Actor in Hollywood

Jean-Louis quickly stepped forward, positioning himself perfectly in the path of the two figures, seamlessly cutting in, "Good morning, Mr. Wood. I hope you had a pleasant rest last night?"

Polite without being sycophantic, enthusiastic without being over the top—everything was just right.

One had to admit, the Four Seasons Hotel had certainly mastered the art of service to stand tall for so many years on Avenue George V.

Anson responded with a smile, "Very well, so much so that I almost overslept and missed this morning's work. I hope I'm not late."

Jean-Louis chuckled softly, "Of course not. Your car is already waiting at the door. Trust me, it will get you there on time."

"Phew, that's a relief. Maybe I can catch a little more sleep in the car." Anson exaggeratedly yawned, easing the atmosphere completely.

As Anson sized up Jean-Louis, the warmth and ease of his hospitality made everyone feel comfortable. Even in casual chit-chat, the mood felt relaxed. Jean-Louis, in turn, was also sizing up Anson.

A white polka-dot shirt, paired with a dark green wool sweater, and topped with a mint green long coat. He appeared both sharp and elegant, with an effortless sophistication that was striking. Normally, this combination of greens could easily clash, but on Anson, it brought a touch of spring to the autumn of Paris. Even his slightly damp, uncombed curls exuded a carefree charm.

He was impossible to look away from.

What was truly striking, however, was the maturity and wisdom he conveyed with every gesture. Everything was perfectly in place, making it hard to believe he wasn't even nineteen yet.

Especially when compared to the crude, domineering oil tycoon from earlier, Anson's charisma was effortlessly captivating.

When Anson had arrived at the Four Seasons two nights ago, there had been a small issue with his room arrangement.

"Fashion" magazine had reserved a French suite for Anson—140 square meters, with two bedrooms and a large living room, furnished in typical French luxury.

However, the previous guest had left the room in disarray. Despite the hotel's efforts to replace the carpet, linens, and sofa covers, there was still a lingering unpleasant odor in the room.

As a result, Anson had to be relocated to a slightly smaller deluxe suite. This one was 80 square meters with a balcony, but crucially, it only had one bedroom. Another guest would need to sleep on the sofa bed in the living room, which was obviously not part of the original plan.

Jean-Louis was prepared to arrange an additional room for Anson's companion, even though this could potentially disrupt the hotel's tight reservations for Paris Fashion Week. They had little choice.

Unexpectedly, Anson asked a few questions about the situation and readily agreed to the deluxe suite, even showing keen interest in the sofa bed, lightening the mood instantly.

And that wasn't all—

Over the next day and a half, Jean-Louis kept a close eye on Anson, and the feedback continued to be positive, even exceeding expectations.

Today was no exception.

In just a brief interaction, Jean-Louis had completely forgotten about the recent frustrations. He personally escorted Anson and Edgar out of the hotel lobby.

In the brief time they conversed, the car the Four Seasons had arranged for Anson was ready and waiting, perfectly timed for his departure.

One of the other doormen, standing at the entrance, couldn't help but notice the difference in Jean-Louis' demeanor before and after. His curiosity got the better of him, "Who is he?"

He asked in French.

In France, especially in Paris, there was an enduring sense of pride. Even if others spoke English, the French naturally responded in French.

Some might say, "Not in a hotel, surely, especially a five-star one?"

But that wasn't the case.

Even at the Four Seasons, the staff's first instinct was to speak French. Regardless of the guest, they assumed French was understood, speaking it until the guest specifically requested otherwise. Only then would they reluctantly switch languages.

But the doorman had noticed that Jean-Louis and Anson's entire conversation had been in English. And there wasn't a hint of arrogance in the manager's expression.

That wasn't normal.

Even without bowing and scraping, it was almost the same in the eyes of the French.

This left the doorman genuinely puzzled:

Who was that? Could he be the Prince of Monaco?

Perhaps in America, Anson was already making a name for himself, but in Europe, Anson was still a completely unfamiliar face. The latest season of "Friends" hadn't aired simultaneously in Europe, and "The Princess Diaries" hadn't made much of a splash at the overseas box office. The buzz and excitement hadn't been amplified by the internet to cross the ocean and spread widely.

Standing on the streets of Paris, Anson was no different from the millions of ordinary people.

In fact, this was precisely why Edgar had come to Paris—this might be Anson's first step toward making a name for himself on the European continent.

Jean-Louis wasn't surprised by the doorman's confusion. "Don't judge by appearances; look deeper."

"Attitude—that's the key."

"Whether it's an unexpected event or dealing with people like us who serve them, a person's attitude reveals how they handle challenges. This is what determines the path someone will take in the future."

The doorman, still confused, had one phrase written all over his face: "I don't get it."

Jean-Louis couldn't help but chuckle, then elaborated.

"To understand a person, you shouldn't look at what they can do, but at the choices they make."

"'Fashion' magazine booked his entire stay. If he had pressured us using the magazine's name, it would have put us in a very difficult position, forcing us to inconvenience other guests to solve his problem. He could have done that, but he didn't."

"His demeanor, his grace—what's crucial is how he approaches problems."

"He's definitely not a nobody. Maybe he isn't famous now, but I believe it won't be long before we look forward to welcoming him back."

His words were meaningful.

Though the lobby manager tried to teach the doorman a lesson, it was clear the young man was still too inexperienced to fully grasp the message. After all that explanation, he still couldn't figure out who Anson was.

Jean-Louis gave the doorman one last look, shook his head subtly, and said no more. Instead, he watched as Anson's car drove off, confident that the time Anson would remain unknown wouldn't last long.

The vehicle sped away but reached its destination quickly—much faster than Anson, used to the congested traffic of New York and Los Angeles, was accustomed to. The pace was surprising.

Paris's bustling city center was even smaller than Manhattan.

Creak.

Pushing open the large door in front of him, Anson was immediately greeted by a tall, wide industrial space filled with various mannequins. The walls and floors were splashed with different colors of paint, and fabrics were scattered everywhere.

The impression was immediate—this was Paris.

Despite the similarity in space, the atmosphere was different, unmistakably Parisian. A casual, decadent, bold, and uninhibited artistic vibe—a raw and distinctive essence.

"You're late," a voice called out from ahead.