On the way home, William Carter continued scrolling through earlier Weibo posts. The video was indeed released by the official movie account, and netizens were genuinely discussing it on their own. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, later on, capital would inevitably get involved and use this as an opportunity to stir up some hype.

Thinking of this made him a bit unhappy. Back at the apartment he’d temporarily rented after returning to the country, he took a hot shower and collapsed onto the bed.

Sure enough, when William Carter woke up the next afternoon after sleeping straight through, he found over forty missed calls on his phone, which he’d set to silent. Flipping through them, he saw that even his parents—who never called, not even during holidays—had tried to reach him.

For a moment, he actually found it a bit enjoyable. Now that he’d suddenly become famous and was forced into everyone’s line of sight—including his two parents who had no affection for him—making them so exasperated without even meeting face-to-face seemed like a rather satisfying accomplishment.

After tidying up, William Carter casually tied up his bangs, leaving a little tuft standing on top of his head. He then changed into a not-so-clean work jumpsuit, sat down in front of his easel, and reached for a paint palette mottled with colors—reds and blues mixed together, blending into a dirty grayish-purple. Closing his eyes, he could see James Turner’s disdainful expression from that night.

Like drifting clouds, those images gradually slipped from the clouds of memory into his mind, becoming clear. William Carter captured them with lines, trapping them on the paper.

The three-dimensional contours, the overly sharp brows and eyes, and the lips pressed together in slight disgust—all of it was smeared onto the flat canvas with the heavy colors of oil paint, leaving nowhere to escape.

Leaning back in his chair, William Carter held his brush, one leg propped on the edge of the worktable, carefully studying this somewhat casual sketch.

He couldn’t quite say what he was dissatisfied with. The expression formed by the lines never matched even a fraction of the real person’s charm; he couldn’t even capture the degree of disdain.

His phone rang again. William Carter stretched out his arm to grab it.

It was an unfamiliar number.

“Hello, who is this?” he asked, habitually putting on a fake-friendly tone.

“We’ve met before, I wonder if you still remember me?” The voice was indeed familiar. William Carter only needed a second or two to recall: “Ah… you’re Miss Bennett.”

“That’s right, you have a good memory.” On the other end, Grace Bennett laughed. “Has it been a bit overwhelming lately? You’re trending all over the internet.”

William Carter chuckled and stretched lazily. “It’s fine. I’ve been sleeping the whole time. You’re the first call I’ve answered.”

Grace Bennett was a bit surprised. This young man was almost too calm—he hadn’t even asked how she got his contact information.

By the time they met up, it was already dusk. The café was nearly empty, orange sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, blending into the rich aroma of coffee and wrapping around William Carter.

Grace Bennett stirred the milk foam in her coffee in slow circles with her spoon, her eyes sizing up the young man in front of her.

His jet-black hair was haloed with a warm glow from the setting sun. A smile played on his delicate face, and the small mole on his nose was gentle and charming. She hadn’t noticed last time, but there was a thin scar on his chin, almost merging with his jawline—hard to spot. William Carter was even more casual than she’d imagined, wearing only a dirty gray work jumpsuit, oversized and old, covered in paint stains both new and old.

But Grace Bennett immediately recognized the brand of the clothes. This trendy label was quite expensive, a favorite among celebrities for so-called airport fashion. The one he was wearing seemed to be a limited-edition collaboration—he really didn’t mind wearing it out.

“Were you just painting?”

“Yeah.” William Carter glanced down at his palm, where a large patch of dark blue paint stained the outside. He tried rubbing it off with his fingers, but it wouldn’t come off, which annoyed him. Without looking up, he asked directly, “So, why did you want to meet?”

Seeing how direct he was, Grace Bennett dropped the small talk and got straight to the point: “Have you ever thought about debuting?”

William Carter tapped his fingers on the coffee cup, eyes watching the people passing by outside. “Debuting?”

“You really have great qualities and a lot of audience appeal. The trending searches prove it.” Grace Bennett instinctively adopted the posture of a top agent. “Actually, from our perspective, artists are divided into levels. The lowest are those who never get attention no matter how hard they try—most people in this industry are like that. The next level, with enough perseverance, can eventually make it, honing their acting skills or waiting for opportunities—sooner or later, they’ll have a moment of minor fame. The last type is the naturally gifted, born to be in the spotlight. Even if they don’t say a word, as long as there’s a camera, they attract enormous attention.” Grace Bennett leaned forward slightly. “You’re the last type.”

Outside, a child walked by holding a helium balloon. The child lost their grip, and the balloon floated away. The kid stared blankly at the sky, then suddenly burst into tears. Watching this, William Carter couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

Feeling ignored, Grace Bennett coughed. Only then did William Carter lazily turn his head to look at her. “Miss Bennett, you’re definitely an expert in this industry, but even the best experts can misjudge sometimes.”