Thomas Keller, a French chef working in New York, runs a French restaurant called “Self-Service” in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s not on any guides or rankings, but his fusion of Southern American flavors with French cuisine has made him a favorite among the elite.

The most important thing about “Self-Service” is its exceptional privacy. Each group of diners gets their own private room, ensuring they can enjoy their meal undisturbed while engaging in confidential conversations. In a city as packed as New York, such privacy is rare.

Rumor has it that the backing behind Keller is a real estate tycoon who loves food—a billionaire who owns his own skyscrapers in New York.

But insiders know the truth: that real estate mogul is too flamboyant to appreciate a restaurant like “Self-Service.” The real benefactor behind Keller is a media tycoon from Boston.

Of course, the food is still the main attraction.

So, when people talk about this restaurant, they refer to it by the chef's name, just like people call films by their director’s name.

“Lucas, are you serious…”

Anson sat down with a resigned look in the private dining room decorated in red, white, and blue tones.

“I just got back from France, and you chose a French restaurant?”

Lucas was unfazed. “You know how it is in New York. French restaurants are everywhere. If you want a high-end British restaurant, that’s a lot harder.”

Anson sighed, “Does Britain even have high-end cuisine?”

Lucas grinned, “Exactly my point.”

The most casual remarks are often the most devastating.

For years, the relationship between America and France has been complicated. Americans admire French culture—the language, literature, film, art. France represents sophistication and depth. Meanwhile, the French look down on America, seeing it as a land of fast-food culture steeped in commercialism. This dynamic even extends to daily life.

And of course, it applies to food as well.

In New York, there are over 6,000 French restaurants crammed into a relatively small area—just slightly outnumbered by Italian restaurants, mainly because Italian pizzerias and family eateries dominate through sheer numbers. From fine dining to casual fare, from traditional to fusion cuisine, it’s all there.

People often joke that if a man in America can speak French, he’s already won over half the women.

It’s a joke, but there’s some truth behind it.

Nora’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “This isn’t authentic French food, obviously. It can’t compare to the real thing in France. But then again, what you had on the French Riviera wasn’t exactly authentic either. This place combines Southern American cuisine with French techniques—it’ll be a fun challenge.”

Anson shook his head. In just a few words, his mother had managed to dismiss Southern French cuisine as inferior and mock American food as well. Wasn’t that a bit much?

“Mom, relax. This isn’t a roast session,” Anson tried to cool things down.

Nora looked genuinely serious. “I wasn’t roasting anyone.”

Knock, knock.

There was a knock at the door.

The waiter had just dropped off the menus and wine list, so it seemed a bit rushed for them to already be checking on drink orders.

The three exchanged glances, and in the end, Lucas spoke up. “Come in.”

The door opened, and a middle-aged man in his forties stepped in, wearing a chef’s uniform without a hat. His hair was neatly styled, and his face carried a friendly smile with the effortless charm unique to the French.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a noticeable French accent that immediately caught their attention.

It was Thomas Keller himself, the head chef!

With a bright smile, he politely bowed to greet them.

Nora didn’t hide her surprise. Her impression of Thomas Keller was that he was proud, arrogant, and as stubborn as a rock. He never bowed to anyone, no matter who they were, and had no social graces to speak of.

He was the epitome of a difficult genius.

To some, that attitude was just a testament to his talent, something to admire.

But tonight?

Nora quickly composed herself and returned the greeting with equal politeness. “Good evening, Chef Keller. We’re honored to dine here tonight.”

Thomas bowed slightly. “Welcome. I hope you have a wonderful evening. Mr. Wood mentioned that you wouldn’t mind me stopping by to say hello…”

Huh?

What was going on here?