The morning sun was cutting sharply through the high windows of the NYU athletic complex, but Pablo Gavira Páez felt like he owned every single square foot of the building. He strutted through the double glass doors of the varsity gym alongside Ana, walking with that insufferable, wide-legged stance that rich guys who lift heavily always seem to have. He was wearing his signature, battle-tested outfit: a tight electric-blue polo shirt that hugged his sculpted chest like cling wrap, fitted blue jeans held up by a heavy brown leather belt, and clean white designer sneakers. His wavy brown hair was styled to messy perfection, and he had his black American Express card tucked safely in his back pocket. He looked like he’d just walked off the set of a high-end luxury commercial, totally ready to be the hero of the day. "So, chica," Gavi hummed, looking around the spacious indoor basketball court that had been temporarily transformed into a photo studio. "Where is th...