After spending a full year with Anson, Edgar thought he knew him well enough. But even now, looking at Anson, he occasionally felt a sense of unfamiliarity:
There was a cold and ruthless decisiveness that emerged effortlessly.
It wasn't just a facade; it was a resilience and sharpness forged through adversity.
Edgar couldn't help but wonder what Anson had experienced in his short life to develop such a hardened soul. At times like this, it felt like there was an old, weathered soul inside that young, handsome exterior.
"Mr. Wood." The flight attendant's return interrupted Edgar's thoughts.
Heh, impossible.
Edgar dismissed the notion with a deep breath. No matter what, he would stand by Anson—that was the only thing that mattered.
Anson offered a smile, "Thank you very much."
The flight attendant returned the smile, then glanced around before crouching down in front of Anson. In a lowered voice, she politely asked, "Mr. Wood, we all really like you. Your designs at Fashion Week were absolutely stunning. May we have the honor of taking a photo with you after the plane lands?"
Anson raised an eyebrow, "We?"
The flight attendant, a beautiful woman with an oval face, delicate eyebrows, and a gentle gaze, blushed slightly. "Me and my colleagues."
She quickly bit her lip nervously. "I'm sorry, please forgive our unprofessional behavior."
Anson's eyes twinkled with amusement. "No need to apologize. It's the first time anyone outside of North America has called my name, and the first time someone's asked for a photo. I'm finally feeling like it's real. I should be the one thanking you."
The flight attendant was slightly surprised. "The first time?" But then she quickly corrected herself, "There will be many more firsts in the future."
Anson smiled, "I'll look forward to them."
They exchanged a look and both chuckled softly.
As the flight attendant turned away, Edgar allowed himself a small smile:
Building recognition is crucial. It marked an important step for Anson in the international market—and perhaps more than that.
It was only then that Edgar noticed the flight attendant hadn't just brought Anson bread and butter but had served him a full meal. He couldn't help but be a little surprised.
"Shh." Anson put a finger to his lips. "Let's keep it low-key. I'll finish my meal as quickly as possible without compromising safety."
Edgar caught the humor in Anson's words and chuckled as well.
The plane landed smoothly, and there were no surprises for Anson and Edgar.
Once the plane was securely docked at the gate, the first-class passengers disembarked first. However, Anson stayed behind to take photos and shake hands with the crew.
After the fan service was done, the crew reluctantly dispersed, their admiring gazes lingering around Anson.
Just as Anson was about to leave, he paused and turned back to the flight attendant with the oval face. "Thank you for your sincere service. I had a wonderful flight, and I hope we meet again next time, Sophie."
The air seemed to freeze for a moment—
French.
Anson had spoken entirely in fluent, elegant French, infused with a romantic charm.
In that instant, all eyes fell on Sophie, filled with excitement and envy. Even without words, the air buzzed with energy. Anson didn't linger any longer and turned to leave.
The cabin crew could no longer contain their excitement.
"Oh my God, he's so sexy."
"His eyes are so captivating."
"I almost got lost in his gaze."
"And that accent!"
---
"Ah, ah, ah!"
In an instant, the flight attendants all turned into fangirls, momentarily putting aside their professionalism to soak in the surge of hormones, almost losing control.
The excitement and restlessness spread through the air.
Edgar paused slightly, noticing the stir behind him. He smiled subtly and then quickly took a few steps to catch up.
"How did you do that?" Edgar couldn't help but ask curiously. Anson had been asleep the entire flight but still managed to effortlessly win over the entire crew. And somehow, Anson even knew the name of the oval-faced beauty.
Even though Edgar didn't understand French, he was pretty sure "Sophie" was her name.
Oh, right, French—Edgar hadn't even had time to think about that.
Anson smiled. "The name? Every flight attendant has a name tag. You just need to glance at it; a little observation is all it takes. It's not magic."
Edgar blinked. "They have name tags?"
Anson shrugged lightly.
Actually, it's all the same.
When a passenger goes from being addressed as "sir" or "ma'am" to "Mr. Wood," that special treatment makes them feel respected. And when flight attendants go from being just "service staff" to "Sophie," they're no longer just faceless figures serving drinks—they come alive.
They kept walking forward.
Suddenly, Edgar thought about himself. This was how he and Anson had first met, and today, it was the same. Anson was still the same Anson he knew, unchanged by the success he had achieved in just a year.
That was a good thing.
Edgar matched Anson's pace as they left the airport through the VIP lane. "Eve and the car are waiting outside. I'll notify them to come over."
Anson smiled. "Isn't that a bit too formal? Maybe no one's even here at the airport; we could just be overthinking things."
Anson wasn't being modest—he was just being realistic. Why would people care about a small fry like him when the big players were at odds?
Plus, back then, information didn't spread as fast. PR responses weren't as quick either—not like twenty years later when you'd have to respond within hours to avoid falling behind. Back then, a few days of leeway was still manageable.
Maybe all their tension and precautions were just unnecessary worry.
Edgar rolled his eyes. "That would actually be perfect. I could use some peace and quiet. Our contract isn't signed yet, so let's avoid any hiccups…"
Right now, nothing was more important than their "cat and mouse game." That was priority number one—they had to secure this deal, no questions asked.
But before Edgar could finish speaking, Eve's call came through.
"Be careful, the airport is surrounded." She didn't waste any time dropping the bomb.
Edgar didn't have time to react. "What do you mean the airport is surrounded? Do you think we're in an O.J. Simpson chase?"
O.J. Simpson, the American football star, was accused of murdering his wife in 1994, in what was dubbed the trial of the century.
Originally, Simpson had agreed to turn himself in, but on the day of the deadline, he didn't show up at the police station. Instead, he attempted to flee to Burbank's private airport, leading to a high-speed chase by the LAPD down the freeway—like something straight out of a Hollywood movie.
At the time, TV stations even interrupted the NBA Finals to broadcast the chase live, with helicopters tracking the whole thing.
Before Edgar could finish his rant, a wave of heat washed over him and Anson, swallowing them whole.
The world plunged into a blinding white light.