Chapter 467: Scenery Along the Way

Chapter 467: Chapter 467: Scenery Along the Way

After listening to Vera Cecil’s detailed, professional, and comprehensive work report, Irene Coppola nodded slightly, her thoughts clear and logic transparent, as she calmly stated her judgment and subsequent deployments.

With a calm and precise tone, she pointed out the project’s core advantages while clarifying the boundaries of cooperation:

"First of all, we must be clear about one thing: this film entirely avoids copyright and portrait risks. Anna Wintour’s real name does not appear in the script, nor does it directly use the original title of Vogue.

I have uniformly renamed the core fashion magazine in the film to The Runway, which is a completely original fictional setting. The plot, characters, and storylines are all original adaptations.

Strictly speaking, we do not need authorization and consent from Anna Wintour herself at all; the plot adaptation is completely compliant and legal."

At the same time, Irene Coppola also knew very well how to cherish high-quality resources and be grateful for assistance:

"However, it is undeniable that the network support brought by Elizabeth, along with the all-around resource support from the Condé Nast Group in terms of real-life locations, costumes, and publicity, is an irreplaceable top-tier boost for our fashion-themed movie.

It can directly upgrade the film’s texture, saving a huge amount of cost and polishing time. We must seize and make full use of this support."

Immediately afterwards, she finalized the core work arrangements for the next step with a decisive and clear tone:

"For the upcoming actor selection stage, remember to remind me. I will officially invite Elizabeth to participate in the creator interviews and actor screening process from beginning to end.

I suppose that with her gatekeeping, she will definitely be able to help us accurately screen actors whose temperament matches, whose state is adaptable, and who can support the fashion workplace texture, perfectly matching the aesthetic standards of the Condé Nast Group.

This way, we can also smoothly pass the other party’s review and maximize the implementation of all cooperation resources."

Vera Cecil immediately responded: "Understood, I will pin this task to the top of my reminders."

As the work report concluded, the slightly tense atmosphere inside the carriage quietly relaxed, fading away the rigorous work jargon and leaving only quietness.

Irene Coppola turned her head slightly and, through the clean car window, quietly gazed at the myriad scenery of Manhattan in the morning.

This was one of the few mornings she had stepped into the core urban area of New York.

Unlike the flamboyant gaudiness of the nightlife, Manhattan in the morning possessed a restraint and sophistication unique to an elite metropolis.

The straight and orderly city streets were spotless, and the staggered skyscrapers pierced the sky.

Old and new buildings set off each other; the retro European-style stone buildings were solemn and elegant, while the modern glass curtain wall buildings were neat and stern, and the two styles collided to create a modern texture unique to New York.

Gentle morning light fell down, refracting shattered and dazzling silver light on countless glass facades, overlapping layer upon layer, filling the eyes with a high-end yet aloof prosperity.

The luxury shops along the street all opened their doors wide, and the transparent floor-to-ceiling showcases meticulously displayed the current season’s haute couture ready-to-wear, jewelry accessories, and art exhibits.

Every placement and every decoration had been precisely polished, exquisitely meticulous.

The pedestrians coming and going on the road walked with a calm yet hurried pace, uniformly dressed in neat and exquisite business attire.

The men were in crisp suits with upright postures, and the women had exquisite makeup and elegant outfits.

Everyone carried the capable aura unique to urban elites, walking hastily to their respective workplaces.

Everything here was orderly, exquisite, and gorgeous, and every inch of land exuded a meticulously carved nobility, everywhere presenting a top-tier urban landscape brimming with a sense of order.

The magnificence of this city was deliberate, tense, and carried the aloofness of the elite circle.

Everyone was swept along in the fast-paced torrent, not daring to relax or slack off, and behind every bit of glamour lay the shackles of high pressure.

Compared to this exquisite, cold, and step-by-step orderly urban gaudiness, she had always preferred the look of California.

What California had in abundance was the unbridled warm sunshine, long and gentle coastlines, and the relaxing sea breeze brushing against the face—no harsh dressing rules, no urgent workplace rhythm, and no deliberately carved sophistication.

The wind there was free, the sunshine was passionate, and life was casual and relaxed.

One did not need to maintain exquisite decency at all times, nor chase the nonstop urban rhythm; one only needed to follow their heart and stretch out freely.

New York’s magnificence was meant to be looked up to and rushed towards with tension, while California’s sunshine was meant to be healed and enjoyed.

For Irene Coppola, who favored relaxation and freedom deep in her bones, the latter would always capture her heart more.

As her thoughts flowed, the half-hour car ride quietly came to an end.

The black sedan slowly drove into the core business district of Lower Manhattan, and finally parked steadily right in front of One World Trade Center, which was the headquarters of the world’s top media giant Condé Nast Group, and also an industry landmark in the hearts of countless fashion and media practitioners.

Vera Cecil moved briskly and professionally, pushing the door open to get out at the first moment, quickly walking around to the back seat, and then respectfully pulling open the car door to wait for Irene Coppola to get off.

Irene Coppola leaned forward slightly to step out of the carriage.

The moment she straightened her figure, she subconsciously raised her eyes and looked up at the iconic skyscraper soaring straight into the sky before her.

One World Trade Center was constructed entirely with a minimalist glass and steel structure, featuring smooth, neat lines and a simple yet grand atmosphere.

It discarded cumbersome decorations and stood in the core location of Manhattan with ultimate modern aesthetics.

The entire building was towering and upright, reaching straight to the sky.

Enveloped in the morning sunlight, it emitted a cool, high-end matte luster, overlooking the entire Manhattan urban area and riverside scenery, carrying the grand aura and authoritative texture of a top-tier media group.

Solemn, gorgeous, and with outstanding style, it was one of New York’s irreplaceable urban calling cards.

Looking up and gazing at this top workplace landmark that countless people dreamed of, a trace of long-sealed, fragmented memories quietly welled up deep in Irene Coppola’s heart.

In her past life, when she was still studying, she, like countless ordinary girls with urban dreams, once harbored a naive yet passionate yearning for the workplace.

At that time, she had seen the appearance of those luxury buildings countless times on the internet and in magazines, and had countless times fantasized about her future self: dressed in exquisitely tailored professional attire, stepping in sharp high heels, shuttling through bright and clean high-end office buildings, dealing with the elite circle, doing glamorous and decent work, and living out the appearance of an independent and dazzling urban elite in everyone’s eyes.

Youthful aspirations were pure and superficial, obsessed with superficial glamour and the halo of identity bestowed by landmark buildings, mistakenly believing that being in such a building was the greatest achievement of one’s life.

Now standing at the foot of this building again, those naive yearnings had long since quietly dissipated.

She no longer needed to rely on any landmark buildings or workplace auras to define her value; today, she had long surpassed the height she once looked up to.

Irene Coppola shook her head gently, tenderly brushing away the private nostalgic thoughts deep in her heart, completely clearing out distractions, and turning all her attention back to work.

Her gaze instantly returned to a calm and professional state, sweeping carefully across the building’s facade, the surrounding streets, pedestrian blocks, and road layout, meticulously inspecting the feasibility of location shooting here from the professional perspective of a film creator.