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🕑 Added 2025-08-14 17:31:00 +0000 UTCChapter 1804: Fashion Icon
After saying goodbye to her colleague, Emily stood there, mulling things over. She felt like she was onto something, but the thoughts weren’t quite clear. Finally, she turned and headed to the back office, determined to check the computer and confirm the situation with the French headquarters—
To see if that shirt was even in stock.
If it wasn’t, she thought it might be worth sending an email to the higher-ups in the UK and France. This seemed like just the beginning.
Sure enough, after a thorough search, Emily found nothing. The clothing catalog had no trace of it.
She quickly drafted an email summarizing the situation but hesitated before hitting send—
What if this was just a fluke?
What if it was a one-off event?
After all, everything had happened all at once—those young people showing up and asking about the shirt at the same time. It could be a flash mob, which would make sense. It all felt unusual, and she wasn’t sure if it would continue, if it was a widespread trend, or if it was some kind of orchestrated hype.
Taking a deep breath, Emily decided to hold off. No need to rush.
She saved the email to her drafts and returned to the front of the store, only to see her colleague, who had just seen off two customers, turn around with a helpless shrug.
Emily mouthed, “What’s wrong?”
Her colleague mouthed back, “Another one.”
No subject, no object, but Emily got it instantly—another customer asking about Anson.
What kind of influence was this? Just wearing a shirt at the airport, with no sponsorship or brand endorsement, and the public was spontaneously hunting it down?
This was a first.
Emily didn’t say a word. Instead, she hurried out and called after the customer who had just left. “Excuse me, miss, can I ask you something?”
With permission granted, Emily caught her breath and asked, “Is Anson’s shirt, like, really famous right now? I mean, is everyone looking for it? If so, I think we need to check with Paris headquarters to see if we can get some stock sent to London.”
The girl, probably in her mid-20s, likely a few years into her career, lit up with excitement. “Yes, exactly! Everyone’s talking about that shirt on the forums. Don’t you think it’s super stylish and cool?”
Emily: … “Forums? What forums?”
The girl shrugged lightly. “Fashion forums. All six or seven I follow are buzzing about that shirt. It’s sleek, stylish, but still has attitude. One shirt can totally change an outfit’s vibe. I’m dying to get one, but it seems like no one can find it yet.”
“I figured if it’s available anywhere, it’d be London. But no luck…”
Emily had a lightbulb moment. After asking a few more details, she realized the younger generation on fashion forums was in a full-blown frenzy. The discussions were unstoppable, but there was a disconnect between the online world and real life, so they hadn’t felt the impact yet.
In fact, the online forums were already exploding.
Emily thanked the girl profusely, her mind racing as a vague idea started to take shape.
After parting ways, she hurried back into the store.
“Emily? What’s going on?” a colleague asked.
Emily didn’t have time to explain. She gestured that she needed to head to the back office, her steps quickening until she was practically jogging. She reopened her laptop and sent the draft email.
Her heart pounded. It felt like she was witnessing something big unfolding.
This time, Emily was right.
France, Paris, afternoon.
Hedi Slimane, unusually late, didn’t show up until after lunch.
With October’s Fashion Week over, it was a race to prepare for February’s. No time to catch a breath—just straight into the next round of work. But before diving into that relentless grind, he needed 48 hours to let his mind and body recover.
Work was work, but inspiration didn’t come out of thin air.
He hadn’t expected that, as soon as he pushed open the carved, openwork doors on the first floor, he’d see his secretary waiting at the base of the double T-shaped staircase, clutching a folder.
Out of breath, cheeks flushed, she must’ve rushed down from the third floor upon hearing of Hedi’s arrival.
Hedi sighed, “Calm down.”
“Remember what I always say? Calm, elegant, poised. No need to make a fuss. Even if the sky falls, someone taller will hold it up.”
The secretary nodded repeatedly but kept her eyes glued to Hedi, a mix of urgency and eagerness in her gaze as she followed him up the ivory-white marble steps.
It was clear her ears had let his words go in one and out the other.
Hedi looked away, exhaling softly and pulling off his gloves. “Alright, what is it?”
The secretary seemed to sense his exasperation but pressed on. “…Anson Wood.”
Just a name, and she got Hedi to stop mid-step on the staircase, turning to her with surprise and curiosity.
“Anson? What about Anson?”
She quickly handed him the folder, but Hedi didn’t bother opening it, still watching her, waiting for an answer.
“The sunflower shirt.”
“It’s causing a global craze. In less than 72 hours, from the day before yesterday to today, we’ve received inquiries from 880 stores across 57 countries about the sunflower shirt.”
“Is it our fall collection? Is it a collaboration with Anson? Is it a spring release we’re preparing?”
“Are we putting it on sale? When? How much stock do we have?”
The words poured out in a rush. But the secretary didn’t get a response from Hedi. Her heart raced, and she hesitated before mustering the courage to add, “The thing is, there are already knockoff designs online, and they’re selling.”
Finally, a flicker of change crossed Hedi’s calm expression, but he quickly regained composure, sinking into thought. “No need to worry. Those knockoffs are too shoddy. The cut’s nothing like ours.”
The secretary took a deep breath. “So, it is our design?”
Hedi’s face remained unreadable. “I designed it specifically for Anson. We haven’t made a sample yet.”
The secretary: “Oh.”
Hedi glanced at her, and she waved her hands frantically. “I figured… no, I didn’t figure… I mean, that’s not what I meant…”
Flustered and incoherent.
Hedi ignored her. “Keep it under wraps for now. Reach out to the stores privately and tell them…” He paused, thinking. “Tell them it’s a surprise spring release, limited edition.”
He exhaled softly. “I need to make a trip to London.”
Chapter 1805: Putting on a Show
When Anson arrived in London, a light drizzle was falling, the grayish-blue sky cloaking the city in gloom, completely hiding the sun. The damp, sticky air, laced with a faint chill, clung to the skin, sending goosebumps racing across Eddie’s arms.
Every single time—literally every time—he came to London, it was like this. It left Eddie feeling moody, even a bit irritated, his listless expression tinged with a touch of melancholy. He looked ready to drop everything and vanish around a rainy street corner, never to be found again.
Then, he saw Anson.
Languid, casual, brooding. Unshaven, hair a mess, exuding a slight air of disheveled rebellion. His drooping eyelids gave off an air of indifference, as if nothing mattered. Yet, that aura—somewhere between blue and gray—held a magnetic, almost fatal allure, hinting at traces of sadness and brokenness.
Slumped quietly in a corner of the sofa, limbs relaxed, he seemed to be whispering a story no one cared to hear in a corner no one noticed.
But he effortlessly captured attention. Eddie’s creative strings were plucked, and suddenly, the pattering rain outside wasn’t annoying anymore. The cold, damp air seemed to seep into the depths of his memories, loneliness and isolation curling like cigarette smoke around his fingertips.
This was presence—a person with a story.
No words or glances were needed; his very demeanor told it all.
This was a side of Anson Eddie had never seen before, worlds apart from the sunny, vibrant boy-next-door in Spider-Man. The maturity and weariness went beyond what he’d shown in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or The Butterfly Effect, revealing a new, unfamiliar facet of Anson that felt both known and strange.
Eddie couldn’t help but pause, framing the scene with his hands like a viewfinder, etching it into his mind. Inspiration, thoughts, and lines began to sprout wildly.
As expected, Anson was still that Anson—his muse.
Absorbed in his book, Anson didn’t notice Eddie at first. It wasn’t until a moment later that he sensed another presence in the apartment. Glancing up from his pages, he spotted Eddie framing him and grinned. “I thought that pretentious viewfinder pose was reserved for artsy film types. So affected. Doesn’t seem like you at all.”
A classic jab right out of the gate.
But Eddie was unfazed. “Oh, and the American lounging on a sofa with a Thames River view, reading a book, isn’t? Talk about putting on a show. This whole setup screams staged for the press, just waiting for reporters to barge in.”
“Too bad I don’t see any,” Eddie continued. “So, to avoid wasting your efforts, I’m playing along. You should be thanking me.”
Sharp, biting, unrelenting.
Anson burst out laughing. “Ha! Such a shame your viewfinder doesn’t have film. I prepped for ages, and now it’s all for nothing.”
Jokes, teasing, banter—it was all so effortless.
Anson didn’t mind one bit.
Eddie stepped closer, glancing at the book on the coffee table: Children of Men. Clearly, Anson had been genuinely reading, not posing. But Anson didn’t bother explaining, which piqued Eddie’s curiosity. “Is that the project you’re prepping for?”
Anson followed Eddie’s gaze and quipped self-deprecatingly, “Yeah, I join the set next week. Just cramming at the last minute.”
Eddie gave him a once-over. “This look… for the role? Or just pure laziness?”
Anson glanced at himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “What’s your take?”
Eddie considered it carefully. “Still got your charm. Looks like a guy with a story.”
Anson’s smile widened. “Thanks. That gives me a bit of confidence. God, this role’s complexity is beyond anything I imagined.”
Truth be told, Anson was on his fifth read of Children of Men—hardly last-minute cramming. He’d been diving deep into the details, studying the character’s psyche. But there was a distinction: he wasn’t analyzing the character as written in the novel or the author’s intent. Instead, he was crafting his own interpretation, building the role from the ground up based on the book and script. It wasn’t a simple process.
In his past life, Clive Owen delivered a stellar performance. Now, Anson wasn’t aiming to outdo him, erase his portrayal, or finish what Owen hadn’t. That had nothing to do with it. Anson wanted to create the character through his own lens, his own understanding, and deliver a performance that was uniquely his.
His current look, his state of mind—it was all part of exploring the rabbit hole, stepping into the character’s world.
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You? Anson Wood? Lacking confidence? Is this some new kind of joke?”
The jab was barely veiled.
Anson couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Eddie, you should read the reviews tearing apart my acting. The venom’s unreal.”
Eddie’s expression didn’t shift. “Don’t tell me you care.”
Anson threw up his hands. “Busted.”
Clearly, he didn’t care. Let the critics and haters stew in their envy and bitterness.
Eddie pressed, “You’re still Anson Wood. They can’t touch you.”
Anson tilted his chin slightly, a glint of scrutiny in his eyes. “It’s that confidence I need, right?”
Eddie shook his head lightly. “It’s that conviction. Keep believing in yourself.”
Anson’s lips curved. “Alright, spill it. What do you need help with?”
Eddie blinked innocently. “What? Help? I don’t need anything.”
Anson wasn’t buying it. “Oh, good. I was stressing, you know. I’m about to start filming, so I’d have to turn down a friend’s request at this point, and my conscience was killing me. But looks like we’re all good.”
Eddie: …
He shot Anson a deadpan, fish-eyed stare. “When did you figure it out?”
Anson’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’ve been piling on the compliments since you walked in. Nonstop flattery.”
Eddie didn’t miss a beat. “That’s just me. And it’s all sincere.” Which was true—Eddie was brimming with inspiration, unable to stop.
Anson smirked. “But your eyes and expression? Tense. Even if it’s sincere, you’re calculating, weighing every word. Uh-oh. This favor must be a big one. Since when does Eddie Slimane grovel?”
Eddie: … “I’m not groveling.”
Anson just laughed.
Eddie let out a small sigh. “Anson, I need you to shoot a promotional photo catalog for Dior.”
Anson froze. That was unexpected.
Eddie kept going. “And for Paris Fashion Week in February, I need you to make a guest appearance on the runway.”
One bombshell after another, like a magician pulling rabbits and doves out of a hat.
Chapter 1806: A Favor
Anson froze for a moment, caught off guard by one surprise after another, each one shattering expectations and upending assumptions. His reaction couldn’t keep up, and in the end, he let out a dumbfounded chuckle.
“Ha.”
The laugh burst from his chest as he shifted his position slightly.
“Eddie, are you serious?”
Eddie didn’t respond right away, instead studying Anson closely.
Anson was still sprawled on the sofa, exuding an air of “what does the end of the world have to do with me?”—a touch of decadence mixed with a hint of effortless charm.
Eddie had known Anson for a long time, but he’d never sensed this kind of allure from him before. At the same time, he knew this wasn’t the real Anson—
Anson wouldn’t be so impolite.
Unable to hold back, Eddie blurted, “Are you playing a jerk this time?”
Anson blinked, a smile creeping onto his lips. He adjusted his posture, shedding the laziness and decadence. “Looks like I nailed the character study.”
Eddie gave a slight nod, confirming his guess. “I’m serious.”
The conversation circled back.
“Anson, do you realize the impact you caused at Heathrow?”
For once, Anson was the one whose thoughts couldn’t keep up. He was still immersed in his character study for Children of Men, not fully snapped out of it.
Anson wasn’t yet skilled at seamlessly switching between roles. He adjusted his posture again, shaking off the weight of the character to return to himself.
“Did I stir up some trouble at the airport? Oh, please don’t let Luca find out.”
Eddie caught the teasing in Anson’s tone, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Not trouble—a trend.”
“That sunflower shirt? It’s blowing up globally.”
Anson blinked. “That’s it?”
Eddie nearly choked on his own words.
Anson waved a hand, clarifying the misunderstanding. “I mean, good thing it’s not a big deal.”
Eddie looked exasperated. “Anson, trust me, this is a big deal—a massive deal. You think I’m exaggerating when I say it’s a global trend, don’t you?”
Anson, completely at ease, replied, “Isn’t it?”
Eddie didn’t speak, just stared at Anson, his expression and posture unwaveringly resolute.
Anson slowly caught on. “How big are we talking?”
Eddie replied, “On the level of the rainbow sunflower from Dawn Breaks—if not bigger.”
That was something Anson hadn’t anticipated. “So, I’ve turned sunflowers into a fashion symbol now?”
Eddie nodded. “Exactly.”
Anson genuinely hadn’t seen this coming. He never imagined a single shirt would become a fashion trend. Everything was veering off track.
Eddie could tell Anson wasn’t grasping the reality of it—neither was he, for that matter. “Anson, people worldwide are asking about that sunflower shirt. Knockoffs are already flooding the market. We need to control the situation and claim ownership before the fakes take over.”
Anson finally got it. Right now, everyone was speculating about the shirt’s brand, but with no official word, opportunists had seized the gap to cash in.
Anson let out a soft laugh. “They move fast.”
Eddie: …
Anson continued, “No, I’m serious. They had to design a pattern, produce it overnight, and get it on shelves. That’s not easy. You’ve got to admire their speed and efficiency.”
Eddie countered, “But they’re all fakes.”
“Haha.” Anson laughed. “Sorry, Eddie, sorry. I didn’t consider your perspective. No one likes their creations or copyrights being copied or stolen.”
“But.”
Anson shifted gears.
“We could announce that this is a Dior design, a gift you gave me—one of a kind. None of us saw this coming.”
Eddie gave a light shrug. He had to admit, things had spiraled out of control in a way no one could’ve predicted.
“But I don’t think shooting a product catalog and mass-producing it is the way to go.”
Anson kept talking, and Eddie didn’t interrupt. He knew Anson’s mind was always buzzing with countless creative ideas. “What do you mean?”
Anson explained, “Look, here’s the situation: we had the original idea, but we misjudged the market and lost the lead. Now knockoffs are already out there.”
“If we mass-produce to meet demand, we can’t prove our uniqueness. The fakes have already taken the lead.”
“Plus, think about it, Eddie. A Dior shirt—$300? $800? A knockoff? $30, maybe $15.”
“With fakes already spreading, by the time we respond, they might be everywhere. We’d have no edge.”
Eddie shook his head. “We have quality. More importantly, we’re the original. We need to make sure people can see the difference at a glance.”
“That’s why, Anson, I need you to shoot a product catalog for us to stake our claim.”
“I know, I know, you’re pressed for time, and you’ve got your own priorities, but we really need—”
Anson cut him off with a wave. “Your thinking is right, but not entirely. We need to tweak the approach. Yes, we should lean on quality and make a statement.”
“But not with me as the model.”
“Eddie, trust me, I’m beyond grateful for your support, and I’d love to help out. But I’m me—an actor, a model. I could endorse any brand. You shouldn’t let Dior become a part of me. You should make me a part of the brand.”
Eddie was stunned, completely floored.
Anson wasn’t just declining to help—he was thinking from Eddie’s perspective, offering advice.
This was true friendship, a rare gem in the cutthroat, fame-obsessed world of entertainment. Eddie felt it deeply in that moment.
Anson didn’t pause, pressing on.
“So, I don’t think we should shoot a product catalog. This design isn’t part of a fall or spring collection—it’s a special edition.”
“The focus shouldn’t be on me, but on the shirt. On you, Eddie Slimane, and your genius design.”
“We don’t mass-produce. We make 10,000 pieces worldwide—or even just 1,000. But we keep the price in line with Dior’s brand prestige, no inflated costs just because it’s limited. We ensure the quality is unmatched—lines, fit, tailoring, all top-tier.”
“Quality is Dior’s guarantee. Even with knockoffs out there, they can’t replicate the lines and fit you designed. Right now, that shirt exists only with me. No one knows the true pattern or cut.”
“Of course, once Dior releases these shirts, the fakes will follow, but there’s a time lag. People will immediately see the difference between the real thing and the knockoffs. By the time the fakes update their designs, our marketing and branding will have already done the job.”
“In other words, we’ll have established the brand’s value and image. What happens after that doesn’t matter as much.”
