Evelyn Sun's estate was a fortress of modern decadence carved into the hills of Beverly Hills. As the gates hummed open, the driveway revealed a fleet that looked like a curated showroom of excess. There was a Bentley Continental GT in a deep, shimmering emerald, a blood-red Ferrari F8 that looked like it was idling at two hundred miles per hour, a blacked-out GMC Yukon Denali for the heavy lifting, and a RangeRover Autobiography for the daily errands. It was a testament to the sheer, unfiltered wealth being generated by her digital empire.
The mansion itself was "Old Money" architecture—limestone pillars, ivy-covered brick, and ironwork that felt like it belonged to a European consulate. It was a masterclass in taste; Evelyn wasn't just making money, she was refining it.
A maid in a crisp uniform met us in the vaulted hallway, her voice a quiet murmur as she informed us that Miss Sun was expecting us by the poolside.
