hollywood billionaire

Chapter 567 My Boyfriend is a Banker

"What? No!"

Han Yi immediately shook his head in denial.

“I never even considered that idea.”

"'I never even considered it'... To be precise, you didn't even consider it before Aiden brought it up."

"No... even now, acquiring a football club is not on my to-do list, Barbie."

“Oh, come on, baby.” Barbara pouted. “I know you too well… We may not have been together for a particularly long time, but I dare say I’m one of the people who understands you best. I can see your expressions clearly, and I can read your eyes. That look I just saw, it’s very familiar… You’re smitten.”

"You want to buy AC Milan."

“That club wants 7.4 million euros!” Han Yi shrugged, shook his head, and smiled wryly. “Do you really think your man is that rich?”

“I don’t care if you have money or not, and I don’t even know if you’re that rich. But…” Barbara glanced instinctively at Aiden in the driver’s seat and lowered her voice, “Do you have any?”

“I…” Han Yi subconsciously wanted to give a negative answer, but immediately realized that the Hungarian supermodel sitting next to him was one of the long-term partners he had decided to take seriously.

He knew very well that as their relationship deepened, Barbara would eventually, intentionally or unintentionally, learn about and become involved in what he was really doing.

Whether it's his vast business empire or his investment projects that are unimaginable to ordinary people... she will find out his true financial strength sooner or later.

A casual "I don't have that much money" now will, at some point in the future, become a foolish, unnecessary, and easily exposed lie.

“Even if I had that much money, I wouldn’t spend it here. I have many other projects going on at the same time, darling.”

"Damn... so you really do have 7.4 million euros."

Barbara opened her mouth in a daze, and the usually quick-witted Barbara didn't know what to say at this moment.

“God, it feels like I’m… in love with a bank.” With an incredulous and shocked expression, Barbara tossed her hair and murmured in a voice only she and Han Yi could hear.

"Silly girl." Han Yi pulled her into his arms and comforted her softly, "Euros, dollars, pounds, a thousand, a million, a billion, I'm still the same me."

“I know…” Barbara placed a light kiss on his cheek, then forced a smile and replied, “I know.”

For the rest of the journey, the two, each lost in their own thoughts, remained silent, and the driver, Aiden, wisely kept quiet as well.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom moved slowly along Beura Road, approaching South Norwood Hill Road. After driving for about two hundred meters, it made a right turn and arrived at the Crystal Palace Club’s famous White Horse Lane.

Along the way, the crowd gradually gathered and became denser.

The fervor unique to English football match days instantly overwhelmed the Rolls-Royce Phantom's superior soundproofing system the moment Han Yi and his party arrived at the entrance to Whitehorse Lane.

The air was filled with a complex and exciting aroma: the strong, smoky scent of fried onions and cheap hot dogs, billowing steam from roadside food trucks, the smell of beer foam wafting from nearby bars, and the white mist exhaled by thousands of people in the cold air.

As far as the eye can see, it's an endless sea of ​​red and blue. Dominating the field are the Crystal Palace fans, playing at home. They are the masters of this land, the "Salt of the Earth" of South London. You can see three generations of families, elderly fans with gray hair leaning on canes, wearing faded old team scarves around their necks. Fathers carry their excited children on their shoulders so they can see the stadium's outline over the crowd. Even more numerous are groups of young people, bundled up in thick parkas or down jackets, but the iconic red and blue stripes must be visible underneath.

Their faces displayed a complex yet fascinating array of emotions: the tension of playing against the league leaders at home, an unrealistic optimism about the home team, and a stubborn pride that said, "No matter what, this is our territory."

Loud laughter, rough South London accents, and sporadic shouts of "Let's go! Eagles!" formed the background noise of this crowd.

Amidst the surging main color scheme, clusters of incongruous royal blue are interspersed.

Those were Chelsea fans who, like Han Yi, had traveled from central London and the West End. Though fewer in number, their spirit was no less impressive. Under Conte's leadership, their team was on an incredible winning streak, sitting atop the table.

Therefore, these away fans mostly stood tall and proud, exuding the arrogance of the league leaders. They huddled together closely, forming small, moving blue islands, their shouts erupting in unison from time to time. Their voices were sharp and penetrating, attempting to declare their presence in this sea of ​​red and blue.

Along the streets, street vendors are enjoying the most joyful and bountiful time of the week.

Vendors hawked their match-day badges, their collared jackets adorned with glittering enamel badges. Makeshift scarf stalls were piled high with half-scarves printed with the two teams' logos—souvenirs for tourists and one-day fans.

Of course, the most popular are always the simple hamburger carts. The workers frantically flip patties and sausages on sizzling griddles, and long queues form in front of each stall.

To ensure the safety and viewing experience of fans, Transport for London, with the assistance of the Metropolitan Police and the local community safety team, implemented a no-vehicle policy on the entire Whitehorse Lane. Seeing that Han Yi's Rolls-Royce Phantom intended to turn right, a policewoman in a bright green police jacket immediately approached and pressed her hands down, signaling Aiden to roll down the window.

The policewoman wore a professional smile, but a hint of caution appeared in her gaze as she swept over the prestigious hood ornament of the Rolls-Royce.

She knew perfectly well that anyone who tried to force their way into a traffic-controlled area in such a car on match day was either an extremely wealthy person who didn't understand the situation or a VIP invited by the club.

In either case, she didn't want to cause trouble.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Her voice came from outside the car, clear and polite. “I’m very sorry, White Horse Lane is currently only open to authorized vehicles. If you need to park, please turn left ahead. There is a public parking lot in the Sports Park next door.”

Aiden was about to explain that Han Yi and Barbara in the back seat were invited guests, but before he could reply—

"Officer Williams! Wait a minute! Wait a minute!"

A hurried voice rang out. A middle-aged man wearing a dark blue club uniform with the Crystal Palace logo was seen panting as he squeezed through the crowd behind the barricades and jogged over.

He clearly recognized the car; he went straight to the driver's side window, bent down slightly, and tentatively asked:

"Excuse me... are you Miss Pavin and Mr. Han?"

Out of professional courtesy, Aiden didn't answer immediately, but instead turned and looked at Han Yi questioningly. Han Yi nodded and rolled down the car window.

"I'm."

"Excellent."

A smile instantly spread across the middle-aged man's face. He quickly pulled out a hard laminated pass that he had prepared beforehand from his coat pocket. The card prominently displayed a gold-stamped logo that read "President's Stand - VIP".

“Sir, could you please put this on the windshield?” he said to Aiden.

Then, he immediately turned to Officer Williams: "Officer, everything's fine. These are guests personally invited by Chairman Parish today, and they entered directly through the VIP entrance."

The policewoman nodded knowingly, quickly stepped back, and raised her hand to signal them to let them pass.

"Please follow me, Mr. Han!" The middle-aged man smiled and nodded to the police officer, then ran to the front of the car, opened his arms, and loudly dispersed the crowd in front, "Please make way! Make way! VIP vehicles please!"

"Excuse me! Excuse me! VIP vehicles please!"

Guided by the club manager, the blue Ritz-Carlton Phantom, like a silent and heavy blade, slowly but irresistibly cleaved the surging red and blue crowd on White Horse Lane in the middle.

This is practically a modern football version of Moses parting the Red Sea.

In an instant, all the noise, shouts, and songs froze around the car. Instead, countless eyes cast their gazes, a mixture of emotions. This was Selhurst Park, not Stamford Bridge or Old Trafford. Crystal Palace's fan base consisted of local families from South London, Kent, and Surrey, the spiritual descendants of the club's founders—the workers who built the Crystal Palace exhibition hall. They were accustomed to queuing with the players at the local Tesco supermarket, and to the stadium's unpretentious, even somewhat outdated, infrastructure.

People reacted differently, but all were quite strong.

The children stared wide-eyed, tugging at their parents' clothes and pointing at the majestic flying goddess emblem. Young fans who spotted the Ritz Hotel logo raised their phones and began snapping photos through the privacy car windows, trying to get a better look at the distinguished guests inside.

The most die-hard Hawks fans, clad in their worn jerseys, fell silent. Arms crossed or beer in hand, they stared at the vehicle in quiet contemplation. Their eyes held a scrutiny—a mixture of pure curiosity, awe at the extravagance, but more so, a bewildering "Who are you?" and a subtle sense of alienation, a feeling that "you don't belong here."

Several fans, some of whom were a little drunk, exaggeratedly took off their hats and gave a chest-touching salute to the car window as it passed by, drawing a small burst of laughter from those around them.

"Welcome to the Crystal Palace, Your Majesty!"

The class and wealth represented by this car form a stark contrast to the atmosphere of Selhurst Park, known as "Salt of the Earth".

“Did he really have to be so loud?” Although she was a public figure, Barbara Pavin clearly didn’t want to steal the spotlight or make the London entertainment news in this situation. She instinctively shrank back, curling up in her seat, and looked through the windshield at the middle-aged man still loudly directing traffic, and the other two club staff who had joined him.

"I don't know... Maybe this is the only way to break through the crowd." Han Yi leaned back in his chair, trying to avoid being noticed. "But the real question is, why do we need to break through the crowd?"

“Yeah.” Even Aiden in the driver’s seat couldn’t help but pull down the sun visor. “I’ve driven a lot of guests to Stanford Bridge and Emirates Stadium. Each stadium has a dedicated lane for VIP vehicles. I don’t know how this works here.”

what happened?

Because Crystal Palace is not Chelsea, nor Arsenal. It's not even Tottenham Hotspur, or West Ham United.

For most of its 111-year history, this club has roamed the lower leagues of English football. Although they have successfully established themselves in the Premier League in recent years, the DNA of a small club remains deeply ingrained. Its glory comes not from its trophy room, but from the resilience and tenacity of South London.

This imprint is most directly reflected in their home stadium – Selhurst Park.

Completed and opened in 1924, this stadium is nearly a century old, a true living fossil. It has witnessed the rise and fall of the club, and even hosted some of the football matches of the 1948 London Olympics. The weight of its history is something that the modern, spaceship-like Emirates Stadium simply cannot match.

But nearly a century has passed, especially in the last two decades since the Premier League entered the era of big spending. While other top clubs have been investing heavily in building modern stadiums with top-notch commercial facilities, Selhurst Park still retains its old-fashioned look from the last century.

Over the years, the club's investment in it has been primarily limited to repairs and maintenance to meet Premier League safety standards; there has never been any real renovation or expansion. From the narrow aisles and outdated seats to the rudimentary facilities, it is far behind the times.

This naturally includes its VIP reception standards.

It's hard to believe that Selhurst Park doesn't even have a dedicated VIP lane for vehicles like the Rolls-Royce Phantom, separate from the public.

Its VIP entrance—the so-called main grandstand VIP entrance—is brazenly located on Baima Lane, directly connected to the main entrance for tens of thousands of ordinary spectators.

Therefore, the poor club staff had no choice. The only way for Han Yi's phantom to reach the VIP entrance was to use their bodies and voices to carve a path for them through this sea of ​​red and blue.

After another ten minutes of stopping and starting, the Rolls-Royce Phantom finally arrived at Entrance Nine. Guided by staff, Han Yi and Barbara got out of the car in front of a three-story building, while Aiden had to drive another 100 meters forward and park in a back alley of the stadium.

"Sorry, Barbie."

As they stepped onto the metal staircase clad in silver aluminum that extended from the outside of the building, Han Yi turned to Barbara and whispered something in her ear.

"Why?" Barbara asked curiously, looking at the simple little building.

“I mean, our first football date was supposed to be… uh, at a bigger club, in a better stadium.”

Barbara turned her head, her bright eyes particularly captivating against the increasingly gloomy London sky. She reached out and took Han Yi's arm, waving her hand with a smile: "It's perfectly fine, I really mean it."

She lowered her voice, replying with a hint of excitement, "I actually really like this feeling. It's unique to these small clubs... their simplicity, their vibrancy, and their raw energy. It's so much more interesting than those cold, impersonal super stadiums." "Besides, whether we're here or in some luxurious VIP box, we still get to see the Premier League's top team play, right? We don't miss a thing."

"you're right."

Following behind the club staff, Han Yi and Barbara passed through the two bustling doors of the "Glass Workers Club" and the "2010 Club" and arrived at the two tightly closed wooden doors on the left.

One of the doors bears the crest of Crystal Palace, the club that hosts the club, while the other bears the crest of Chelsea, the club that is visiting today.

At the top of both wooden doors, the same line of large characters was written:
Directors Box.

The team president's box.

"Ms. Pavon, Mr. Han, your seats for today's match are here." The staff member pushed open the wooden door bearing the Chelsea team crest and bowed politely. "VIP guests do not have assigned seats; please feel free to choose any seat you like. All soft drinks and snacks in the box are complimentary. If you would like any alcoholic beverages or a full meal, you can order from the waiter in the box; those are also complimentary."

"Thank you... Tony," Han Yi said, glancing at the staff member's name tag.

"It's my pleasure, and I hope you have a pleasant viewing experience."

After watching the staff leave, Han Yi and Barbara exchanged a glance, then took each other's hands and stepped into the private room.

If the exterior and public areas of Selhurst Park are like a weathered, century-old man, then the Presidential Box is like a modern prosthetic body forcibly implanted into his body.

The decor here contrasts sharply with the stadium’s old brick walls and aluminum staircases.

The room's main color scheme is a cool, modern silver-white. The walls are spotless, and the smooth, light-colored floor reflects the cool glow of the ceiling spotlights.

The private room was empty. Only two long, silver-white dining tables stood quietly in the center of the room. The tables were covered with crisp, white tablecloths, on which were neatly arranged a complete set of silver cutlery—knives, forks, spoons, dessert spoons, and sparkling polished wine and water glasses. Each set of cutlery was meticulously arranged according to the highest standards of a formal dinner party.

At the far end of the private room, behind a small bar, stood two waiters dressed in black vests and white shirts.

The atmosphere here was quiet, private, and even a little too tidy. Just looking at the room, Han Yi and Barbara had a strong illusion that they hadn't come to watch a Premier League match, but had just stepped into a private room in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Han, Ms. Pavin... Champagne?"

Han Yi hesitated for a moment, but ultimately did not refuse the tray offered by the waiter. Instead, he and his girlfriend chose a champagne glass filled with wine.

Having a wine glass in hand is essential in such social situations.

After shaking their heads to indicate to the waiter that they didn't need any other food, the two eagerly stepped through the half-open glass door and walked to the area of ​​the presidential stand.

One second they were in the quiet and private atmosphere of a Michelin-starred restaurant, and the next, a deafening roar came from all directions, instantly filling their ears. It was a massive boom mixed with the conversations of more than 20,000 people, loud singing, stadium broadcast music, and the tension unique to the start of the game.

Barbara gasped excitedly and strode to the front railing of the presidential stand, looking down at everything below.

Han Yi followed behind her, raising his champagne glass, ready to admire the Premier League stadium as well. But when his gaze swept across the entire stadium, he suddenly froze, his steps halting.

He knew nothing about Crystal Palace FC, and naturally, he was unfamiliar with their home ground.

But... this place felt strangely familiar to him.

From this vantage point, the red roof of this stand, the narrow stand opposite that reads "ARTHUR WAIT STAND," and even the somewhat shabby electronic scoreboard in the corner of the stadium...

Han Yi's breath hitched for half a second.

Isn't this... isn't this the home stadium of AFC Richmond from "Football Coach"?
In his previous life, that heartwarming and healing Netflix series about football was one of his favorite shows. He had relived countless times the spirited Ted Lasso on this field, or Roy Kent roaring at his opponents here.

AFC Richmond, Nelson Road Stadium.

It turns out that the filming location for that TV series is Selhurst Park, where he is standing right now.

A bizarre and strange sense of displacement welled up in Han Yi's heart. He felt as if he had accidentally stumbled into a parallel universe belonging to the Greyhounds.

"I haven't felt this much excitement in so long, baby!"

Barbara tugged at Han Yi's sleeve, pulling him out of his disorienting thoughts.

Han Yi snapped out of his daze and refocused his attention on the reality before him.

The game is about to begin.

The stadium was packed to capacity. All 25,000 seats were filled to capacity.

The home team's Holmesdale Fanatics section had transformed into a vibrant sea of ​​red and blue, with giant TIFO posters being passed around overhead and the chants rising in waves.

Meanwhile, in a corner of the Arthur Wright Stand diagonally opposite them, a small, secluded section for away fans was filled with Chelsea's royal blue. The away fans were not to be outdone, their synchronized chants rivaling those of the home crowd.

The lawn was perfectly mowed, a vibrant green like a carpet, and the automatic watering system was giving it its final spray.

Over the stadium loudspeaker, the powerful beat of Crystal Palace's anthem, "Glad All Over," resonated deeply within everyone.

You said you loved me,

At every moment.

You said you need me,

You will always be mine.

I feel incredibly happy, yes, I am incredibly happy.

Baby, I am so happy!
I'm so glad you're mine...
After the awe-inspiring chorus of ten thousand people ended, and an even more deafening round of applause and cheers gradually subsided, the announcer at Selhurst Park switched to a different tone.

It was a deliberately low, businesslike, and even somewhat contemptuous, muffled voice.

"What we're showing now is the starting lineup for the away team... Chelsea."

The moment the word "Chelsea" was uttered, it was like lighting a fuse. A unified and frenzied roar of "Boooooooooooo" instantly rose from the home team sections of the Holmesdale and Arthur Waiter stands.

The announcer, used to this, calmly read out the first name:
"Goalkeeper... number 13... Thibaut Courtois."

"Booooooooooooo!" The volume of the hisses suddenly increased.

“Defender... No. 28... Cesar Azpilicueta”

“Booooooooooooo!”

"Number 30... David Louis."

A few mocking laughs were mixed in with the boos, but the overall volume remained the same.

"Number 24... Gary Cahill."

“Booooooooooooo!”

Every time the announcer called out a name, the home fans would unleash a deafening chorus of boos. It was a ritual, a primal roar proclaiming, "This is our territory, you are not welcome."

"Midfielder... Number 7... Ngolo Kante."

“Booooooooooooo!”

"Number 19... Diego Costa."

The moment the name was uttered, the nature of the boos instantly changed. It was no longer a routine jeer, but a piercing shriek mixed with genuine anger and disgust.

In 2016, this Brazilian-born member of the Spanish national team was arguably one of the most hated footballers in the Premier League. His constant provocations and violent behavior made him a public enemy of the entire Premier League, except for Chelsea fans.

However, this is not the peak.

The announcer seemed to pause deliberately, waiting for his anger towards Costa to subside slightly, before reading out the key figures on the list:

"Forward... number 10..."

A brief, almost imperceptible silence fell over the stadium, as if all 20,000 home fans had simultaneously gasped for breath. They all knew who was next.

"...Eden Hazard."

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

  This time, what erupted was not boos, but a wall of noise with overwhelming force.

The sound was so loud that it even drowned out the "courtesy" Diego Costa had just received.

If the boos directed at Costa were a sign of anger, then those directed at Hazard were the highest level of alarm, a mixture of fear and vigilance.

This is special treatment for the core player of the league leader, and it's the original tactic South Londoners used to try to overwhelm their opponent's star player with their sheer volume of noise.

The number 10 from Belgium is currently the undisputed number one star in the Premier League.

“I’m even a little afraid to cheer for Chelsea.” Barbara’s gaze swept across Selhurst Park Stadium, finally settling on the home team’s presidential box, separated by a low wall. The people standing there were noticeably more restrained than the home team’s fans in other sections, but they still didn’t hold back their boos. “I’m assuming we’re cheering for Chelsea today, right? Since we’re in their box.”

"You can cheer, or you can not," Han Yi smiled and explained, "Technically speaking, it wasn't Chelsea who invited us, but..."

"easy!"

Speak of the devil, and he appears! Hearing that bold voice with a strong Middle Eastern accent, Han Yi raised an eyebrow at Barbara, then turned around and looked with a smile at the person in charge who was rushing into the private room with a large group of entourage surrounding him.

The person who invited him to watch the game today was none other than Turki al-Sheikh, the chairman of the Saudi General Entertainment Authority.

(End of this chapter)