chapter 3

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My flight arrived at 4pm at NYC.

I made my way downstairs, amazed at the capital city , nothing on me except a bag filled with papers , two phones and a flashdrive. I halted the next the next cab to come my way , taking me to my next stop .

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The cab pulls up to a massive wrought-iron gate, and I can already feel the unease creeping up my spine. This place is nothing like the cramped apartments I’ve called home before. The driver’s eyes widen as he peers out the window, and I can’t blame him. Even I’m not sure how to react.

I step out, the gate creaking open as if it’s been expecting me. The air smells different here....cleaner, almost sweet, like something foreign. Flowers? I hesitate, looking up at the towering mansion in front of me. It's a stone fortress, beautiful in an intimidating, "you don’t belong here" kind of way. My feet feel heavy as I move toward the front door.

The door swings open before I even knock.

Of course. He controls everything.

Inside, it’s worse. Marble floors, sweeping staircases, chandeliers that look like they cost more than my last five scams combined. My breath catches in my throat. I shouldn’t be here. But this is the life my boss expects me to get used to now. Like this is normal. Like I’m supposed to fit in among all this luxury, all this... opulence.

I set down my bag on the polished floor, my footsteps echoing through the hall as I walk deeper inside. The air feels cool, too cool for my liking, but maybe that’s just the nerves. I let my hand trail along the banister, feeling the smoothness of the wood, as I make my way toward the back of the mansion, where floor-to-ceiling windows reveal what’s outside.

And then I see it.

The garden.

It’s breathtaking—almost unnatural in its beauty. The manicured hedges, rows of blooming flowers in every shade of color I can imagine, and a fountain in the center, its water sparkling like it’s pulled straight from some fairy tale. I press my hand against the glass, trying to picture the kind of person who would enjoy a garden like this, who would stroll through it without a care in the world.

I push open the door leading to the terrace, stepping outside. The sunlight hits my face, warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the icy chill inside the mansion. I breathe in, the scent of roses filling the air. It’s... perfect. Too perfect.

I wander through the garden, my fingers grazing the soft petals of the flowers as I pass by. The fountain’s quiet trickle is the only sound, almost lulling me into a sense of peace. But I can’t let it.

This isn’t my life. It’s borrowed. Like everything else in this scheme.

My boss might think this is what I need to pull off the job, but this place—it’s a gilded cage. A distraction. I glance back at the mansion looming behind me, and a knot tightens in my stomach. He’s not doing this out of generosity. This is about control.

I take one last look at the garden before turning back inside, the heavy door closing behind me with a soft click.

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My legs give out , I fall to the ground, my knees straddling the cold marble floor beneath me , I reach my bag over my head , flipping it over I dump all the papers onto the floor and proceed to analyze.

The man's name is **Tristan Agress**...

he's about **27 of age **

Not the average British Korean

CEO of Agress technologies. Born in London, moved to New York when he was sixteen. Attended some prestigious private school—naturally. Fluent in English and Korean, with conversational Mandarin. There’s a cold perfection to it all, like everything about him was meticulously crafted for success..... No gaps..... No mistakes.

I scan further. **Six-foot-five.** That catches my attention. It’s one thing to read numbers, another to imagine standing next to someone that tall. My mind conjures an image of him—tall, commanding, a man used to having people look up, both figuratively and literally.

Then I hit the part about his eyes. **Dark brown eyes, almost pitch black in photographs.** That line sticks with me. I wonder what they look like in person. Can people really see that depth, or do they just glance over him, too intimidated to notice anything past the surface?

The more I read, the more this file feels like a carefully curated resume. His corporate victories, his real estate portfolio—London, Seoul, New York, all the major cities. He’s everywhere. **Favorite drink: black coffee, no sugar.** There’s no surprise there. It fits with everything else I’m seeing—efficient, no nonsense, someone who doesn’t waste time or energy on indulgences.

But something feels off. As I flip through the pages, I realize there’s nothing here about a personal life. ....No scandals...... No romantic history......Not even rumors. Either he’s a master at keeping his private life hidden, or there’s something else going on. No one’s this clean, especially not someone with this much power at such a young age.

I set the papers down for a second, leaning back on my hands. **Tristan Agress**. He’s a ghost in some ways—his life carefully constructed, with no obvious cracks. But everyone has weaknesses. I just need to find his.

I gather the papers back into the folder, but the image of those dark eyes lingers in my mind. This is more than just a target. This is a man who could unravel everything if I’m not careful.

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