From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Brad's eyes were a little flustered, trying to dodge, but worried about looking guilty, so he looked at Anson again, forcing a smile.

"Ha."

"Haha. Has anyone ever told you that you could be a great screenwriter? Anson."

"Do you think I have so much internal drama when I'm alone outside? Did I perform a whole show by myself? This isn't freaking Shakespeare, is it?"

"No, actually, my friends think I'm that kind of person, which is really sad."

"God, what has Hollywood done to you, Anson? You should look in the mirror."

The best defense is offense.

Brad turned the tables, his face full of sorrow, his cheeks flushed with alcohol becoming even more agitated, looking Anson up and down with disbelief.

Anson thought he was mature enough and calm enough, that he could face everything calmly, that he hadn't lost his mind even when confronting Brad head-on, but at this moment, looking at Brad's performance in front of him, a surge of anger broke through the dam and burned in his chest.

"It's precisely because I clearly realize that my friends still choose to hurt me after so much internal drama that it's truly saddening."

"If it were last year, no, to be precise, even a few months ago. Before Hayden suddenly disappeared, I still wouldn't have thought this way."

"But now, yes, I've become dark."

"Hey, welcome to Hollywood, right?"

"So, tell me I'm wrong, tell me that I'm the one with too much internal drama, tell me that I'm the one who's lost my mind because of the Vanity Fair, please, please, tell me I'm an asshole, that I shouldn't suspect my friends like this, that even having such thoughts is wrong."

"Quick, tell me."

This was sincere, and Anson truly hoped things could be simpler. He didn't want to witness those dirty and ugly things from his past life again.

Anson looked at Brad, so calmly and frankly, waiting quietly.

Brad's words were stuck in his throat, his eyes struggling slightly. He could clearly see the hope in Anson's eyes slowly fading.

"No, it's not like that," Brad said hurriedly. "What I said was true, I really don't know about the rumors in Century City."

Anson revealed a bitter smile, "Who is that producer?"

Brad was stunned, "What?"

Anson, "Who is the producer who wanted to talk to you about a project and who you were just about to leave to meet at the Hilton Hotel? He must have a name."

Brad completely froze, "Uh, what?"

Anson didn't continue to speak, just stood there, looking at Brad with a smile.

One look, one action, had already cornered Brad.

Brad tried to argue, "No... I... Wait..."

However, the words reached his lips but he couldn't say them.

Finally, it evolved into anger, turning into rage. Brad also raised his voice, "No, I won't tell you his name, and I won't let you call him and ruin my audition opportunity."

"Damn it," Anson couldn't help but curse. Even though he had personally uncovered the scar and glimpsed the secrets in the shadows of the Vanity Fair spotlight, he still couldn't control his anger when it was truly confirmed.

"Damn it!"

Rarely, Anson cursed again.

"Brad, you, I... Why can't you just be happy for us? You should know how long James and I have been waiting for this opportunity, but, you can't, you..."

"You didn't want to come to the critics' party because you were worried that James and I might actually succeed."

Brad finally regained his senses, "No, no, no, those are lies. You're lying, I want you to succeed, and I sincerely hope James can succeed. When you guys were auditioning for those commercial blockbusters, I was always blessing you, even helping you rehearse. I've always been supporting you..."

Looking at Brad's aggrieved face in front of him, Anson couldn't bear to watch any longer, "That's because you didn't think the movie would succeed. Only when we're in the mud with you are you willing to support us; but, when we might be as successful as you, or even more successful than you, things are different."

"God damn it."

"Brad, the failure of 'Digital Homicide' isn't the end of the world. You don't have to curse us all to rot and stink with you in the gutter."

Brad stammered, alcohol preventing his brain from functioning, "You, so, you, I, you think I'm a monster? All of Hollywood is like this. Be realistic, Mr. Innocent. You should wake up. You should realize that this is the truth. Just like you said yourself."

"Welcome to Hollywood."

"What, are you going to morally judge me? I didn't do anything wrong. Everyone thinks like this, why can't I? I should also be allowed to have my own thoughts."

This was equivalent to admitting it.

Finally, the truth was revealed cruelly before his eyes, bloody and raw.

Anson shook his head lightly, feeling a little weak and tired.

"No, Brad, you're right, you didn't commit a crime, and I don't have the right to morally judge you. This is Hollywood, cruel and cold-blooded."

"I, uh..."

Anson let out a long breath, only feeling a deep weariness, dragging his soul slowly downward, like drowning.

"I just thought we were friends, at least, we could sincerely cheer each other on."

"But you're right, I'm too naive, I should examine myself."

The words, at this point, seemed to have no need to continue.

Anson took a deep breath and smiled again.

"Brad, Vanity Fair isn't easy, we know that, you know that too. I just hope that at least there are still some real friends in our lives."

"No conflicts of interest, no infighting. We're willing to sincerely applaud each other's success, and we're willing to be by each other's side when our friends encounter setbacks, becoming the strength for them to continue. Just like the Rotten Bunch. Even though no one believes in friendship in Hollywood, but for God's sake, we're real people, not tools or stepping stones. We should be allowed to have unrealistic dreams."

"In fact, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Maybe, I just need to digest this reality."

Anson looked at Brad, thousands of words seemed unimportant, those gorgeous words all lost their power, becoming pale and weak.

Anger, sadness, bitterness, all vanished, finally turning into a kind of powerlessness.

"Sorry."

Anson said, not Brad, but Anson apologized. Maybe he shouldn't have uncovered that gorgeous satin, shouldn't have tried to reveal the truth, shouldn't have held hope.

It was his fault.

Turning around, Anson saw Chris standing at the kitchen door, lost and stunned in place.

The air flowed quietly, the whole world quieted down.