A CARPENTER ARRIVED TO FIX A DOOR IN THE MILLIONAIRE'S HOUSE AND FROZE WHEN HE SAW HIS PHOTO...

A CARPENTER ARRIVED TO FIX A DOOR IN THE MILLIONAIRE'S HOUSE AND FROZE WHEN HE SAW HIS PHOTO... The Manhattan morning sun cast long shadows across Fifth Avenue as Jason Reynolds pulled his old pickup truck alongside the immaculate sidewalk fronting the Robertson mansion. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, running a calloused hand through his dark hair, noticing the flecks of gray that had appeared in recent years. At thirty-eight, Jason's face carried the weathered look of a man who worked with his hands—handsome in a rugged way, with eyes that revealed both strength and sadness. "Don't embarrass me," he muttered to his truck as he gathered his toolbox and the portfolio containing his restoration sketches. The contrast between his vehicle and the luxury cars lining the street couldn't have been more stark. The Robertson mansion stood like an ancient fortress amid the modern high-rises—a relic of old New York money that refused to bow to changing times. Three stories of weathered limestone with arched windows and intricate cornices, it whispered of secrets and old wealth.