The scheming between Ron and Tracy sounded difficult and full of obstacles, but in reality, as long as Hugo was willing to give up The Firm and Schindler's List, there wouldn't be much of a threat—because they wouldn't have any leverage against him. But that wasn't the real issue.
For Hugo, giving up The Firm wasn't a problem, and neither was letting go of Schindler's List. The question was never about which project to abandon—it was whether he still wanted to continue working in the film industry at all. Because even if it wasn't The Firm or Schindler's List, other conflicts would arise in the future, putting Hugo once again at odds with Ron and Tracy.
Therefore, Hugo wouldn't bow to Ron just for Schindler's List, nor would he back out of The Firm out of fear of being manipulated. After all, Ron and Tracy were merely two influential figures in Hollywood's vast network—hardly insurmountable obstacles. Hugo had already broken through their blockade and landed roles in Scent of a Woman and A Few Good Men. If he kept fighting like this, his career would continue to grow.
As for the internal power struggles within the International Creative Management agency, they had little impact on Hugo. Even though he had achieved decent success that year, he still wasn't at the level where his name alone could bring prestige to the company. The partners' attitude said it all—they treated Joseph politely but didn't take further action. So Hugo had nothing to worry about.
After leaving Rick's office, Hugo and Joseph returned to the luncheon atmosphere. Unfortunately, Paul McCartney didn't stay long, and Hugo regretted missing the chance to meet the legendary musician. His spirits dimmed, and even the raffle couldn't excite him.
By the time Hugo got home, it was nearly three in the afternoon. That evening, Alex was hosting a New Year's Eve party with a group of friends, inviting everyone to celebrate together. Naturally, Hugo and Joseph were also on the guest list—after all, the more lively a New Year's party, the better. So both of them went home to prepare for the night.
As soon as Hugo opened the door, he called out, "Alex, if we show up at ten tonight, is that too early?" Most parties didn't start until after dinner—ten or even eleven o'clock was perfectly normal.
"Alex went out," came Charlize's voice from nearby, sounding like she was in the bathroom. "He said he's cooking tonight instead of ordering takeout, so he went to the supermarket."
Following her voice, Hugo found Charlize in the bathroom. "Wouldn't the supermarket be packed today?" he asked. During Christmas, he'd been shocked by the crowds—he used to think Los Angeles was quiet compared to cities back home, but that holiday had shown him the true meaning of festive chaos.
"Not really. No one goes shopping today—the stores close at four," Charlize said. She stood in front of the mirror, holding a jar in one hand and a brush in the other, stirring a creamy mixture before applying it strand by strand to her hair. Her once silky brown locks were now coated with thick dye, glistening like a sheet of gelatin—not the appetizing kind.
Leaning against the doorway, Hugo wrinkled his nose. The smell of dye wasn't pleasant. "Dyeing your hair again?"
Charlize shrugged slightly. "Yeah. I've been busy on set and haven't had time lately."
As she finished applying the dye, she tidied up her tools, washed her hands, and pulled out a hair dryer, blowing her hair evenly to set the color.
Watching her work, Hugo chuckled and shook his head. "I don't get it—why do you insist on keeping it blonde?" Charlize's beautiful golden hair wasn't natural; her real color was dark brown, maintained through constant dyeing.
The sound of the hair dryer drowned him out, and Charlize had to shout back, "What?"
Hugo pointed at her hair and raised his voice. "Why blonde?"
Charlize turned off the dryer and sighed. "I thought we talked about this before." That was the thing about living together—roommates quickly learned each other's quirks. Hugo had been curious the first time he saw her dyeing her hair, and they'd discussed it then.
Hugo shrugged. "Still don't get it. Your natural color's probably really pretty—chestnut brown has such a nice sheen."
In movies, Western audiences often had a fascination with blondes—either seeing them as ditzy bombshells or as irresistible symbols of beauty and desire. Whether the perception was flattering or not, blondes always stood out. Hugo never quite understood it; perhaps such notions didn't resonate as deeply in Asian culture.
Charlize chuckled. "Honestly? I just like it." She examined her reflection in the mirror, checking that the dye was even. "It was actually John Crosby's idea—remember him?" Hugo nodded—Charlize's first agent, whom she'd fired not long after. "Maybe it was the only good advice he ever gave me. At first, it helped me get more jobs—you know how Americans love their blondes." Her South African accent carried a teasing lilt, as if poking fun at Hugo's uniqueness, making him laugh quietly.
"But later, I started liking it myself. I think it suits me," Charlize said with a small shrug and a wry smile. "Though honestly, blonde hair isn't the best choice for an actress—it's too easy for people to label you a pretty face and nothing more. But what can I say? I like it. Call it a woman's little indulgence." She giggled softly, then turned the hair dryer back on, letting the warm air hum through the room again.
Hugo glanced up at the few strands of hair falling across his forehead. Even now, he still wasn't fully used to this face—including the dark golden hair that came with it. It felt strange. Back home, blonde hair was often seen as unconventional, even rebellious. He couldn't help missing his old jet-black hair. "I don't like mine," he muttered. "If dyeing weren't such a hassle, I would've dyed it black already."
He'd watched Charlize go through the dyeing process before. To keep the color even, she had to redo it every month or two—sometimes even twice a month. Hugo knew he could never keep up that kind of routine.
"What?" Charlize couldn't hear him over the dryer and turned it off, glancing at her reflection as she spoke. She was heating the dye at the back of her head, making sure it was evenly applied—no easy task. Hugo raised his voice, "Need a hand?" and stepped forward. Without even turning, Charlize handed him the hair dryer.
Taking it, Hugo turned on the warm setting and began blowing gently at the back of her head. "I said, I don't like my hair color. I'd rather have black hair."
Charlize's movements paused. She looked at Hugo through the mirror, then imagined him with black hair. A laugh escaped her. "If you dyed your hair black, I don't know—it'd look weird!" Hugo had a naturally sunny, warm aura. She had to admit, the dark golden hair suited him well—it made him radiant without being glaring, bright without being flashy. "Besides," she added, "your hair isn't even bright blonde—it's dark gold. It only really glows under sunlight. It looks great most of the time."
Hugo frowned slightly at his reflection, his lips curving downward in mock disgust. The warm air from the dryer lifted his dark golden strands, catching the soft indoor light and giving them a gentle sheen. If he were an outsider, he might agree with Charlize—but the man in the mirror was him, and he couldn't shake the feeling of awkwardness. Half-jokingly, he thought: maybe one reason his memories hadn't completely fused yet was because he still wasn't fully used to this body.
"Hey! That's hot!" Charlize suddenly cried out, jerking her head to the side and glaring at Hugo. He had zoned out, leaving the dryer aimed at one spot too long, making her scalp burn. She smacked his hand sharply—smack!—the sound echoing in the small bathroom.
Hugo pulled the dryer back, mouth agape, eyes wide with exaggerated shock. "Did you hear that? You heard that, right? My hand's red now! I must've lost a billion skin cells!"
Charlize had started to feel guilty, but Hugo's dramatic whining made her grit her teeth instead. "Oh please, you and your dead cells! My hand hurts too! And for your information, I'm a woman—my hands are soft and delicate, no strength at all! I'm the one who's really suffering here!"
Hugo burst out laughing. "You're unbelievable! You're the one who hit me! How does that make you the victim?" He narrowed his eyes mischievously. "Hmph. You're no woman—you're a man. A man!"
"What did you just say?" Charlize planted her hands on her hips, the warning clear—but Hugo, ever the fool, kept going. "I said—you're a man!"
"Hugo Lancaster!" Charlize yelled, grabbing his left hand and landing a few playful slaps, punctuated by a swift kick. It was less punishment and more an all-out mock attack. Hugo couldn't fight back, so he resorted to pointing the hair dryer at her and blasting her with warm air.
The two of them dashed around the bathroom like kids—Charlize dodging the dryer's wind while Hugo tried to avoid her blows. Their laughter and shrieks bounced off the tiled walls, echoing all the way into the living room.
"Hugo, you home? Open up!" came a familiar voice from the front door. It sounded like Uma.
....
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