The car rolled to a stop in front of the Mercer Hotel, its matte-black paint swallowing the Manhattan morning light.Izaac stayed still for a moment, watching the reflection of the street in the tinted glass. In Malaysia, he couldn't walk ten feet without someone recognizing him from a news piece, an investment feature, or whispered business gossip.
Here in New York, he was nobody.That suited him fine.
He stepped out — six-foot-three, 103 kilos, tailored charcoal coat falling in a clean line over a dark turtleneck. His driver pulled his luggage from the trunk: two carry-ons and one battered leather duffel. No entourage, no photographers. Just the faint smell of roasted coffee from a nearby café, the dull thud of a delivery truck slamming its doors, and the low murmur of morning conversations.
The Mercer's doorman straightened. "Mr. Izaac… welcome to New York."There was a pause — the kind people make when they think they should know your face but don't.
As Izaac walked past, the doorman's eyes caught the glint on his wrist."Nice Vacheron," the guard muttered to his colleague by the revolving door.
His colleague glanced once, then blinked. "That's not just a Vacheron, man. That's a Traditionnelle Minute Repeater Tourbillon. Limited to… what, eight pieces? You could buy this hotel twice for what that's worth."
The doorman gave a low whistle. "Guess he's not here on vacation."
The suite wasn't large by his standards, but the view was better than any penthouse he'd stayed in Kuala Lumpur: a stretch of SoHo rooftops under pale winter light. He let the silence sink in. New York had its own rhythm — loud, impatient, unapologetic.
He unpacked in minutes, placing his laptop on the desk, the watch case beside it. The rest could wait. His meeting was in three hours.
The first one for his American dream.
Three hours later
The restaurant was discreet, the kind where celebrities met behind frosted glass and deals were made over unbranded wine bottles. He'd chosen it because it wasn't in Page Six's usual circuit — and because the man across from him valued privacy as much as he did.
"I'll be blunt," the American investor said, folding his hands over the table. "We liked your pitch. We just don't think an audience here… cares about a Malaysian talk show host."
Izaac didn't flinch. "It's not about me. It's about the format. You've seen the test episodes. It works."
The man smiled the way people do when they think they're about to win. "It works there. But here… no one's waiting for you."
Izaac leaned back, letting the silence stretch just a hair too long. Then he smiled — small, almost apologetic. "That's the point. They're not waiting for me. Which means they won't see me coming."
By nightfall, the deal was dead.
He walked back to the hotel under a thin drizzle, passing strangers who didn't glance twice. The city didn't care about his past, his quiet fortune, or the fact that his name opened doors in Southeast Asia.
And that, he thought, might be his greatest advantage.