From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Wearing a light gray shirt and a black suit, he sat on the sofa with a composed and relaxed demeanor, naturally crossing his legs. His every move exuded a calm strength. His imposing presence invariably drew gazes, but no one dared to linger, quickly shifting their eyes away, fearing they might accidentally meet his deep, ink-black eyes.

Short hair, a broad forehead, and sharply defined eyebrows framed his face. His already stern facial features, combined with his unsmiling and expressionless countenance, conveyed an inherent sense of authority. A single glance from him could visibly lower the room's temperature.

Just like now.

The waiting area was spacious, with plenty of empty seats, but at this moment, the guests waiting there were quietly distancing themselves, huddling in the corners in twos and threes, leaving a deserted zone. Even the flies seemed to be making detours in their flight paths.

However, peripheral glances still furtively drifted over, unable to suppress curiosity, secretly observing, and covertly guessing. This had become a tacit understanding among the guests, their glances exchanged while their minds concocted melodramatic gossip.

Until someone appeared—

"Hey!"

A slightly tense voice offered a reminder, causing Anson to pause.

The voice furtively glanced at the "black charcoal" and immediately became nervous, swallowing hard, worried that his reminder might be misunderstood, as if the fellow would pull out a silenced pistol and start a massacre in the next second. He looked at Anson again, still cautiously reminding him.

"There are seats here too."

It was a woman, appearing to be under thirty. Although somewhat reserved, she still gave Anson a smile, gesturing towards the seat next to her, subtly offering a reminder.

Anson understood and returned a smile, gesturing towards the "black charcoal," "He's my bodyguard, naturally has a dark face."

Everyone: Oh.

A wave of realization washed over them, as if they had found the correct explanation. The tension eased slightly, and the temperature seemed to rise a little.

Anson smiled again in gratitude and then sat down next to the "black charcoal," placing the cheeseburger on the table in front of him.

The "black charcoal" had long noticed the surrounding commotion, but his gaze never left the newspaper in his hands. He coldly and stiffly complained, "Who pairs whiskey with a burger?"

Next to the cheeseburger was a glass of whiskey, neat.

That emotionless and monotonous voice once again drew attention from the surroundings.

Anson, however, seemed remarkably unfazed. "Starting to drink before six in the afternoon, it seems someone's been under a lot of pressure lately. You haven't started binge drinking, have you?"

A hint of helplessness flashed in the "black charcoal's" narrow eyes. He looked at Anson, who was making light of the situation, but didn't refute him, only offering a word of caution: "Don't tell Mom."

As he spoke, the "black charcoal" handed Anson a bag of original-flavored potato chips.

Anson was already holding a pile of food, but he gestured with his eyes. The "black charcoal" had no choice but to put down the "Wall Street Journal" in his hands, help open the chips, and then place them next to Anson's hand.

Anson wasn't in a hurry. He took out some chips, placed them in a napkin, casually stuffed two chips into his mouth, skillfully crumpled the napkin into a ball, crushed everything, and then sprinkled the crushed chips on the hot dog. Only then did he contentedly stuff the hot dog into his mouth, a look of happiness on his face.

"Ah, as expected, the perfect afternoon snack is a hot dog with potato chips."

This was the original owner's favorite. Anson couldn't imagine such a dietary combination, but after trying it once, he unexpectedly grew fond of this strange combination.

Anson: … …

"Breathing. Don't you know that breathing is the biggest calorie-burning exercise?"

Lucas blinked, wanting to say something, but in the end, he nodded silently, with a "whatever" expression.

The corners of Anson's mouth gently lifted upward, very satisfied with this response, as for Lucas's expression, he directly ignored it, "The food truck outside, whose idea was that?"

Although the food truck didn't leave a signature, Anson knew at a glance that it was Lucas's work.

After all, from selecting the menu to contacting the resort and the city hall to obtain permits, and then contacting "GQ" to request behind-the-scenes photos to print and make into life-size standees, this series of tedious and complex actions, while supporting Anson, also added a little prank, it could only be Lucas.

Lucas didn't answer, "Do you like it?"

"Haha." Anson laughed, "Very trendy."

Some helplessness appeared between Lucas's eyebrows, "I'm only twenty-four, not thirty-four."

When he turned twenty, Anson had been constantly nagging that he was an old man. This teasing even spread throughout the family, so much so that some relatives also followed Anson in calling him by his nickname—

"Old Lucas."

Lucas had a bit of a headache, but his expression didn't show it. He looked at Anson, who was chewing with large bites, and then followed Anson's words and began to mock himself, "Yes, I asked some kids born after 1990 in the company and got some inspiration."

Post-90s?

That would be a kid under ten years old.

He joked with his mouth, but his face was expressionless, and even the funniest jokes became academic research. It was estimated that a ten-year-old might be directly scared to tears.

A glance at the surroundings would tell you: trembling, unable to laugh.

Anson smiled, "Are you sure? I think the kids would probably wet their pants before they even see you."

Lucas noticed Anson's gaze scanning the surroundings. He glanced coldly and said in a deep voice, "I was just joking, can't you tell?"

The air was silent, as if a crow slowly flew overhead.

"I was joking," Lucas repeated.

Heh.

Forced laughter.

Heh heh.

Awkward.

The surrounding innocent masses let out dry laughter, but the fear in their eyes was undeniable. After Lucas withdrew his gaze, one could see people gradually leaving one after another.

Lucas didn't care, turning to look at Anson, his face calm.

Snap!

A guest, because he was too anxious and flustered, lost his footing and almost fell. He used both hands and feet to barely regain his balance and avoid embarrassment, but he didn't know if it was because of fear or shame. He fled in a hurry without looking back.

Pfft.

Anson didn't give him any face and laughed directly, "That joke was good."

Fourth update.