Ryan knew very well that he couldn't look at American girls through the lens of his past life. Besides, it was just a dinner—no need to act like he was going through fire and water or filming a videotape. Nothing too serious.
What he didn't expect, however, was that the dinner wouldn't be held in the hotel restaurant, but instead in the presidential suite on the top floor, which belonged to Paris.
"Ryan, welcome to my room," the little girl said proudly, leading the way with her head held high.
Ryan's forehead twitched. The reason? Simple—just look at the room's décor.
It wasn't that it was especially luxurious. Compared to the nouveau riche Arabs of his past life, the Waldorf Astoria exuded deep cultural heritage—elegant and restrained, like a Western aristocrat with centuries of tradition.
Okay, but pink had absolutely nothing to do with any of that!
Beneath Ryan's feet was a pink carpet. Above him hung a pink crystal chandelier and ceiling. The surrounding walls were draped with pink tapestries, and even the cabinets and furnishings were all pink. It was a pink fairytale world.
Then came an even more overwhelming moment—Paris led him into her bedroom, which was still entirely pink. She grabbed three books from her nightstand: the first three published volumes of Harry Potter—her own books.
Only… all three books, from cover to page, were completely pink. Ryan didn't recall the publisher ever releasing a pink version of Harry Potter. Were these pirated?
The heiress to the Hilton empire reading pirated books? That was just unacceptable—even for an uncle, but absolutely intolerable for Ryan!
"Paris, are these pirated copies?" he asked tentatively.
"Pirated?" The little girl blinked, then said, "I had my dad custom-order these from the publisher. I specially asked them to make them pink."
Unbelievable. This little girl was that obsessed with pink? Ryan discreetly wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
"Isn't my room pretty? Doesn't it look like one of the dreamy worlds in your books?" the girl asked proudly.
"It's very pretty, but don't you think the color is a bit… monotonous?" Ryan rolled his eyes.
"Pink is adorable!" Paris said, pouting, likely noticing Ryan's eye-roll. "If I ever become President of the United States, the first executive order I'll issue is to paint the White House pink!"
What a grand dream! Compared to zipper-presidents and cowboy-presidents, you're in a league of your own! Ryan gave a silent thumbs up. If she ever really became President, it would truly be a blessing to people all over the world.
Afterward, Paris showed him around her walk-in closet, library, and entertainment room. As expected, all of them were dominated by pink. Especially the pink clothing in the closet—it nearly turned Ryan's eyes into those of a white rabbit.
"See, Ryan, I've read all your works." In the library, Paris pointed at a few books on her desk.
After spending half an afternoon together, Ryan had gradually figured out her temperament—just a spoiled and playful girl. So, he didn't hold back and sat directly in the chair at the desk, flipping through the books. Sure enough, the pages showed clear signs of being read, and on the blank spaces, there were related drawings—though they were terrible, clearly drawn by the little girl herself.
"Besides Harry Potter, which is your favorite?" he asked.
"Hmm… Toy Story is nice. But so many of the toys you wrote about can't be bought. Jumanji is also good. Sometimes I wish I could enter a magical world like that too." She seemed very familiar with The Ryan Story Collection.
After chatting a bit more, the butler of the suite informed them that dinner was ready.
Sitting at a pink dining table, holding pink plastic cutlery, Ryan felt quite emotional. After decades of life, this was definitely the most unique meal he had ever experienced. Hopefully, the food itself wouldn't be pink too?
Thankfully, what was served was French cuisine. It seemed Paris was taking the dinner seriously. Even though many age-inappropriate drinks and dishes were removed, the meal still remained very formal.
Luckily, Ryan had studied Western dining etiquette from a family tutor while in London. With some gesturing and adjusting, he looked somewhat like a gentleman. However, the little girl, who started out behaving properly, reverted to her natural lively self after just a few minutes.
"Oh, come on, Ryan. Don't you think that's uncomfortable? We should be free and unrestrained!" she complained, watching Ryan's formal mannerisms with displeasure.
"Alright," Ryan shrugged, relaxing a bit.
"Can you tell me a story?" the little girl asked, blinking her innocent big eyes. "Not one I've read before. And not The Lion King from this afternoon. I want a brand-new one."
Well, when someone feeds you, you owe them. Ryan could only smile helplessly and said, "Okay, I'll tell you a story about a panda who knows kung fu."
"Kung fu?" The little girl thought for a moment and asked, "Like Bruce Lee?"
"Mm… sort of."
After taking a sip of juice, Ryan began to tell the tale simply. The little girl listened very seriously, often forgetting to eat, completely immersed in the story.
"After a fierce battle, Po the panda finally grasped the true essence of kung fu, defeated the evil snow leopard Tai Lung, and brought peace back to the Valley of Peace, becoming the true Dragon Warrior!" In less than half an hour, a simplified version of Kung Fu Panda appeared in this world—too bad the audience was just one person.
"Wow, Po is amazing! I love pandas!" As the two became more familiar, Paris's energetic personality became even more obvious. She cheered loudly, "Ryan, let's go see pandas at the zoo tomorrow, okay?"
"No," Ryan refused directly. "Tomorrow I have to attend a press event with the film crew."
At the same time, he muttered to himself—forget pandas. Maybe if it were goldfish…
...
The publicity campaign continued. The crew participated in an interview with The New York Times, but when the report came out the next day, Ryan didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
At first, the article focused on the film crew as a whole, but halfway through—who knows what the reporter was thinking—it completely went off the rails, dedicating the majority of the column to Ryan.
"James Cameron described Ryan Jenkins this way: 'He's the standout actor in the crew—the one I yell at the least.'"
"Ryan's acting on set completely overshadowed both me and Arnold. We had to push ourselves to 200% just to keep up! That was Linda Hamilton's comment."
"Contrary to what you might expect, Ryan was very quiet during the interview. When I asked why, he pointed to his throat and whispered that he was afraid his current raspy voice would ruin his image. He's in the middle of voice change!"
"Although Ryan spoke little, I can supplement the story with his past. The Sixth Sense, Home Alone, Sleepless in Seattle, Terminator 2: Judgment Day—what do these four films have in common? They're all connected to Ryan, and they were all massive box office successes. Okay, maybe someone will argue that Terminator 2 has just been released. But after seeing its nearly $60 million opening weekend, who would doubt its box office potential?"
"Whether a movie will be a hit is something no one can guarantee before it's released. But films associated with Ryan keep achieving success one after another. This boy has become a box office guarantee. If I were a studio executive, I'd sign him to a film deal even if it cost ten million dollars!"
News about Ryan certainly attracted attention, especially after months of controversy. This issue of The New York Times saw a 5% increase in sales—no wonder the reporter went off track.
Given the profit to be made, other newspapers certainly wouldn't pass up the chance either. Especially the more shameless tabloids, who outright put Ryan on the front page.
This was The New York Post's turf, and they naturally led the charge.
"No one can deny Ryan Jenkins's past achievements. But let's not forget—he's grown three inches taller since Terminator 2. Every aspect of him is maturing. The child star curse of Hollywood will soon befall him. Maybe his next movie will be a total box office flop."
"Some might argue that even if Ryan stops acting, he can still write novels or scripts. But has anyone considered how strange it is for an eleven-year-old boy to have so many ideas? Of course, we're not questioning the authenticity of his work—after all, Tom Cruise has vouched for it. What we're suggesting is that Ryan Jenkins's imagination may be too wild, which might not be good for his development. Perhaps Nicole Kidman should take him to see a psychologist. Who knows—maybe Ryan has delusions of grandeur..."
Reading such an article—it would be a lie to say he wasn't angry. If possible, Ryan really wanted to set The New York Post's editorial office on fire.
Sitting on the sofa in the suite's living room, he thought things over carefully, then called Lawyer Wilson. The request wasn't complicated—just to send a cease-and-desist letter to The New York Post.
After all, he had experienced the no-bottom-line internet culture of his past life and seen far worse reporting. From the moment he stepped into Hollywood, he knew he'd be under attack as well.
"Ryan!" Paris, sitting on the other side and having read the paper too—though she didn't understand everything—could tell her new friend was being attacked. "We should get some people together and smash that newspaper office!"
"Smash it?"
In Ryan's mind, a scene flashed: Paris in a pink trench coat, leading a squad of pink-clad female bodyguards, storming into The New York Post's editorial office. She flings open her coat, pulls out pink-painted Tommy guns, and rains down fire on those jerks. After a puff of pink smoke, the office is reduced to pink-colored rubble.