The Best Movie Actor In Hollywood!

Chapter 472

As the guest of honor for the women's singles final at the US Open, Matthew arrived in New York ahead of the match and made his way to Arthur Ashe Stadium right on schedule.

He was escorted into the venue by Rolex's North American marketing director, who briefly conferred with the organizing committee before leading Matthew to a private dressing room. Inside, a custom-tailored suit from Rolex awaited him, along with the main event: a gold Rolex watch.

"There will be a break before the awards ceremony, which gives you plenty of time to come and get changed."

Matthew nodded. "Thank you."

It was early September, and the New York weather was still warm, so he had arrived dressed casually in a polo shirt and a tennis cap.

A stylist hired by Rolex approached, gave Matthew a quick once-over, and presented him with a classic Rolex Submariner. Matthew took the watch and fastened it around his left wrist.

Rolex was paying him to be their ambassador, so naturally, he was expected to cooperate with their promotional activities.

His polo shirt and cap were also special commemorative editions provided by Rolex, one of the tournament's main sponsors, and the brand's iconic crown logo was prominently displayed.

Mercedes-Benz had also played its part in his New York trip. The company had a car waiting for him as soon as he arrived, which would be at his disposal for the duration of his stay.

The automaker had recently contacted Helen, likely prompted by the surge in Mercedes-Benz G-Class sales over the two years of Matthew's endorsement, and expressed a desire for a closer partnership.They were also interested in making him the face of their flagship models, particularly as his own public image continued to mature.

Mercedes-Benz had also indicated they would support him on his upcoming film, I Am Legend.

The New York trip was purely commercial, and Matthew found himself enveloped in a corporate atmosphere. Still, he was selective about his endorsements and didn't promote many products.

Matthew was well aware that as his status grew, it wouldn't be long before everything—food, clothing, housing, transportation—would be provided to him as part of one promotion or another.

Not that he resented it; after all, it meant he rarely had to pay for anything himself.

Even now, Matthew could still recall the embarrassment of his first red carpet event, when he had to borrow money from his agency just to afford a decent suit.

Now, as a major star, he could be decked out in apparel and accessories worth millions, or even tens of millions, without spending a dime.

He remembered a recent phone call with Charlize Theron. She had mentioned that as an Oscar winner and Dior's top ambassador, she had attended a major New York event dressed in an ensemble worth eight million dollars for her walk down the red carpet.

According to Charlize, the jewelry alone was worth $4.5 million, loaned to her by Cartier for promotional purposes. Her makeup and gown were from Dior, a famous New York salon had styled her hair for free, and the shoes were a gift from Givenchy.

She hadn't had to pay a single cent of her own money to glitter on the red carpet in an outfit and jewelry valued at over eight million dollars.

If anyone were to ask if being a major star was great, Matthew's answer would be that "great" didn't even begin to cover it. It was better than he could have ever imagined!

He had money, fame, and fortune. Every time he stepped into a room, he felt like the center of the world.

He made his way to his VIP seat in Arthur Ashe Stadium, unaccompanied.

Arthur Ashe Stadium was filled nearly to capacity, but the atmosphere was a world away from a football match. It was relatively quiet, the energy of the crowd more a low hum than a roar.

"Hey!"

Matthew had barely settled into his seat when a little girl's voice piped up from in front of him. "Mom, that's the guy from the billboard!"

At the sound of the voice, Matthew looked up to see a brown-haired woman in her thirties sitting nearby with a little girl who looked to be about six or seven.

The little girl was looking back over her shoulder, blinking, her bright eyes seeming to hold the light of distant stars.

He recognized them both. They were in the Rolex section, and the woman was a fellow brand ambassador—the supermodel Cindy Crawford.

"Hello, Cindy," Matthew greeted her, then turned to the little girl. "Hi, Kaia. We meet again."

The girl studied Matthew's face for a moment before turning to her mother. "Mommy, do I know him?"

Cindy smiled. "Have you forgotten? He was in a photoshoot with Mommy." She glanced at Matthew. "Kids grow so fast and forget everything. Please don't mind her."

"It's perfectly fine."

He'd only met Cindy's daughter a few times, so it was perfectly understandable that she wouldn't remember him.

Matthew settled into his seat as the girl took the one between him and Cindy Crawford.

"Your name's Matthew, right?" the little girl asked, blinking her big, inquisitive eyes.

"That's right," Matthew nodded.

Kaia tilted her head. "Did we really meet before?"

"The first time I met you..." Matthew held his hand out, indicating a much shorter height. "You were only about this tall."

"Oh... No wonder I don't remember," she said.

Just then, she suddenly shot to her feet and pointed toward the tennis court. "They're coming out!"

Matthew looked and saw the two finalists for this year's US Open women's singles stepping onto the court, ready to begin their warm-ups.

As the guest of honor, he already knew that Maria Sharapova and Justine Henin were the two competitors in this year's final.

He only knew the latter by name, but the former had made more of an impression on him—particularly her physique, which reminded him a little of Ilana.

"Who do you think will win?" Kaia asked.

Matthew countered with a question of his own. "What do you think?"

Kaia nibbled on her finger for a second. "Henin! I love Henin!"

Curious, Matthew asked, "Do you know a lot about tennis?"

"Of course! I've been to all four of the big tournaments!"

Cindy Crawford chimed in, "I take Kaia to a lot of the matches."

"You're very lucky," Matthew said to the girl. "You have a great mom."

Cindy smiled; a compliment from a major Hollywood star was no small thing.

Matthew chatted with Cindy for a few more minutes, the conversation centering on Kaia. It was clear how much Cindy adored her daughter.

The little girl's conversation also revealed her to be more worldly and less timid than most children her age.

The advantages of growing up in such a family were obvious. Matthew suspected that if Kaia ever decided to pursue a career in show business or modeling, she would have a smooth path ahead of her.

"Hey, Matthew!" Kaia piped up again. "You still haven't answered me. Who do you think is going to win?"

Down on the court, Maria and Justine were going through their warm-up routines in their tennis skirts.

"I think Maria will win," Matthew said, taking the opposing view.

Kaia's eyes went wide. "Why?"

Matthew, whose tennis knowledge was limited to what he'd gleaned from the newspapers since arriving in New York, thought for a moment. He gestured toward Sharapova. "Can't you see?"

"What?" Kaia shook her head.

"She's bigger and stronger!" Matthew said, recalling an article he'd read just the day before. "There's a clear trend in women's tennis these days toward more powerful, athletic players. The stronger ones tend to win."

The girl paused for a moment, then tugged on Cindy's sleeve. "Is that true, Mom?"

Cindy gave a slight nod, her eyes on the court as the match began.

The four Grand Slams of tennis, and the US Open in particular, weren't born as major events; they were meticulously marketed into that position.

"Aaaah!"

As Matthew mulled this over, a woman's shout echoed from the court, and the match officially began.

Matthew's gaze snapped to the court as Maria returned the serve, her swing accompanied by another powerful roar.

"Aaaaargh!"

It was an ear-splitting shriek, loud enough to make the crowd wince.

Kaia, sitting beside him, instinctively clamped her hands over her ears.

From then on, every one of Maria's shots was punctuated by a piercing cry, a habit so intense that it seemed to put some of the spectators on edge.