651-655

*Chapter 651: Crazed Beyond Belief*

Everything started with the "Number Murder Case."

Although the film's box office and critical reception both fell below expectations, it attracted considerable attention from Hollywood professionals. Brad Renfro and Ryan Gosling both gained a lot of recognition:

Setting aside everything else, when casting directors and producers consider actors, having your name come up is already a breakthrough.

That’s why Hollywood always says, "Go act, go work, take any opportunity, even if it's a terrible one." No one can predict where an opportunity might lead or what the result will be. Just having a chance means the possibility of something.

The "Number Murder Case" was exactly that.

Even though it failed, it put Brad Renfro on Frank Marshall’s radar. After three rounds of auditions, Brad unexpectedly became the first actor confirmed for this Oscar project.

At present, there’s no confirmed director or other cast members, and the script is still in development. Brad’s role isn’t finalized, but having Frank’s name attached to the project has already drawn early attention. It’s likely that Brad will have a spot during next year’s awards season.

Whether or not he gets nominated is secondary; the key is appearing in the awards season discussions, getting exposure, attention, and recognition. Brad’s career has suddenly opened up.

Opportunities like this are rare.

Is Anson envious?

Not at all.

Brad has his opportunities, and Anson has his own.

So Anson sincerely offers his congratulations.

But...

Brad seems a bit anxious. "Well, according to the original plan, filming should start early next month, but I, uh, I’m not going to take this project."

Anson couldn’t hide his surprise. "What happened?"

Brad took a deep breath. "That’s why I’m here. I don’t care about the work, or at least, I’m trying not to care so much."

"Because… ugh… because the whole Vanity Fair thing nearly drove me insane. It’s slowly killing me, turning me into someone I don’t even recognize."

This time, Anson didn’t make any jokes. They both understood how being in the public eye was changing them into unrecognizable versions of themselves. Something deep within them seemed to be corroding, decaying, collapsing. They thought they’d be the exception, that they wouldn’t change like others, but by the time they noticed the transformation, it was already too late.

Brad rubbed his face with both hands, and his once handsome features now looked even more haggard.

"I think I’ve really gone mad."

"I waited for the audition results. I waited for the producer’s response. After four auditions, I had to be patient for feedback."

"But no reply came."

"I couldn’t disturb Frank Marshall. Who am I? Just a nobody. I couldn’t just call him up and demand an answer. I didn’t even dare bother the casting director. So, I kept messaging the casting director’s assistant, who’s just as powerless as I am."

"I don’t even know how many texts or voicemails I left. Five hundred? Six hundred? I filled her inbox."

"At first, I was begging, but later I lost my mind."

"I thought she was ignoring me. I thought she was ruining my opportunity. I thought she was destroying my future. My head was filled with so many thoughts, slowly spiraling into darkness."

"And then..."

"I, uh, found her address and went straight to her house."

Anson: ...

Anson’s first reaction was disbelief, staring at Brad in shock.

The last incident was already absurd, but now, it seemed like just the tip of the iceberg. Since moving out, Brad had spiraled deeper into chaos, and his world was rapidly unraveling, leaving nothing but madness.

Anson wasn’t prepared for this.

Brad gave a bitter smile and nodded slightly in confirmation.

"That’s why I said, I’ve gone crazy."

"Not just you, even I can’t recognize myself anymore."

"Before, during Hayden’s audition, you and James auditioned, and we told you to stay calm, be patient. One or two months is nothing. But when it came to me, I lost all reason."

"I waited for the producer’s response. I waited for them to choose a director. I waited for the project to move forward. I couldn’t stay calm for even a second. I kept contacting that assistant, but I got no response. I even started calling hospitals, worrying something might have happened to her."

Anson tried to control himself, resisting the urge to interrupt Brad, but finally couldn’t hold back. "You mean the casting director’s assistant?"

Project decisions aren’t made by assistants. Not even casting directors have the final say.

In other words, Brad had been freaking out at the wrong person.

Brad understood and gave another bitter smile, rubbing his temples.

"You know, looking back now, I see how irrational it was. But at the time, my mind was clouded with thoughts, and I couldn’t think straight. I just felt like Hollywood was out to get me, that there were countless people ready to take my place."

"Heh, I couldn’t see them, but I felt like they were everywhere."

"Oh, God."

Brad rubbed his face harder, his slumped shoulders revealing immense fatigue and helplessness, as if he might fall apart at any moment.

Anson wanted to comfort him, to say anyone could go through this, that they were all victims of Hollywood’s poison. After all, look at Sunset Boulevard—people will even die for fame and fortune. At least Brad hadn’t crossed that line. But as the words reached Anson’s lips, he couldn’t say them.

Because Brad had crossed a line.

He had secretly found that casting director assistant’s home.

If she called the police...

Brad hadn’t noticed Anson’s silence or internal struggle and kept talking.

"Until I was standing at her front door, like John Cusack holding a boombox in Say Anything, making a grand gesture. But obviously, John Cusack’s scene was romantic. What I was doing? Definitely not."

"And then..."

"She told me the audition had already happened the day before."

"Technically, it was Friday, and I showed up at her house on Saturday night—thirty-six hours later, to be exact."

Is this some sort of absurd comedy?

Compared to this, the incident at the critics' reading event was nothing. Small potatoes.

Even though Anson tried his best to hide his reaction, his eyes still revealed a hint of disbelief and absurdity. Despite thinking he had seen it all, that nothing could surprise him anymore, he had clearly been proven wrong. His mind had been blown wide open.

Indeed, there’s always someone crazier.

In the grand stage of Hollywood’s vanity, Anson was still a newcomer. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond.

*Chapter 652: Need Time*

For a brief moment, Anson's mind went blank. He couldn't react, suddenly realizing that Hollywood was crazier than he had ever imagined.

This time, Anson didn't hide his expression.

Brad noticed. He spread his hands, a bitter smile on his face.

"You can be as shocked or surprised as you want; I don't mind. Because I also think I'm beyond help."

He chuckled softly.

Before speaking, Brad had felt it was a disgrace. He had hoped to bury these feelings forever, praying that the assistant wouldn't tell anyone, wishing to take these secrets to the grave. But once he started talking, it wasn't as hard as he'd thought. Instead, he felt a sense of relief. Unconsciously, the secrets broke free.

He needed this release.

"It's not over."

"I felt humiliated, so I questioned the assistant, asking why she didn't respond to my messages. At the very least, she could have replied with a voice or text message. Maybe I'm a lunatic, but work-related communication should be responded to."

"She said she doesn't work on weekends; she has her personal life."

"She said that she may be insignificant, but she refuses to be enslaved by work. From Monday to Friday, 24/7, she's on call, always busy. So on weekends, she has the right to turn off her phone, computer, and email, to handle these matters later."

"Those producers and directors are all on vacation, partying, having fun. She refuses to sell her life to those demons from hell."

"Hah, haha."

"She has her own life."

"Obviously, she didn't want to deal with an actor's meltdown over the weekend."

As he laughed, the laughter suddenly ceased, leaving an unexpected silence.

"Anson, I'm sick."

"And it's serious. I need help."

Finishing his sentence, Brad tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his facial muscles were stiff, unable to laugh or cry. His brows contorted, revealing a hint of helplessness and bitterness.

The sunlight was still bright.

The sky, still vast.

Brad quietly bathed in the light, yet was more vulnerable than ever, as if the golden light might consume and destroy him at any moment. His desolation and bewilderment spread silently in the air.

Sometimes, Anson found it hard to tell whether they were victors or victims of the fame game. Or perhaps they were both.

Anson didn't speak, because he didn't know what to say, nor was he sure if he could help—

Or if he even should.

Brad rubbed his temples, taking a deep breath.

"I don't know. I don't know myself. I feel like a lunatic."

"This is everything I wanted, or at least I thought it was. But in the end, I have no idea what I really want. I just..."

Anson exhaled softly, "You want to be the most famous actor in the world, so everyone will love you, adore you, worship you, and remember you forever. But at the same time, they fear you and never criticize you, because they always have to look up to you."

Brad stared at Anson, stunned.

Anson continued, "I'm the same."

"There's no difference between us. This is the life we crave, tirelessly climbing to the top of the fame mountain, going higher and higher until we're all alone."

Anson wasn't judging from a high horse. He didn't think he was particularly noble or proud.

Abruptly, Brad broke down, his shoulders slumping heavily.

"But at some point, I—I don't know—I suddenly lost everything."

"No friends."

"I miss you, I miss Chris, I miss James. I miss the version of myself who, despite being furious at Hayden's abrupt departure, still believed in friendship."

"Anson, I want to find myself again."

His words were incoherent and unclear.

Perhaps, as Brad said, he didn't know what he was yearning for or searching for. He was lost, deeply trapped in darkness.

Brad raised his hand, rubbing his eyes in distress, trying to hide his sadness and struggle. He forced a smile.

"Anson, I miss my friends."

All along, Brad had been chasing, running at full speed, never truly stopping to reflect on himself:

Is this really what you want?

"I want to sit in the backyard with you all afternoon, chatting idly. I want to spend time with real people in real life. I want to grasp something real."

"Not a fleeting reputation or a group of people who flatter each other but forget one another as soon as they turn away."

"I want..."

He took a deep breath.

"I want to sit down. I want to know what you've been up to lately. What about Chris? Are you still single? Does James still change partners every day? I strongly suspect he has an addiction."

"Anson, I miss the old life."

The words seemed unfinished, but Brad didn't continue. They hung in the air, neither up nor down, full of melancholy.

Under Brad's gaze, Anson exhaled softly, a mix of emotions swirling on the tip of his tongue, difficult to articulate.

"...Thank you."

Anson said.

"Thank you for being honest, Brad. I really needed this moment."

"You know, I've always believed that life is long and lonely. We come into this world alone and leave it alone."

"On this journey, we meet all sorts of people. Some are strangers who pass by, some are enemies we never get along with, and some are like-minded friends who walk beside us."

"But the point is, we will eventually part."

"For various reasons, even the closest companions can only accompany us for part of the journey, and then we continue on our own paths. Ultimately, we need to complete this journey alone."

"Life, in the end, is lonely."

"But."

Anson paused, the smile at the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"But there's a difference. Some people walk with us longer than others."

"I sincerely hope our journey together can be longer. Remember when Hayden left without a word, and Chris and I stood there guessing, predicting the worst while reassuring ourselves it wouldn't happen?"

"Back then, I thought we'd keep walking together. The world of fame is such a lonely place."

"Later, I feared you'd become one of those friends who only walked with me for a short time before parting ways. I didn't want you to be just a brief companion. I sincerely hoped this friendship would last a while longer."

Such simple, straightforward words struck Brad deeply.

Brad looked away awkwardly, hurriedly trying to cover up his distress and embarrassment, but he couldn't control it. His eyes reddened slightly.

"So, thank you. Thank you for coming today and saying these words."

*Chapter 653: Keeping Distance*

Anson was not a naïve child unaware of the ways of the world.

He knew that bonds between people were not easily formed, whether they were familial, romantic, or friendships. This was true in everyday life, and even more so in the world of fame and fortune.

Looking for trust and connection in the realm of fame and fortune is a foolish idea.

Yet, Anson still held on to hope, a faint and innocent hope.

Even in the world of fame, it's still possible to find like-minded companions. Not because of foolishness, but because seeing everything too clearly and rationally makes life too lonely, like living without dreams.

Especially after experiencing the long darkness of a past life.

Anson realized that believing in dreams and hope was not foolish; it was about still loving life, standing in the mud while looking up at the starry sky.

So, cautiously, Anson chose to believe and to hope.

Today, Brad's appearance was a small surprise.

Anson could feel Brad's sincerity and helplessness. Although Anson didn’t know what exactly Brad had gone through, he believed that what Brad had revealed was only the tip of the iceberg. But Brad's pain, confusion, and struggle were real—

Both he and Brad were ordinary people, prone to making mistakes, feeling regret, and falling down. More important than the mistakes themselves was the ability to change and improve after realizing them.

Those words of gratitude were sincere.

At least Brad proved that kindness in the world of fame wasn't all about foolishness.

However...

Things were not that simple.

Those hurts, those disappointments, those bitter moments, they all happened for real. They were so vivid and so real, leaving deep marks that wouldn't simply vanish with a few words of reconciliation.

Moreover, friendship isn’t like Lego blocks that you can break apart and put back together without leaving a trace. Trust isn’t something that can be easily restored once broken.

They needed time, and they needed space.

"But..."

"Brad, I don’t think I can invite you to stay for a drink. At least, not right now."

Anson found it difficult to say, but eventually, he got the words out.

Brad was a bit panicked.

"Anson... no, I..."

"I promise, I won't act out. I won't behave like a madman and throw a tantrum."

"I won’t keep talking about 'me, me, me.' I won't discuss work—either mine or yours. I just..."

Anson felt a twinge of guilt.

The Brad standing before him was like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

But Anson knew that someone going through withdrawal—whether it’s from addiction or ending an addiction—would desperately cling to any lifeline. Their words and actions couldn't be trusted easily.

Taking a deep breath, Anson kept calm.

"I know, Brad. I believe you."

"It's just that we both need time and space. Not just me, but you as well."

"What happened has already happened. There's no need to dwell on it, but we also can't pretend it didn’t happen. We can’t act as if everything is fine, as if pressing a reset button could make everything go back to how it was."

"I'm sorry, Brad. I don’t want to hurt you..."

This time, Brad waved his hand, stopping Anson.

Brad sat quietly, shoulders slumped, looking a bit lost, as if he had been abandoned. But he took a deep breath and straightened his back again.

"No, no, no, I understand."

"I mean, I feel like a person who’s been lost in the desert for too long. When I see a spring of water, I want to dive in. But the reality is, if I'm too eager, I might end up drowning."

"You need time, and I need time too."

It's not a difficult concept.

However, Brad still felt a wave of emptiness, standing there in a daze.

Life really isn’t easy, and life in the world of fame and fortune is even harder.

When you’re worth nothing, you long for overnight fame. But once you achieve that fame, you realize that the world wrapped in glamour is completely different from what you imagined. The harsh reality is that there’s no going back.

Anson let out a long sigh.

"If this were a Hollywood movie, I should give you two hard punches on the chest right now, then tearfully see you off as you board a plane leaving Los Angeles. Then, I’d sit alone at the bar with a glass of whiskey, mourning silently, 'Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you walk into mine.'"

Haha.

Brad couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing.

Anson, still Anson—who would’ve thought a line from "Casablanca" would pop up here, changing the mood entirely.

"But life isn’t a movie."

"Right now, for me, it’s just not the time yet..."

Brad took a deep breath and waved his hands. "Don't worry, I understand. You're right. Besides, I’m always here."

"It’s mainly because I have nowhere else to go. I can only stay in Los Angeles, so just pretend I'm still hanging around here, waiting for your call. And then, the paparazzi sneakily follow us, snapping photos of us heading to a bar for drinks. Chris will call, jealous, complaining that we went drinking without him."

Blah blah blah.

A smile crept up on Anson’s lips.

The Brad in front of him had regained some of his carefree and unruly spirit from the past.

Anson didn’t know how deep the marks left by the world of fame on Brad were, nor did he know if Brad could find his former self again. But at least, he was aware now.

That was a start.

Anson shrugged lightly.

"Although I can't invite you for a drink, since you've come all the way to Malibu, I can tell you that I worked on a movie with Heath Ledger. God, he’s a real madman."

Brad's eyes widened. "Heath? Wait, the guy who competed with you for Peter Parker? Oh, my God, rumor has it he's so crazy he hits himself. Is that true?"

"I’m not sure if he hits himself, but I’m sure we got into a fight."

"You? You’re joking!"

"I’m not."

"Jesus Christ, Anson, you’ve changed. I thought you’d never get into a fight. Even Chris, that goody-two-shoes, gets into fights, but you don’t look like the type at all. I can’t imagine you throwing a punch."

"Too bad you just apologized. Otherwise, I’d give you a punch right now, to teach you a lesson and let off some steam."

"Oh, Anson, you wouldn’t want to try that. My fighting skills are dirty, all learned from street thugs. I only use cheap shots. You, the good kid, better not pick up bad habits."

"Monkey steals the peach?"

"Oh, my ears! God, my ears!"

Back and forth they went, laughing and joking. Somehow, it felt like the carefree, happy-go-lucky days of the past. They bantered and teased, and out of ten sentences, maybe one was true. The rest were pure nonsense, but these playful exchanges kept the laughter rolling.

In the end, Brad didn’t stay long. After lingering for a short while, he left the villa with a smile. When his footsteps stood outside the wrought-iron gate, it seemed like the heavy burden on his shoulders was finally lifted.

---

*Chapter 654: Positive News*

Phew.

Brad let out a soft breath, the heavy air from his chest dissipating slightly in the Malibu sea breeze. Though still exhausted, his tense shoulders relaxed a bit, leaving a mix of emptiness and relief.

Looking around, the empty streets of Malibu were devoid of cars; forget taxis, even regular traffic was sparse.

Of course, Brad could call a cab company to get a taxi, but he decided instead to just walk along the street.

He wanted to take a walk.

The gentle breeze and the sound of waves, without the city's crowd and noise, eased the suffocating pressure in his chest. The golden and blue scenery rushed in all at once, and his heavy steps seemed a bit lighter.

After walking for a while, Brad decided to take off his shoes and socks and walk on the beach, moving slowly to the sound of the crashing waves.

He began to feel the sand with his feet, only to find that Malibu's beach wasn't so friendly. The sand was rough and coarse, not at all comfortable to stand on barefoot. So, why do so many people settle in Malibu?

Moreover!

The key point is, Malibu has always advertised how beautiful and stunning its beaches are. Could he sue the Malibu City Hall for false advertising?

Or is it that the real good beaches in Malibu aren't here?

After all, Malibu has so many beaches, maybe the ones suited for sunbathing and vacationing aren't here?

"Ouch, ouch, ouch."

Brad hopped around. What seemed like a romantic and carefree act turned out to be utterly foolish. He was seriously considering whether he should go back to the main road and call a taxi to get out of there.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

A vibration.

After a moment of careful listening, Brad realized it was his phone in his pants pocket.

Instinctively, his first reaction was to pull out his phone, ready to answer, but then he caught himself and almost threw it into the ocean right in front of him.

However, he couldn't bring himself to do it in the end.

Not because of the call's content, but because of the phone itself—

Does anyone know how expensive it is to buy a phone these days?

Throwing away a phone casually not only pollutes the ocean but also means having to buy a new one!

Looking at the phone, Brad finally didn't act on impulse. After hesitating for a moment, he answered the call.

"Hey, Brad, it's Lisa."

"I know. Remember? I filled up your voicemail."

On the other end of the line was the poor casting director's assistant.

Brad felt a bit embarrassed but had learned to laugh at himself and face his mistakes openly.

The person on the other end chuckled, not pressing the issue and even making light of it.

"No worries, the voicemail's been cleared. Feel free to leave more messages."

Brad couldn't help but laugh.

The person didn't continue joking and naturally brought the conversation back.

"About the movie, I've got some great news."

"Frank found Gary Ross. They've already had one meeting, and Gary showed great interest and is actively pushing things forward."

Gary Ross, originally a screenwriter, received an Oscar nomination for Best Original Screenplay back in 1989 for "Big"—a film that can be considered a significant milestone in Tom Hanks' career. Later, "Dave" earned him his second Oscar nomination for Best Original Screenplay.

In 1998, Gary made his directorial debut with "Pleasantville." Though it was his first time directing, his deep connections helped assemble an all-star cast, and he convinced Warner Bros. to invest and distribute. The following year, the film garnered Oscar nominations for Best Art Direction, Best Costume Design, and Best Original Score.

Without a doubt, he's a screenwriter-director highly favored within the Academy.

Though his directing experience is relatively limited, Gary Ross's collaboration with Frank Marshall early on already positioned the movie as a strong contender for awards season.

Step by step, this film's Oscar prospects were starting to brighten.

"Additionally, Jeff Bridges, Chris Cooper, and Forest Whitaker have all shown great interest."

These names, though not box office giants like Tom Cruise or Will Smith, are all highly respected talents within the industry. Jeff Bridges, in particular, who has been nominated four times for an Oscar but has yet to win, is often considered an Academy snub.

The involvement of any one of these actors would be a major asset to the film.

Brad was stunned. "What?"

Actually, Brad was trying to keep himself in check, constantly telling himself not to get too excited, not to overreact, not to care too much, and not to lose his mind again.

However, the words coming from the other end of the phone made his heart race uncontrollably.

Brad took a deep breath. "Sorry, Lisa, is this real? I'm afraid I'll go crazy again and drag you into my madness."

"Hehe." Laughter came from the phone. "I have no authority. I can't make decisions or suggestions. I'm just passing along the current situation. Everything is up to them. But... yes, it's all true and it's happening. Frank is actively pushing it forward."

"In short, they want to meet up tonight for a drink, to sit down and really talk about this project."

"Frank is also on his way from New York to Los Angeles. If he makes it in time, he'll join for dinner as well."

One sentence after another.

There was so much information.

Brad tried to steady his breathing. "Wow, wow, slow down."

But the voice on the other end didn't pause. "Yes, this is all happening, and things will move quickly from here. Frank wants to speed up the process. Brad, I'm just an assistant, so I have no say in anything, but your instincts were right. This could be an Oscar contender."

Then, the call ended.

Brad stood there, holding his phone, his mind blank as he stared at the vast ocean before him.

Crash, crash.

The waves kept lapping at the shore.

Such positive, good news—something he had dreamed of for so long was finally happening, everything so perfect it didn't seem real.

However, he had no one to share it with.

Suddenly, Brad was at a loss, staring blankly ahead—

Things seemed different from what he had imagined. So, is this what he truly wanted?

...

"Mr. Wood."

Over there, Noah was standing at the entrance to the garden in the hall, calling out.

"Mr. Slimane is here."

Then Noah looked at Eddie Slimane. "Soda water, two ice cubes, right?"

Eddie nodded slightly, standing at the garden entrance, glancing back at the hall and admiring it. "The taste here is completely different."

Today, the person Anson had been waiting for was Eddie, but Brad's unexpected arrival disrupted the plans. So much so that when the real guest arrived, Anson still hadn't fully recovered.

Turning around, looking at Eddie, Anson took a deep breath and smiled. "Eddie, so are you implying my usual taste isn't good?"

Eddie shook his head. "No, I'm just impressed. Now I finally know where your taste comes from. But the point is, fashion sense and decor taste don't necessarily go hand in hand. Otherwise, it would be too unfair of God, wouldn't it?"

Anson pursed his lips slightly. "So, in the end, you still think I don't have such taste."

---

*Chapter 655: Step-by-Step Guidance*

Hedi Slimane, Dior's Creative Director, is currently one of the hottest names in fashion, passionately admired by top fashion enthusiasts.

Despite this, Hedi remains reserved and introverted, seemingly uncomfortable with the spotlight. He only relaxes when he's alone in private, revealing a side of him that usually goes unseen.

Like now.

Hedi and Anson have been old friends, moving from being formal to more at ease, from polite exchanges to genuine familiarity. Today, stepping into Anson's home has brought them even closer, allowing Hedi to crack a small joke. Then, with a meaningful glance at Anson, he shook his head lightly, revealing a look of regret.

"Anson, you're wrong here."

"I just made a harmless joke, and yet you joke about ending your partnership with Dior."

"Not only that, but you also ask me to betray Dior and work for you?"

"That's not funny."

Hedi's words were measured, each word deliberate and firm in stating his position, his slightly narrowed eyes locking onto Anson.

Anson wasn't surprised—

Meeting Hedi's gaze, the corners of Anson's mouth turned up slightly.

"But now, other brands are envious of us. Just look at our sales and profits over the past year."

The last time Edgar mentioned a project plan, Anson's strategy was centered around Hedi. They needed Hedi's help—or rather, the help of a professional—to provide different fashion solutions and combinations, creating the image of a fashion icon from the inside out.

However, Anson also knew that Hedi was the Creative Director of Dior, a high-ranking position. Yet he was now asking Hedi to work for him, and in some sense, in a role that competes with Dior. Such a request sounded like a fantasy, and any reaction from Hedi was to be expected.

Strictly speaking, Hedi hadn't stormed out, which was already a good start.

Perhaps Hedi could provide professional advice and gradually shape and define the role of a "stylist," a concept that exists objectively but is not yet clear or refined, opening up a new direction in the fashion industry.

"Indeed, it's rare for fashion brands and actors to establish long-term partnerships in the industry nowadays. We also endured a lot of pressure at the beginning."

After starting to speak, Hedi realized he had raised his voice. He took a deep breath to control himself.

So, Anson thought of Hedi.

Sure enough, Hedi was immediately provoked.

"Mr. Slimane, I thought Dior didn't want to continue our partnership."

Currently, stylists aren't yet able to stand on their own because the "styling" industry hasn't received enough attention.

This job will have a professional title in ten years: stylist.

Noticing Hedi's sullen expression, Anson deliberately switched to a different form of address, but his face still bore a teasing smile.

"Hedi..."

However, the division of labor is not yet clear. The so-called stylists are often just part of the fashion styling team, providing outfit suggestions. They don't possess the design or innovation capabilities, working under the fashion design or art direction team. Their way of thinking is largely limited and not taken seriously.

"Who said that!"

Of course, this has always existed.

"Our menswear department's revenue broke $5 billion last year, a 300% increase over the previous year. This is the first time any fashion brand's menswear department has achieved over $2 billion in revenue, almost rivaling top women's fashion brands."

"We have no reason not to renew our contract."

"In fact, we're drafting a long-term partnership agreement. I came here today thinking we were going to discuss continuing our collaboration."

"I didn't expect an ambush."

Hedi quietly looked at Anson. Although he didn't grit his teeth, the restrained fury in his voice was palpable.

Anson raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.

He hadn't expected Dior's menswear to sell so well in the past year.

It was only now he realized that the new millennium marked the era of global integration. The concept of a "global village" had just started to emerge. Every industry entered a phase of globalization, and all sectors welcomed a period of rapid development. It was a flourishing era.

"Mr. Slimane."

As soon as Anson began to speak, he saw Hedi glare at him, making Anson burst out laughing.

"Hedi, do you know the difference between hard and soft advertising?"

Hedi looked puzzled.

For one, he didn't know why Anson suddenly changed the subject.

For another, he hadn't heard of hard and soft advertising.

Hedi immediately became wary, "Anson, what are you planning?"

Anson spread his hands innocently, "We're having a conversation, Hedi. Your attitude hurts me."

Hedi felt a bit embarrassed, muttering a couple of words but not saying anything more.

Anson's eyes revealed a smile as he continued.

"Hard advertising is bluntly telling consumers, 'My product is great; you have to buy it,' openly letting them know it's an ad, just boasting."

"Soft advertising, on the other hand, is more subtle and pervasive. Take Jennifer Aniston, for example. She carries a handbag one day. There's no advertisement, no promotion, but when paparazzi photos make it to the cover of 'Entertainment Weekly,' women see it, and suddenly this obscure brand sells 5,000 handbags."

The explanation was simple but direct.

Although the internet had not yet fully developed, and the public hadn't become entirely weary of advertisements—even hard ads still had a strong influence—one had to admit that the golden age of advertising was gradually declining. In the '80s and '90s, some people were eager to watch ads, pausing to view them whenever they came on. However, now it's almost nonexistent.

Naturally, how to promote and market products has become a new challenge for all goods.

Anson's words were straightforward and vivid, making Hedi understand immediately.

"So, if I continue working with Dior as Dior's exclusive spokesperson, that's hard advertising. If Dior is interested, I'm very willing to continue this partnership."

"But I think we have a better way to collaborate—not just simple advertising, but turning Dior into a lifestyle, an attitude, seamlessly integrating it into my life and image. This approach could create a new fashion label that resonates deeply, and while the immediate effect on sales may not be evident, it could reshape Dior's image in the long run."

He made his point and didn't press further. Anson believed Hedi was smart enough to understand the unspoken concepts and ideas behind his words.

Hedi pondered for a moment, then looked up at Anson.

"You mean, I become your stylist and subtly incorporate my designs into your daily outfits to convey an image naturally?"

Anson snapped his fingers, "Bingo."

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