She's Different

The outskirts of Long Island, New York.

The Lincoln sedan Cole was driving came to a stop before a massive iron gate.

They cleared the rigorous identity check and passed through, but the mansion itself was nowhere in sight. Only after cutting across what felt like an endless stretch of forest and lawn did the great house finally reveal its full grandeur.

Following the directions, the sedan swung around to the rear of the estate — and a sharp, acrid smell of gunpowder hit them at once.

Absurdly enough, an outdoor shooting range opened up before them.

"Pull!"

Bang—!

A clay pigeon soared into the air and shattered into a spray of fragments.

"Ahahaha! Did you see that?! Did you see it get completely pulverized just now?!"

Through the reek of gunpowder, a laugh rang out — pure and bright as a boy's.

Loose linen shirt, shorts. Bare feet planted in the grass. He looked far too free-spirited to be the head of a multi-billion-dollar hotel empire.

That was Christian Kingsley.

Still grinning like a delighted child, he turned at the sound of the sedan pulling up. The rear door opened, and Donovan stepped out with an easy, unhurried stride.

Kingsley cocked his head and blinked at Donovan's appearance — a black silk mask covering half his face, topped off with pitch-black sunglasses.

"So you're the specialist the Boss sent? What's with the mask and the shades? You some kind of celebrity?"

Kingsley tossed the shotgun to the butler standing beside him and strode over. At that curiosity-bright question, Donovan slipped his hands into his pockets and let out a short laugh.

"My skills are a little too good. Walking around with my face out is kind of a risk."

"Haha! That's your whole bit? You're fun."

Kingsley's eyes lit up as he leaned right into Donovan's space.

"So what are you good at? Private investigator? Digging up dirt?"

"No. I read people."

"People?"

"Yeah. One look and I see everything."

Kingsley's eyes went round.

"For real? How? Wait — is that even possible?"

"Want a demonstration?"

"Yeah! Show me."

Kingsley nodded hard, then swept the area with a mischievous look.

"Just not me… How about that guy over there?"

He jerked his chin toward a sunglassed bodyguard standing nearby.

"Tell him to take the shades off."

"Chief. You heard him. Come here a second."

At Kingsley's call, the head of security approached in silence and removed his sunglasses. Accustomed as he was to his employer's constant whims, he showed not the slightest hint of confusion at the bizarre request.

"How detailed do you want it?"

"Hmm. Give me the full treatment."

Donovan studied the security chief's face with genuine interest. The lines of the forehead — the seat of loyalty toward a superior — ran firm and unshaken as stone. And deeper still, in the eyes themselves, something far beyond professional duty had taken root: a blind, absolute devotion born of a debt too great to repay.

Satisfied, Donovan glanced at Kingsley and tossed out the verdict.

"Looks like he owes you his life. Nothing short of that would explain it."

"Oh, really?"

"That's not the kind of loyalty you get from an employee. There's a blind gratitude carved into him that no amount of money could ever shake."

At those words, the security chief's rock-steady eyes flickered — just barely. Kingsley's reaction, however, was something else entirely.

"Whoa. That actually sounds pretty convincing."

"Convincing?"

"Yeah. Technically speaking, the chief doesn't owe me his life. But it's close enough."

"So what you're saying is — the fact that it wasn't perfect makes it feel more real?"

"Exactly. If it were too perfect, I'd figure you'd just dug up his background. But this? This feels weirdly genuine. If you aimed for that sweet spot on purpose, your concept work is seriously on point."

The corner of Donovan's mouth curled with interest. Behind that sunny face sat a sharp, calculating mind. Kingsley was testing him with a perfectly reasonable dose of skepticism.

This client might actually be fun.

In no hurry, Donovan dug deeper into the security chief's face.

"Nice try. Now I can't just leave it there."

There was plenty more to say. Moisture pooled thick along the emotional lines at the outer corners of the eyes.

"You're the weepy type, surprisingly. The kind who bawls his eyes out watching movies or dramas alone, right?"

In an instant, the security chief's face went rigid as stone — as if someone had just cracked open a private secret. Kingsley couldn't hold back a laugh.

"Pfft! Is that true?"

"…Yes, sir."

At the chief's answer, Kingsley's eyes sparkled like a child's again. He circled Donovan, voice bright with excitement.

"Are you some kind of psychic?"

"Close, but a little different. My side sees a lot more — and a lot deeper."

Kingsley nodded.

"Okay. Got it completely. You're a ridiculously overpowered psychic, is what you're saying?"

He clapped his hands together and beamed.

"Ha. This is actually really fun."

Curiosity and interest at their peak, he turned to Donovan.

"You asked to meet me because there's something you want to ask me, right? Or something you want to confirm."

"That's right. I wanted to confirm what you actually want."

"Yeah? Then if you look at me longer, you'll figure out exactly what I want, won't you? And if you tell me whether you're right or wrong as we go, you'll get even more accurate?"

"Something like that."

Kingsley grabbed his coat.

"What are you waiting for, psychic? We've got real love to find!"

At that bright, unstoppable voice, Donovan let out a short laugh. The more he saw of this client, the more interesting he became.

A black Lincoln sedan glided through the streets of Manhattan. In the heavily tinted back seat, Kingsley giggled and clapped his hands.

"I'm already getting butterflies. Feels like I've ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠become some kind of secret agent."

He was buzzing like a kid with a brand-new toy. The truth was, he hadn't summoned these women today because he suspected any of them of betrayal. With tens of billions of dollars and a perfect face, he was a man destined to be loved. He simply wanted to know — among all these beauties, who loved him the most.

"Alright. Let's start with my lovely Stella."

The car stopped across from an ultra-exclusive private open-air café in SoHo. Kingsley jerked his chin toward a woman seated on the terrace — a silver-haired beauty with proportions so overwhelming she looked like she'd stepped straight off a magazine cover.

"Top model. Walked the main show at Paris Fashion Week this year. Not bad, right? She's completely obsessed with me — keeps singing about how I'm her destiny constellation or whatever."

"Destiny constellation?"

"Yeah. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I haven't even done anything for her. She just says she loves the person I am on the inside."

Kingsley grinned and looked at Donovan. Donovan rested his chin against the window, slid his sunglasses down a fraction, and swept the woman's face for a single second.

Then he snorted.

"Less destiny constellation, more destiny Black Card."

"What?"

Across the Jundu — the tip of the nose, the seat of wealth — a thick, greasy black aura of greed was crawling. Pure, undiluted avarice, without a single drop of affection mixed in.

"She's full of greed. While she's been waiting for you, she's probably been calculating how many designer bags she can squeeze out of your card limit this month."

And that wasn't all. When Donovan scanned the palace of romantic fortune at the outer corner of her eyes, murky colored auras of countless other men were plastered all over it.

"And the clincher — she's cheating on you. Not with just one or two guys, either."

Kingsley's brow tightened. He didn't explode or laugh it off. He just snorted, as if the whole thing were ridiculous.

"Hey, psychic. I get that you're good at reading people, but not my Stella. How much does she love me — and she'd cheat?"

Faced with a man who couldn't even entertain the possibility of being betrayed, Donovan shook his head.

"Cole. Lend me your phone."

He took the smartphone from Cole in the driver's seat.

"Stella's number?"

"I'll give it to you, but what are you planning to do?"

Kingsley recited the number with a wary look. Donovan hit call immediately. The dial tone rang twice over speakerphone, then a soft, silky voice came through.

"Hey, Stella. I've got some very high-resolution photos of you rolling around with quite a few different guys."

Her voice went sharp in an instant. Donovan continued in a lazy drawl.

"Don't bother lying. It wasn't one or two guys — even I was pretty impressed."

"I don't know. What do you think happens if I send these photos to Chairman Kingsley? Think your side pays better?"

A sharp intake of breath came through the line. Under the concrete pressure of the situation, her composure began to visibly crack. Then came a single trembling sentence.

Click.

Donovan ended the call without a second thought. A suffocating silence settled over the car.

"…"

Kingsley's eyes were wide enough to fall out of his head. Stupid, blank shock spread across the face of the arrogant narcissist.

"Just now… my Stella… actually…?"

He muttered it like a man whose brain had short-circuited — as if his lovely Stella couldn't possibly have done such a thing. Donovan tossed the phone back with a dry smile.

"Don't take it too hard. I'll sort the real ones from the fakes for you perfectly."

He jerked his chin forward.

"Alright, wounded Chairman. Shall we go check on love number two?"

Not long after, the car stopped in front of a high-end gallery on the Upper East Side. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, an elegant blonde in a tailored suit kept checking her watch, radiating impatience as she waited for someone.

"That's Marie. Chief director of my gallery."

The Stella incident had left a bruise, but Kingsley's inflated ego was already bouncing back.

"You know Gwen, the startup CEO who was near that café earlier? She and Marie are in an all-out blood war over me. They look at me like they want to devour me whole. The jealousy is unreal."

A challenging look — go on, try to call this one wrong too. Donovan adjusted his sunglasses and swept Marie's face in a quick pass.

A murky black aura of deceit rose ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from the tip of her nose and stretched ominously up through her brow. But the energy was strange. It wasn't whole — it looked like half a gear, precision-cut to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mesh with someone else's.

Donovan finished his assessment with a crooked smile.

"Blood war, huh. More like perfect business partners."

"…What? Business partners?"

"Yeah. She's not working alone. She's locked in tight with that Gwen woman you just mentioned."

"Ha. Locked in to do what? It's jealousy. They both love me."

"One of them pulls away, the other moves in to comfort you and bleed you dry. Then they switch. Tag-teaming your wallet — sound familiar?"

"Ha! That's hilarious!"

Kingsley barked a hollow laugh and waved him off.

"I watched Marie and Gwen grab each other by the hair at my own party with my own two eyes! And you're saying they're in on it together?"

Instead of explaining further, Donovan tapped the smartphone in Kingsley's hand.

"If you don't believe me, send Marie one text right now. I heard everything from Gwen. You were the one who told her to fake-fight over me. Just like that."

"Oh, for the love of— Fine. I'll prove it. My Marie would never."

Kingsley scoffed and fired off the message. Exactly ten seconds later, his phone erupted with an incoming call. The name on the screen: Marie.

"See?! She's calling to yell at me for talking nonsense—"

He hit speakerphone with triumphant confidence.

"…"

Click.

Kingsley ended the call with a trembling hand. The silence in the car was heavier than it had been with Stella.

"…Marie and Gwen were actually in on it together?!"

That burning jealousy directed at him — all of it a meticulously written script two women had cooked up to drain his money?

Kingsley's eyes shook as if an earthquake had hit. But his ego was viciously stubborn.

"Th-then Elia is different for real!"

He glared at Donovan with bloodshot eyes and shouted.

"Elia doesn't get jealous or whine like the others!"

He kept going, breathing hard.

"She's so cool, and we just click perfectly! It's not my money — she's completely fallen for my charm."

The car had already stopped in front of the lounge of an ultra-luxury boutique hotel. Through the glass, a woman with a boyish allure sat with her chin in her hand.

Donovan slid his sunglasses down without ceremony and scanned her. In the palace of romantic fortune at the outer corner of her eyes — the seat of attraction between men and women — there was not a single drop of affection directed at a man. Meanwhile, deep in the gaze that followed the slender female staff walking past, a raw, sticky lust had coiled itself tight.

Donovan finished the reading and let out a short laugh.

"She's not peaceful because she doesn't fight. She just doesn't see you as a man at all."

"What? Doesn't see me as a man?"

"Yeah. You're nothing more and nothing less than a fat wallet, so there's no emotional energy to waste fighting over. And the decisive part — she doesn't like men. Period. Right now she's too busy checking out the legs of every woman who walks by."

"Ha! That's rich! You should see the way she looks at me when we're together — so tender!"

The desperate denial of an arrogant man who believed he radiated perfect masculine charm. Donovan smirked and pointed out the window with his chin.

"I don't even need to explain what a real tender look looks like. Watch."

"What?"

The moment Kingsley turned, fuming — a model-tall blonde waitress approached Elia's table inside the lounge. Elia's entire demeanor flipped one hundred and eighty degrees. Across that usually cool, easygoing face spread a secretive, sticky smile she had never once shown Kingsley.

Pretending to place an order, she brushed the back of the waitress's hand, then slipped a napkin with something written on it into the apron pocket. A lethal wink to finish. As the waitress turned away, flushing, Elia licked her lips and openly tracked the woman's retreating figure.

Suffocating silence filled the car.

"…What the hell."

Kingsley's jaw hung open. Donovan delivered the finishing blow in a lazy voice.

"See that? That's a look burning with real desire. That 'tender look' you mentioned was just the warm satisfaction of staring at a well-stuffed wallet, wasn't it?"

"…M-my Elia."

Elia had never been interested in men. She was a lesbian from the start.

The car pushed through the heavy silence and stopped at its final destination — an open-air café facing Central Park. Outside the window, a pure-looking woman in a simple dress sat reading a book.

Kingsley clasped his trembling hands together and spoke in a desperate voice.

"Olivia… she has to be the real one. She's an angel. She volunteers at the animal shelter every weekend, and even when I offer to buy her expensive dinners, she just laughs and says street hot dogs taste better. She likes me for who I am."

The arrogance and swagger were gone. What remained was a raw, pleading hope — please, just let the last one be real.

"Well? She's different, right? She actually loves me, right? Please!"

Under Kingsley's desperate gaze, Donovan rested his chin against the window and looked at the woman's face. Then he opened his mouth, almost apologetically.

"…Yeah. Sorry."

"Aaaah…"