The purr of a V12 engine drifted up the street like a promise. From his balcony, Izaac spotted it — a black Ferrari 812 Superfast gliding toward the curb, paint so deep it seemed to drink the Manhattan sunset.
The driver's door opened, and Henry Golding stepped out. Impeccably dressed in a soft charcoal polo and tailored trousers, his easy smile carried the weight of someone who belonged everywhere he went.
Henry glanced up, spotted Izaac, and grinned. "You're not staying in all night, are you?"
Minutes later, Izaac was in the passenger seat, the cabin a blend of leather, faint cologne, and the low growl of the engine. The door shut with a satisfying click.
"New York's not going to come knocking on your door," Henry said, merging into the traffic with practiced ease. "You want in, you've got to show up in the rooms where people talk when cameras aren't rolling."
"I've been making calls," Izaac replied.
Henry smirked. "Calls don't build trust. Faces do. And trust me, the people we're seeing tonight? They'll remember a face. Especially one wearing—" he glanced at Izaac's wrist "—one of the rarest Vacherons in existence. You know the guy at the door's going to think it's just a nice watch until his friend whispers what it's actually worth, right?"
Izaac allowed himself the smallest smile.
As they drove, Henry added casually, "Oh, by the way — someone asked about you the other night. Madison Beer. Don't know what you did or said, but she seemed curious. Just thought you should know." He let the words hang in the air without elaborating.
The Ferrari slid into a private garage beneath an unmarked SoHo building, bypassing the valet line. Inside, a hidden loft buzzed with quiet energy — warm lighting, clinking glasses, the low hum of jazz. No red carpets, no gawkers, just the industry's inner circle scattered in clusters of conversation.
Henry moved through the room with the ease of someone who'd been doing this for years, pausing here for a handshake, there for a quick word. They stopped by a small group near the bar.
Emily Blunt stood among them, wearing a deep emerald silk blouse that seemed to shift color with every move. Her laugh — low and genuine — pulled attention without asking for it.
She turned as Henry approached, her expression brightening. "Henry!" she said warmly, giving him a quick hug before her gaze slid to Izaac. "And who's your friend?"
"This is Izaac," Henry said. "New to New York, but not new to making waves. He's the kind of guy who gives media execs headaches."
Emily's handshake was confident, her eyes holding his for a fraction longer than necessary. "Headaches?" she teased. "I might like you already."
They talked — about streaming trends, the strange rhythm of audience tastes, and the way sincerity was becoming the new currency in entertainment. Emily was sharp, quick to challenge and quicker to listen. At one point she leaned in slightly, voice softer, "You know, most people who come here talk like they're auditioning. You don't. I like that."
A server passed with champagne; Emily declined but touched Izaac's arm lightly before excusing herself to greet someone else — a small, deliberate gesture that told him the conversation wasn't over.
The night unfolded in introductions: a documentary director looking for international backers, a fashion editor curious about Asian market crossovers, a young investor who knew his name before they'd even been introduced. Nobody asked him where he came from with suspicion — only with interest.
On the drive back, the city lights reflected off the Ferrari's hood like scattered gold.
"You fit in tonight," Henry said casually.
"Fit in, or stood out?" Izaac asked.
Henry smiled. "Both. That's the sweet spot."
Izaac leaned back, silent for a moment. This wasn't just another night in a new city. It was the first step into the rooms where power moved quietly — and where he intended to stay.