"Miss. Are you all right?"

"Nothing happened."

"That's a relief."

"He's just an investor. I think it's safe to lower him to Green."

"We should confirm a little more..."

"Cormier, don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Then do it."

"Understood."

"And... keep the shadows as far back as you can. They stand out too much."

"...I'll take care of it."

"I'll call Dad myself. Thanks for everything."

"Get some rest."

The dry, businesslike call ended.

A Tribeca penthouse, with Manhattan spread out below it.

The owner who'd paid thirty million dollars for it was a woman.

The floor area alone ran to hundreds of pyeong.

Manhattan filled the view in every direction, a full three hundred sixty degrees.

Apart from a few tall towers, everything lay at its feet.

From the swimming pool to the living room ceiling more than six meters high, it was luxury at its peak.

"Haah."

The mistress of this summit of wealth stood at the window and let out a long sigh.

Yesterday she'd been out of her mind, as if Cupid's arrow had struck her in the chest.

The moment she saw the back of the man who'd painted that picture, she'd nearly sunk to the floor.

A heat that wouldn't cool had been steaming off his whole body.

She'd gotten hooked on the pheromones only a strong man gives off.

He'd been leaving, and she'd stopped him.

"Was it a mistake? Or..."

Sara's heart was in turmoil.

She'd fallen for the delicious food and the man's wit.

It wasn't just painting—he knew wine and music inside out too.

He had better manners and more knowledge than all the upper-crust heirs she'd met.

They'd laughed and talked, and then it was time to say goodbye.

Sara had steeled herself.

That kind of heat in her own feelings was new to her.

She'd grown up in a strict family.

All the way through high school, she'd been at a girls' boarding school.

In college she'd been swamped, double-majoring in art history and business.

Her father's bodyguards had always been around her, watching.

And…