From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

"Oh, 'Roman Holiday,' Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, a classic. But I think it should be 'Notting Hill,' Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant."

"Ah, I know that movie, but isn't Hugh a bookstore owner in it?"

"No, a bookstore owner. But I think this photographer should be more modern. He likes Julia Roberts and hates Meg Ryan at the same time."

"Haha, there's no need for that, I think you can like both Julia and Meg at the same time."

"Have you worked with them? Julia or Meg?"

"No, but I met them at the Golden Globes. Julia is indeed very cheerful, and I like chatting with her. You can feel the energy from her."

"See, so you're also a Julia supporter."

"Oh, no, no, no, really not."

Laughter and banter filled the air.

Unknowingly, Winona was drawn into Anson's rhythm, temporarily forgetting the presence of the reporters and the prying eyes of the paparazzi.

They were having a pleasant conversation.

The on-site reporters: ???

What's going on?

They had all received news that Winona had been in excruciating pain during the fashion show, even losing consciousness at one point, and some inside reporters had already taken photos. Now, it was their turn to capture Winona's embarrassment and haggardness. The competition for the entertainment headlines in tomorrow's major newspapers was expected to be fierce:

Karl Lagerfeld? Anson Wood?

Most likely, Winona Ryder would still win in the end. In the realm of news, it's always the negative that grabs attention and creates hype.

But what about the result? Is that all?

This wasn't the scene they wanted.

Not only was she calm and composed, showing no signs of the imagined disintegration, but she was also friendly and approachable, with a clean smile and bright eyes revealing a good state. Although a hint of illness and fatigue could still be seen between her brows, it still couldn't hide her beauty.

She stood generously in front of the media, so much so that the reporters who were ready to ambush and were poised to attack braked urgently and stayed in place.

One or two were full of question marks.

Moreover, that wasn't all.

Anson and Winona didn't rush to leave, neither hurried nor slow. But clearly, they didn't intend to stay because of the reporters' presence. Amidst the flashing lights and calls from the crowd, the two walked away, chatting and laughing—

Yes, on foot.

The scene: ???

Generally speaking, the fashion week scene is crowded with people. Not only do the media surround each show venue in layers, but the Chanel show is even more so. Moreover, the square near the Louvre is also full of spectators, including attending guests, busy buyers, and passers-by who come to join in the fun.

Considering this situation, high-profile guests often get straight into their cars after leaving the show and quickly leave the scene.

Like award ceremonies, the only time you can really get close to these high-profile guests is during the short journey in and out on the red carpet.

However, Anson and Winona didn't get into the car. After leaving the protection of the on-site security, the two continued to walk forward like millions of other spectators, naturally blending into the scene, chatting and walking, as if they had really come to see the show.

Is this normal?

Click, click click click click.

The flashes followed closely. The reporters' conditioned reflexes still followed, like big tails, sparsely following behind the two, continuing to persist with their ambush strategy. But slowly, slowly, the reporters stopped. The artists should get in the car, but why haven't they gotten in the car yet?

When they came back to their senses, they realized that they had already left the Chanel show venue.

What to do?

There were two choices in front of them: return to the show to continue photographing other guests according to the original plan, or follow Anson and Winona to see what exactly was going on.

In that brief moment of hesitation, someone made a move—

The paparazzi.

Some say that the difference between paparazzi and reporters lies in the fact that paparazzi are ubiquitous and always there, staking out 24 hours a day, specializing in revealing secrets.

In fact, that's not the case, or at least it should be said to be inaccurate.

The core of the paparazzi lies in unscrupulous means. Staking out 24 hours a day is just one of many methods. Other methods include, but are not limited to, rummaging through garbage, trespassing on private residences, hacking into computers, and other illegal activities. More importantly, they will anger the target they are tracking.

If the tracked target cannot control their anger and beats the paparazzi, then for the paparazzi, this is a victory. The news they want comes out like this.

Attacks, like hyenas.

Camera lenses attacked one after another, one or two sticking to Anson and Winona's faces, as if preparing to stuff the cameras into their pores. The lenses became weapons, creating incredible pressure and launching attacks from a physical level. The heat of the flashes and the presence of the lenses relentlessly crushed down.

Click. Click. Click.

Each shutter release was like a heavy punch hitting hard in the stomach, causing the muscles throughout the body to spasm.

Faced with such a predicament and such a threat, staying calm is really not an easy thing. Therefore, not only artists, but other media reporters also despise the paparazzi's underhanded methods. This completely lacks journalistic ethics and even violates the law, just to provoke and anger the other party.

Imagine, if Winona collapsed at this time, or if Anson threw a punch, then the glamour of the fashion week would easily be stolen by these news stories, and what would follow would be a media frenzy party.

Would anyone care about the truth?

An airtight encirclement, malicious provocations, and a knife-to-knife attack.

No, no one cares.

Even if they knew the truth, the onlookers would laugh and say sarcastic remarks, "Even if provoked, you can't hit people," "No matter what, you lose if you use your hands," "Public figures should take care of their image," blah blah blah.

Only by being truly on the scene, only by truly being in the midst of it, can you feel the sharp edges that hit the flesh, cutting open the skin bit by bit, and the bloody smell fills the air.

"Winona, do you have anything you want to respond to?"

"You knew about it a long time ago, right?"

"Are you going to condemn him?"

"Winona, what is your relationship with Anson?"

"Are you dating?"

"So, is this your response?"

"Before or after you and Anson, can you draw a timeline?"

"Do you think this is your fault? Have you reflected on yourself."

"Anson, do you know you've become a third party?"

Close combat, every move drawing blood.

The noisy and chaotic voices intertwined sharply and collided together, like chalk scraping across a blackboard, squeaking and wandering across the eardrums, the entangled languages ​​were disassembled and divided into scattered syllables, vying to tear open the eardrums and drill into the blood vessels and brain.

The world, a dizzying spin.

When Anson's popularity and Winona's news collide head-on, these paparazzi in front of them all lose their minds, one or two opening their bloody mouths, baring their fangs and claws, trying to tear the two people in front of them apart and swallow them alive. Incredible energy erupted on the scene at the Louvre, and the air began to burn—

Paris is burning.