hollywood billionaire

Chapter 576 The King of Palace-Level Hotels

Just as the Rosewood Paris cannot simply be called Rosewood Paris, but must include the name Crillon Palace, the Four Seasons Hotel Paris can only achieve a distinguished status beyond this five-star hotel chain brand by including the name Avenue George V.

In Paris, some addresses are legendary in themselves, and 31 Avenue George V is one of them.

Located at the heart of the golden triangle formed by the Champs-Élysées, Avenue Montaigne, and Avenue George V, the Four Seasons Hotel George V Paris is more than just a hotel; it is a shining beacon of the city. For nearly a century, it has witnessed the grandeur of history, hosted countless royalty and icons of the era, and become an integral part of Paris's vibrant culture.

The story begins in a decadent and infinitely possible era—the "Roaring Twenties." In 1928, as Paris was immersed in a frenzy of art and innovation, an American businessman named Joel Hillman arrived in the City of Light with a grand dream. He didn't just want to build a hotel; he wanted to erect an unprecedented monument of luxury in the heart of Paris, a mansion where wealthy Americans could feel at home the moment they set foot on the European continent.

Thus, a sleek and imposing Art Deco building rose beside the Champs-Élysées. From its inception, it was full of groundbreaking innovations: every room was equipped with a telephone that could make both internal and external calls, suites even had two bathrooms so couples could shower and attend dinner together, and even the corridors were designed to be exceptionally spacious. Hillman even cleverly omitted the word "Hotel" from the name, simply calling it "George V," intending to create a sense of prestige and privacy befitting a private residence. To be the first to welcome distinguished guests arriving by transatlantic cruise ship, he even set up a reservations office in the port of Cherbourg, France.

However, fate is always unpredictable. The economic crisis of 1929 swept the globe, shattering Hillman's American Dream and forcing him to sell his masterpiece.

Just then, the story welcomes its second protagonist, financier and art collector François Dupré. In 1931, he took over the hotel and breathed true soul into the building. Dupré moved his treasured art collection—precious Flemish tapestries, antique Boulene-style furniture, and even Renoir paintings—into the hotel, transforming the lobby and salon into a dazzling private art gallery. From then on, the George V residence was no longer just a luxurious abode; it possessed cultural depth and artistic warmth.

In the years that followed, the hotel was swept up in the tides of history. During World War II, it became a unique stage. In the dark years of Paris's occupation, its salons gathered intellectuals and artists like Jean Cocteau, who conversed in hushed tones, sustaining the indomitable cultural pulse of France. The hotel's most glorious moment came in August 1944, with the liberation of Paris and General Dwight Eisenhower establishing his headquarters here. The George V Hotel became the center witnessing the return of freedom.

As the smoke of war cleared, George V ushered in his golden age. Its guest list was like a 20th-century celebrity directory: Malena Dietrich left her mysterious mark here, Greta Garbo lived in seclusion here, and Sophia Loren was also a guest. In 1964, a young British band—The Beatles—stayed here during their tour in France. It is said that it was on the piano in the hotel suite that Paul McCartney was inspired to write the timeless classic, "Can't Buy Me Love."

Time flows on, and even legends need rebirth. In 1996, the hotel was acquired by Saudi Prince Alwaleed bin Talal, who made a visionary decision to entrust this Parisian gem to the management of the Canadian Four Seasons Hotels and Resorts. This was not a simple change of ownership, but a profound rebirth. The hotel then underwent a complete two-year renovation and made a magnificent return in December 1999 as the Four Seasons Hotel George V, Paris.

This return is of extraordinary significance, perfectly blending the rich European history and cultural soul of the George V Hotel with the Four Seasons Group's globally renowned and impeccable gold-standard service. It is no longer just a hotel with a glorious history; it has become a place that not only knows how to tell stories of the past but also how to care for every guest in the present with the most attentive service.

Thus, a vision that began with the American Dream, after being nurtured by art, tempered by war, and illuminated by superstars, finally underwent its transformation through the meticulous refinement of modern service. The George V Hotel we see today, with every marble slab and every tapestry, carries the weight of this magnificent history.

In 2010, the French Tourism Board established the "Palace Hotel" designation to recognize top-tier landmark hotels that surpass the standards of five-star hotels. In Paris, five hotels received this honor in their first year: Hotel Maurice, Hotel Athena, Hotel Bristol, Park Hyatt Paris Place Vendôme, and Four Seasons Hotel George V. Among them, the George V was the most popular choice, hailed by several French media outlets as the undisputed king of palace hotels.

It is not just a building, but a Parisian legend that is still being written.

This legendary aura is vividly displayed in the most magnificent penthouse suite of the George V residence.

"my Lord."

After politely watching her personal butler bow and leave, Barbara finally couldn't help but cup her hands around her heart and sigh with satisfaction, like Cinderella who had just received the glass slipper.

"This suite is really...so beautiful."

Barbara was like a cat returning home after a long day of play, still elegant, but with an added touch of ease. She kicked off her shoes, her bare feet lightly treading on the soft carpet, her fingertips tracing the contours of each piece of furniture. This place didn't feel like a hotel suite; it felt more like a private apartment suspended above Paris, a sky-high penthouse born of love and beauty.

In the living room, designer Pierre-Yves Rochon's taste is on full display. It's not an overwhelming display of classical luxury, but rather a lighter, brighter modern French style. Warm travertine walls and floors are accented with the soft hues of sycamore wood, creating a tranquil off-white and pale gold palette. She particularly loves the circular ivory-white lacquered bookshelf, adorned with mother-of-pearl-like floral patterns, displaying antique books and exuding a subtle scholarly air. Baccarat crystal wall lamps cast a soft glow, and the ceiling is adorned with delicate gold leaf that gleams gently in the light—everything is just right, refined yet understated.

"Have you never been here before?" Han Yi asked with a smile as his girlfriend strolled around the living room like Alice dancing in Wonderland. "After all these years in Paris, this is still your favorite hotel... I thought you were a regular."

"Something doesn't quite sound right to me about that."

Barbara tiptoed, like a ballerina, taking three steps at a time, and flew back to her boyfriend's arms like a little bird. She wrapped her arms around Han Yi's neck, looking at him with a charming gaze, her lake-blue eyes unblinking.

"Do you think I'm the kind of girl who would sleep with a man just because he has a key to a penthouse suite?"

“No, baby, that’s not what I meant.” Han Yi paused for a moment, then chuckled. “You are Miss Bettencourt, you don’t need to sleep with a man like that… You have the key to the penthouse suite yourself.”

“I love seeing you stand up for women… You’re the most manly person you can be at, my lovely gentleman.” Barbara tilted her head slightly and gave him a passionate kiss, reluctantly releasing him only after a long while. Her face flushed and slightly out of breath, she said, “I’ve been here a few times, to this penthouse suite, but each time it was for a promotional photoshoot or advertisement for a brand… I’ve never had the chance to stay and actually spend a night here.”

Which brands are so stingy?

“L’Oréal and Chanel aren’t stingy at all,” Barbara shook her head, laughing as she gave her answer. “Who do you think I am, darling? Gisele Bündchen or Kate Moss?”

“Neither of them.” Han Yi put his arm around Barbara’s waist and answered very seriously, “You are you… In my heart, you are much better than them.”

"That's just your opinion." Barbara poked Han Yi's chest, her smile incredibly sweet. "I'm just an ordinary model..."

"An ordinary model who earns four million US dollars a year." Han Yi ruthlessly exposed him.

"Living on one check after another, barely scraping by..."

"Yes, each check is a six-figure sum."

“Not at all!” Barbara bared her teeth, mimicking a cat threatening its owner who was about to trim her nails. “Without an endorsement deal, a single commercial that airs globally, even with a supermodel, usually only earns tens of thousands of dollars… I know this might sound offensive, but compared to other… entertainment industries, our income is quite meager. Fashion brands have deep pockets, but they don’t spend their budgets on a plethora of easily replaceable fashion models. I usually shoot in luxury five-star hotels, but I only stay in ordinary five-star or even four-star hotels, and that’s only because I’m one of the very few successful ones.”

“I’ve only stayed here once, for a L’Oréal event at Paris Fashion Week. They were very generous and gave me a suite. It was a regular suite on the second floor, with no view of the Eiffel Tower, but even so, it was the best hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”

“Mrs. Bettencourt is still the best to Miss Bettencourt.” Han Yi held Barbara’s hand and placed it on his chest, then looked up at the ceiling, his tone lyrical yet exaggerated. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bettencourt, your favorite girl has a boyfriend now… I will take good care of her and give her the best things in the world.”

“Mrs. Bettencourt isn’t dead, why are you looking at the sky?” Barbara poked his chest again, her tone soft and harmless. “I just think it’s more ceremonial this way.” Han Yi took Barbara’s hand and spun her around, letting her back press against him, then pulled her into his arms. “For the next four days, this suite will be entirely yours…”

“It belongs to us,” Barbara corrected.

"It belongs to us." Han Yi changed his tune. "What are your thoughts? Is it the same as you remember?"

“My feeling is that I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” Barbara closed her eyes, enjoying a moment of blissful tranquility nestled in her beloved’s arms. Then, she opened her eyes, her cheerful energy returning, and pulled Han Yi through the living room and the semi-separated office space, toward the glass door leading to the main terrace.

"If you think the living room is great, let me show you the best part of this suite."

The moment they pushed open the glass door, the entire city of Paris unfolded before them without reservation, causing them to involuntarily hold their breath simultaneously.

This wasn't a distant glimpse, but rather a 360-degree panoramic view of the entire city. The Eiffel Tower was right there, so close, it felt as if she could reach out and touch its steel lace hem. The tower's spire was almost level with the suite's terrace, creating a strange illusion that she was standing shoulder to shoulder with the city's symbol. Beyond the tower, the white dome of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica appeared and disappeared on Montmartre, the golden dome of Les Invalides shone brightly through the mist, and the silhouettes of the Opera House and the Pantheon were clearly visible in the distance.

Paris is located at approximately 48°52′ North latitude, roughly equivalent to Heilongjiang Province in China, or eastern Inner Mongolia, even further north than Harbin. Although influenced by warm currents, its climate is much milder and more humid than Northeast China, but the length of daylight in winter is roughly the same. Today, December 18, 2016, sunset in Paris is at 4:55 PM. This means that Barbara and Han Yi, who arrived at the suite around 12 PM, are welcoming the last rays of the setting sun through the mist.

"This...is different."

"What's different?" Barbara placed her hand on the cold railing, turning her gaze away from the steel spine of the Eiffel Tower and onto her boyfriend.

"This is completely different from the fog in London."

"How to say?"

“The fog in London…” Han Yi frowned slightly, as if searching for a precise adjective, “It has weight, and even… a smell. It’s more like ‘Fog.’ It’s thick, damp, and cold, carrying the dampness of the Thames and the fishy smell of old bricks.”

"In London, fog is used to swallow up light. It's like a...soaked gray blanket, wrapping everything up tightly, making the world feel small, isolated, and mysterious, but also oppressive. Sounds become muffled inside, and the sun can only struggle to let out a faint halo."

"Are you composing a sonnet?" Barbara asked mischievously, squinting her eyes.

"It wasn't intentional." Han Yi raised his hands. He knew very well that in the modern English world, nitpicking was a rather pedantic, and sometimes even annoying, behavior. "It was just a spontaneous expression of my feelings."

“I was just kidding. I actually really enjoy hearing you use those big words…it’s so sexy.” Barbara exhaled a soft puff of white breath. “And the fog in Paris? What’s it like?”

"The fog in Paris isn't 'Fog,' it's 'Brume.'"

“Brume?” Barbara looked up and thought for a moment. “Spell it out for me.”

“BRU…”

"easy……"

"Alright, alright, stop joking around," Han Yi pleaded. "The so-called 'brume' is light and fluid. It's more like a layer of translucent white silk, not absorbing light, but playing with it."

Upon hearing Han Yi's description, Barbara looked at the Eiffel Tower not far away, seeking to verify it through actual observation.

He is right.

The winter sun, about to sink below the horizon, was casting its last rays through this thin veil. All the sharpness and heat were filtered out, leaving only the purest and softest hues.

The sky is a vast palette, transitioning from rose gold on the horizon to warm peach, then to lavender purple, and finally merging into the winter blue overhead, soon to be taken over by the night.

The light pierced through the thin mist, no longer shining brightly and passionately, but rather permeating gently and silently.

The most wondrous thing is the architecture beneath your feet. The main body of Paris isn't composed of dark bricks like London, but rather vast expanses of light-colored Lutese limestone. At this moment, the off-white facades of these Haussmannian buildings, like sponges, greedily absorb the last few minutes of golden sunlight, then radiate a gentle, pearly honey-colored halo from within. And the undulating zinc roofs, in this warm light, reflect a flowing silver-gray hue.

The entire city seemed to have transformed into a golden city floating above a sea of ​​clouds.

The Eiffel Tower, this colossal steel structure, has lost its daytime hardness and coldness. Like an elegant noblewoman, draped in a shawl of mist, it stands quietly in the golden-purple twilight. Its tower, not yet illuminated, becomes a delicate black silhouette, while the mist clings to its waist, giving it the illusion that it is about to be carried away by the wind and rise into the clouds.

“You know what? I haven’t actually set foot on Parisian soil since I landed.”

After a long while, Han Yi, still admiring the beautiful scenery, finally spoke softly.

"I sat in the car, going from one street to another, from one building to another, immersed in this fog. I thought, this is probably just another version of London."

"But in this world, some feelings only need a fleeting glance to understand that they are real."

"Barbie, I think I'm falling in love with Paris."

(End of this chapter)