Chapter 133 - 132: His Anger
"Next to arrive are the members of our cast for *The Awakening Petals*! The film, directed by the famous..." The experienced host launched into a bilingual introduction of the film’s background and starring actors.
Joanna Kennedy followed behind the lead actress at an unhurried pace, maintaining a distance of over a meter.
One gown was the color of rich burgundy, the other a stark moonlight-white. The contrast was striking, a perfect reflection of the essence of the characters they each portrayed in the film.
Princess Cheryl, the ethereal and unattainable love interest, and the female warrior, passionate and full of life, as adept with a scholar’s brush as she was with a sword in the saddle.
Joanna Kennedy’s black hair was swept up and secured with a white jade hairpin. Her eyes, dark and alluring, crinkled when she smiled, and her lips were a striking red against her pearly teeth. Though a new face on the red carpet, her bearing was relaxed and graceful.
People are always drawn to beautiful things. In an instant, numerous cameras swiveled toward her, their flashes firing relentlessly. As she reached a turn, the lenses were nearly pressed to her face, yet Joanna Kennedy’s expression remained unchanged, her smile unwavering.
When she finally made it indoors, a wave of warmth rushed over her, allowing her tense body to relax slightly. That chilly breeze had left her nearly frozen stiff.
The host was conducting interviews, asking questions about the film in an attempt to wheedle out some important plot details or key story beats.
The movie had yet to be released, so spoilers were off-limits. But they couldn’t simply refuse to answer, either. Now was the time to test their emotional intelligence and reflexes.
The director, needless to say, was an old fox; he could deflect and pivot back to promoting the movie in just a few words.
The lead actress was experienced and brushed the questions aside with harmless platitudes. And though Owen Jennings was young, he had an early start in the industry and handled the situation with ease.
The host’s eyes darted around. He thrust the microphone directly in front of the face of the girl who had been standing quietly to the side, listening. "Regarding the box office for *The Awakening Petals* after its release, Jojo, what do you think would be a suitable figure?"
Joanna Kennedy, who had been quietly smiling and serving as little more than a background fixture: "..."
"I feel that..." Under the host’s excited gaze, she accepted the microphone, her smile unchanging. "My thoughts aren’t important. A good film needs to be judged by everyone. When the movie is released, we look forward to seeing you all there."
The host: "..."
’So you all just came here to promote the movie, huh? Every last one of you, completely watertight.’
After the interview, they were led to their seats in the main hall by an attendant. The final awards ceremony, which would recognize films from the last three years, was about to begin.
*The Awakening Petals* had not yet been released and was only nominated for Best Screenplay. Their attendance tonight was purely for publicity.
For the rest of the night, all they could do was watch others receive awards and offer their applause.
A black silk flower was meant to conceal the white gauze on the back of her hand, but after moving around for so long, it had shifted slightly.
Owen Jennings leaned in closer and whispered, "What happened to your hand?"
Joanna Kennedy followed his gaze and saw the exposed white gauze. She tugged the silk flower back into place. "It’s nothing."
"It looks pretty serious. If you’re not feeling well, you can leave early..." Owen Jennings said considerately.
Owen’s voice was low as he leaned in, his proximity to her neck seemingly deliberate. When the cameras swiveled their way, he made no attempt to hide it.
"You don’t need to concern yourself."
Joanna Kennedy’s expression didn’t change. Under the pretext of adjusting her dress, she shifted further away from him.
Seeing her desperate to get away, Owen Jennings simply smiled and sat up straight.
Whether it was psychological or Owen Jennings had simply jinxed her, Joanna Kennedy felt the wound on the back of her hand begin to throb with increasing intensity. Soon, the pain had drained all the color from her face.
During the intermission, she explained the situation to her agent. Walter Young told her to go home and rest, adding that he would speak with the crew.
Joanna Kennedy exited through the back. On the way out, Julie untied the silk flower with trembling hands and saw that, sure enough, a small patch of red had bled through the white gauze.
"Oh my god, Jojo, we have to go to the hospital," Julie said, her expression full of worry.
Joanna Kennedy shook her head. "No, you brought the first-aid kit, right? We can just patch it up."
’We’re in an unfamiliar place. It would be just my luck to get cornered by haters.’
Once outside, she saw an unfamiliar black Bugatti parked on the empty street. The window slowly rolled down, revealing the sharp lines of a man’s profile, his brow and eyes clear and handsome.
Julie had vanished at some point. Joanna Kennedy just stood there, stunned.
After a dozen or so seconds, she finally reacted. Her first instinct was to hide her hand behind her back. She walked over slowly and forced a laugh. "How did you know I was here..."
Simon Lockwood’s gaze shifted from the hand she’d hidden behind her back to her pale little face. His own expression was cold. "Get in."
"...I’ll sit in the back. This dress makes it a bit awkward," Joanna Kennedy said, trying to pull open the rear door, but it wouldn’t budge.
Joanna Kennedy: "..."
"Get in," the man repeated, his tone unnaturally cold.
’Still no escape.’
Joanna Kennedy’s heart was pounding. She felt a surge of baseless anxiety as she easily pulled open the passenger-side door. She got in, carefully tucking the long train of her gown inside.
She was only using one hand; the other was conspicuously hidden beneath her dress, which made arranging the fabric a slow process.
As if sensing she was being too slow, she twisted her body, bending over to try and pull in the rest of her gown that was still dangling outside the car.
Her pale, slender waist was covered by only a thin layer of gossamer, and as she twisted, her perfect curves were presented right before the man’s eyes.
Yet Simon Lockwood’s eyes showed no hint of desire. Watching the girl’s difficult struggle, his expression grew colder and colder, a frightening chill settling in the depths of his gaze.
Finally, upon hearing the girl’s suppressed cry of pain, he stopped reining in the inexplicable, oppressive aura he was emitting. One large hand shot out and wrapped around her waist.
His grip was powerful, and Joanna Kennedy struggled to endure the pain.
Seeing this, Simon Lockwood’s expression grew even darker. He finished arranging her gown, then reached his long arm across the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
The sound of the door slamming was loud.
Joanna Kennedy looked startled for a moment, then her face paled. She pursed her lips and lowered her head slightly.
The black Bugatti drove on in silence. Ten minutes later, it stopped in front of a hospital.
Simon Lockwood got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door. "Out."
Joanna Kennedy turned her face away from him and slowly got out. Just as the cool wind was about to hit her exposed, fair skin, it was blocked by a black trench coat.
The coat still carried the man’s warmth, enveloping her completely. Only the hem of her gown was visible.
The man’s face remained cold as he lowered his eyes and began to meticulously fasten the buttons for her, one after another. To do the final one, he had to almost half-kneel.
The tall man was half-kneeling before the girl, almost as if in reverence.
Many of the people around them stopped, and some even took out their phones and started recording.
Once he was certain it was properly buttoned, Simon Lockwood stood, took her uninjured hand, and led her toward the hospital.
Joanna Kennedy let him lead her. The man was tall with long legs, and she could barely keep up as it was; walking in high heels made her even slower. She finally couldn’t take it anymore and spoke, her voice filled with grievance, "Can’t you slow down a little...?"
Her voice was muffled, thick with indignation and complaint.
It was as if Simon Lockwood had been waiting for this. He stopped, turned around, and stared into her eyes, his own gaze unreadable. "Not so silent now, are we?"