America: From a Fallen Child Star to the Head of the University of the West

Chapter 86 Beverly Hills

Beverly Hills, 8:45 p.m.

A discreet black sedan slowly drove into the gates of a private estate. Security personnel at the gate checked the invitation and waved it through.

Sean sat in the back seat, looking out the window at the neatly trimmed bushes and fountains on either side. He was all too familiar with this scene; back when he was a Hollywood darling, he attended parties like this almost every week.

Back then, he attended as a celebrity. Now—I can only say he's still a celebrity, I suppose.

"Are you sure you want me to pretend to be your assistant?" Rachel, who was sitting next to him, had changed into a business suit and put on a pair of non-prescription glasses. "I'm not good at serving tea and water."

"You don't need to serve tea or water," Sean laughed. "You just need to stand next to me, occasionally take out your phone to jot something down, and look like you're busy."

"Why not send Matthew? He's the real assistant."

"Because Matthew is too young, and he doesn't understand the rules of Hollywood," Sean explained. "These people are all seasoned veterans; they can spot a newbie in an instant. But you're different. You're a journalist; you know how to hide your true intentions in a crowd."

Rachel didn't refute, she just gave a soft hum.

"Speaking of which, Sean," she changed the subject, "what did you and Mr. Kelly see at the university today?"

"It was Charlie Kirk's debate," Sean said. "I saw a college student dressed as Jesus arguing with him for ages."

Why are they arguing?

"It might be because of differing stances," Sean replied solemnly.

"So who won in the end?"

"It's hard to say," Sean thought for a moment. "That Jesus had the upper hand logically, but Charlie Kirk didn't care about logic at all. He cared about momentum and image. As long as he stood on the stage and didn't admit defeat, his supporters would think he had won."

"That sounds like some politicians," Rachel remarked sarcastically.

"All politicians are like that," Sean said matter-of-factly. "Including me."

Finally, the car stopped in front of the main building of the manor. A waiter in a tuxedo stepped forward and opened the car door.

"Welcome, Mr. Pan."

Sean straightened his suit and stepped out of the car. Rachel followed closely behind, carrying an elegant leather folder, looking every bit the professional assistant.

The two entered the manor's hall.

Crystal chandeliers, marble floors—everything was exactly like the Hollywood parties Sean remembered.

This time, however, when he walked in, many people's eyes were focused on him.

It wasn't the kind of welcoming look.

Sean subtly surveyed the hall while activating his favorability system.

Numbers appeared above the guests' heads.

The woman over there in the blue dress: [35].

The bald man next to him: [22].

Numbers below thirty or below twenty are commonplace.

"Looks like you're not very popular here." Even without any special abilities, Rachel could tell something was off.

Sean, however, showed no unease. "I know, but someone invited me, didn't they?"

The two then took two glasses of champagne and found a relatively quiet corner to stand in.

Just then, a voice came from behind.

"Sean, why didn't you tell me you were back?"

Sean turned around and saw a middle-aged man with a thick beard walking towards him. The man was wearing a gray suit, smiling broadly, and seemed incredibly warm and friendly.

The number above his head is 45. Not high, but at least it's a positive number.

Sean searched his memory and vaguely recalled that the man was named Jerry Goodman, a second-tier director, whom he had chatted with briefly at an awards ceremony. But to call him an old acquaintance might be a bit of an exaggeration.

"Jerry," Sean said with a polite smile, "long time no see."

"It's been way longer than a long time." Jerry patted Sean on the shoulder dramatically. "We haven't seen each other since you left Hollywood. I've been following your news, bro. You're a big shot now."

"I'm no big shot," Sean said modestly. "I'm just lucky."

"Don't be modest," Jerry said in a low voice. "To be honest, when I saw the news on TMZ that you were at Caltech today, I thought it was fake news. But when I checked, it was actually true. Why didn't you tell me you were going back to California?"

"TMZ?"

TMZ is no ordinary news website. It's the most timely and accurate gossip platform in the US, with an almost ubiquitous talent for information gathering. It's said they even learned of Kobe's death in a plane crash before Vanessa Bryant did.

But if TMZ already knew where he was today, why didn't they make a big deal out of it?

"It's okay, don't worry." Jerry seemed to sense Sean's concern. "They just reported that you were near campus, no further details. You know, these paparazzi are everywhere."

"Yes—it's everywhere." Sean smiled awkwardly.

"By the way, this is—" Jerry's gaze fell on Rachel.

"My assistant, Miss Jones," Sean introduced.

"Nice to meet you." Jerry nodded politely, then turned to Sean, "Come, let me introduce you to everyone. Quite a few old friends want to see you tonight."

Sean and Rachel exchanged a glance, then followed Jerry into the crowd.

For the next half hour, Sean was led around by Jerry through various small circles.

"Sean, this is Leonard Marshall, the producer of Star Trek."

"Mr. Pan." Marshall shook Sean's hand, the number above his head was [28], "I've heard so much about you."

We've all heard about your exploits on the East Coast.

"You flatter me," Sean replied politely.

"However," Marshall's tone suddenly became meaningful, "I've heard you've been getting quite close to some tech tycoons lately? Musk or something?"

"It's just a normal political collaboration," Sean replied calmly. "You know, campaigns need funding."

"Of course, of course." Marshall nodded, but the calculation in his eyes was obvious. "If you're interested, there are plenty of people in Hollywood willing to support your career. After all, we're all on the same side."

The number [28] jumped slightly and became [32].

Sean sneered inwardly. These people's attitudes were always tied to their own interests.

"Thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Marshall," he said. "I will definitely pay you a visit when I have the chance."

"Sean, come here." Jerry pulled him into another circle. "Let me introduce you. This is Cillian Murphy. You've seen Oppenheimer, right? I bet he'll be the Best Actor this year."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Straw—oh no, Mr. Murphy." Sean reached out his hand, not expecting to see Killian here.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Pan—" Killian said shyly as he took his hand.

"Murphy, you don't seem like you want to talk much—" Jerry teased from the side.

A little while later, Sean was stopped by a young man dressed in flashy clothes.

"Hey, isn't this Sean Penn?" the young man said with obvious sarcasm. "What, couldn't make it in politics, so you're back to begging for food?"

Sean glanced at the number above the other person's head: [-15].

negative number.

He searched his memory and remembered that the person was named Brian Carlson, a young actor who entered the entertainment industry because of his rich second-generation status. He had recently starred in a terrible movie that flopped at the box office.

"Mr. Carlson," Sean said calmly, without any anger on his face, "I don't see any beggars here. But if you're looking, perhaps you can look in the mirror."

Brian's expression changed. "What did you say?"

"What I mean is," Sean's voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough for everyone around to hear, "your last movie didn't even gross ten million, did it? I heard the investors withdrew their funding for your next film?"

A few suppressed laughs rang out from the surrounding area.

Brian's face turned bright red.

"You—you shouldn't slander someone's innocence out of thin air."

"I'm just stating the facts," Sean said with a smile, spreading his hands. "This is all public information. If you think it's inaccurate, you can correct it at any time."

Brian opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found himself speechless. The number above his head went from -15.

It turned into [-30], and then he turned and left angrily.

"Well done," Rachel whispered beside him. "That kid was really cocky just now."

"This kind of person isn't worth wasting time on," Sean said casually. "Let's go, let's continue."

Halfway through the party, Sean noticed a group of people huddled in a corner, seemingly discussing something.

He moved closer and overheard a few words.

"Have you heard about the Avalon Foundation?"

"I thought everything was fine, but I didn't expect several people to get involved."

"—I heard that Sean Penn has another list—"

It seems the topic is related to him.

He cleared his throat and took a few steps closer: "What are you all talking about?"

The expressions on those people's faces changed simultaneously.

One of the middle-aged men, wearing a striped suit, smiled awkwardly. "Oh, Mr. Pan. We were just discussing the recent news. You know, the Avalon Foundation thing has been making quite a stir."

Sean glanced at the number above his head: [25].

"Yes, it's definitely caused quite a stir." Sean nodded. "I heard that quite a few people in Hollywood have been dragged into this too?"

The group looked at each other, but no one responded.

“But that’s normal,” Sean continued, his tone as relaxed as if discussing what to eat for the day. “The organizers of those Ponzi schemes are best at getting celebrities to endorse them. They get a bunch of stars to attend events, take photos, and tweet about it, making ordinary people think it’s a reliable investment project.”

"Many celebrities are actually victims too," he added. "They just took the appearance fee and had no idea it was a scam. This kind of thing is all too common in Hollywood."

The expressions on everyone's faces relaxed slightly.

"Mr. Pan is right," the man in the striped suit agreed. "We can't possibly verify the background of every company that seeks our cooperation. As long as they're not intentionally involved in fraud, there shouldn't be any major problems, right?"

"That depends on how the judicial authorities determine it," Sean said meaningfully. "If you can prove you're just an innocent spokesperson, then of course there's no problem. But if you're deemed an accomplice—"

He didn't finish speaking, but the meaning was already quite clear.

The expressions on their faces turned grim again.

"Mr. Pan," another person spoke cautiously, "I heard you have a list? Who's on it—"

"I can't reveal that," Sean interrupted him with a smile. "But I can tell you that most of the people on that list are just ordinary people who endorse the platform. The real mastermind is someone else."

"That's good, that's good." The group breathed a sigh of relief.

Sean observed the constantly changing numbers above their heads and silently memorized a few names.

Just then, a middle-aged man who looked somewhat tired walked over.

He was around forty-five years old, wearing a plain black suit without a tie. He had noticeable dark circles under his eyes, and his whole demeanor exuded a decadent air that seemed completely out of place at this glamorous party.

【52】.

This is the first number over fifty that Sean has seen tonight.

"Mr. Pan," the middle-aged man approached Sean, "Can I speak with you alone?"

Sean sized him up: "And you are?"

"My name is Robert Green," the middle-aged man said. "I invited you to this party."