The flying garments just so happened to cover the hidden surveillance cameras.
Although the visuals were blocked, the sounds came through loud and clear.
In a monitoring room filled with screens displaying every corner of the building, Killian stared at one feed, his face darkening with every second.
"F**k! Didn't they say Asians weren't as good as Black or White guys? That's all lies!"
"He's a monster... a goddamn legend!"
A twisted kind of awe formed inside him. Primitive and raw—like that of ancient tribes watching a warrior conquer the impossible.
Meanwhile, the woman in question—supermodel Carly Crawford, widow of billionaire Quentin—was rapidly surrendering under the torrential storm that was Ryan.
Bel Air, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Los Angeles.
Ryan cruised through the winding roads in his Hellcat, Carly riding shotgun. Her golden hair fluttered in the wind, her head resting on his chest.
The car's throaty engine purred like a wildcat in heat, clawing its way through the lush, silent streets.
When they arrived at a massive estate, Carly climbed out, her face flushed and radiant.
"Madam, you're back?"The staff and security approached, relieved.
She'd disappeared without warning the night before, leaving only a note. Since there was no sign of foul play, they hadn't called the cops.
Seeing her return alive eased their nerves—until they saw Ryan.
Carly was clinging to his arm, like a schoolgirl with a crush. The staff and bodyguards were stunned.
"God… Mr. Quentin just died, and she's already moved on?""That Asian guy… is he Japanese? Korean? Damn, he's good-looking!""The funeral hasn't even happened yet. She's already got a new lover?""Maybe she had this guy lined up the whole time…"
Their whispers didn't escape Ryan's sharp hearing. But he didn't care.
After last night, Carly was fully conquered—mind and body.
She'd practically forgotten that Ryan was the one who killed her husband.
From her point of view, Ryan had done her a favor.
Carly had married Quentin for his wealth, status, and influence. But Quentin had been emotionally distant—his attention devoted entirely to his chronically ill daughter and tangled relationship with his ex-wife.
Quentin had died without a will, meaning Carly, as his legal wife, would inherit everything.
His daughter, barely surviving after a failed illegal kidney transplant, was now in the ICU.
As a stepmother, Carly had no obligation to save her again.
Which meant—Carly would soon be the sole heir of Quentin's vast fortune.
She owed it all to Ryan.
"Darling, this entire estate… is ours now.""Everything he left behind is ours!"
She twirled like a giddy kitten through the luxurious mansion, her joy bubbling over.
Ryan wrapped his arm around her waist. Despite being married, Carly had kept her supermodel figure in peak condition. She was stunning.
"Congratulations, Ms. Billionaire," Ryan smirked.
Carly giggled, giving him a sultry look.
"Wanna see his private collection?""He never let me in—not once."
She was eager to show Ryan every treasure, every secret Quentin had kept from her.
Ryan followed her to Quentin's grand study.
In the movies, rich men always had towering bookshelves filled with dusty tomes. This room was no different—ten meters high and packed with thousands of books.
But Carly wasn't here for the books.
She walked straight to a shelf, twisted a candle fixture, and—click!—a hidden latch disengaged. The shelf popped open.
Behind it was a door with a 16-digit keypad.
She hesitated, bit her lip, and then typed in the code.
"B*tch…" she hissed, the door beeped open.
"The password was his ex-wife and daughter's birthdays.""Thanks for killing him."
She spun around and kissed Ryan deeply, her anger toward her late husband boiling over.
Together, they stepped into the vault.
It was about 500 square feet—not massive, but stuffed to the brim.
"F**k! Is that Monet's Water Lilies?"
Ryan's jaw dropped.
Even by billionaire standards, this was a jaw-dropping collection.
And he hadn't even touched the best part yet.