Park Avenue, on the upper east side of Manhattan, is the wealthiest neighborhood in New York City. Where the people at the top of the latter live, the upper crust, the ultra rich. Anyone who is anyone knows that Park Avenue is the address of the masters of the universe, the home of more billionaires than any other neighborhood in the United States. Yes, Park Avenue is the holy grail for a certain kind of new yorker. But Park Avenue is about more than money, it is about power and the American dream. Located on Park Avenue between 56th and 57th Streets, is 432 Park Avenue, the tallest residential skyscraper in New York -- the Western Hemisphere’s tallest residential tower is the most trendy and hottest address in all Manhattan. 432 Park’s larger-than-life presence and slender silhouette overlooking Central Park has garnered the attention of the rich and famous around the globe. Proving the age old adage that Park Avenue is and has always been the hub for the 1% of the 1%. Middle Eastern oil magnets, Chinese billionaires, Russian oligarchs, and even Latin American aristocracy purchased space in the cathedral to uber-wealth. To some people having a luxury address on Park Avenue means they are part of the UHNW class of individuals, for others it means they are in the game -- a game anyone can play if their pockets are deep enough. For the last six hours nine bulky build men carried marked boxes and exquisite contemporary furniture into 432 Park Avenue. A new tenant was moving in to the luxurious 96-story building, a woman no stranger to sophisticated charm and modernist living. The movers were almost finished, and quite impressed with the palladian proportioned space, but nothing else was more captivating than the exquisite panoramic view of the city landscape. 10’ x 10’ windows took in, all around, the entire city below, from the hudson to the east river, from the bronx to brooklyn, from central park to the atlantic ocean. Standing near one of the windows was a beautiful woman with wild gold locks, and a slender hourglass figure. One of the movers with papers in hand walked up to her, he cleared his throat to get her attention -- Joana looked so distant, so detached from where she stood the man felt like he was invading her space. After what felt like a long moment he finally tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Mrs. Townsend, we are finish here.” “Oh, yes, right…” Joana said, somewhat startled but more embarrassed than anything else. “...Let me get my purse.” Joana walked toward the kitchen’s monolithic bespoke marble island-counter where she had set-down the designer bag and pulled out a money purse. She grabbed a couple of Jackson', more than she originally had planned, and tip the mover. He asked her to sign the papers and handed back a receipt. “You have yourself a great day, Mrs. Townsend.” he said, before exiting the apartment. Joana closed the door behind them. She kept her ex-husband’s last name. It was a business decision. She was renowned as Jo Townsend, the art world’s tastemaker, a successful art dealer, with a respectable reputation in new york’s art dealing circles. She had published a 19-piece portfolio exploring the way artists were incorporating photography into their work, which literally put her on the map. She made the right connections in the art world, the right acquaintances in high society, had jetted around the world setting up curated booths at international art fairs, scouring far-flung studios and art schools for the next crop of talented artists, and made a great deal of money promoting and exhibiting the work of the artists she discovered. But most importantly she built a collection of art net worth over $30 million. Deep down she was not ready to give up the name that made her. She worked too hard to get where she was, and she was damn proud of herself. She took a moment to take it all in, the minimalist interior design inline with the views of new york, the classic oak herringbone wood flooring, the natural light coming in, and in her mind she imagined what it will look like when every small piece of art and decor was set in place. The phone chimed, caller ID revealed it was her son, Bo, she answered right away. “Bo! You have to come see this place. Where are you?” “I just got out of class--” “Then I shall see you soon--” Bo didn’t really want to see his mother, but he recognized the emotion in her voice, and it stir in him a sense of duty that only a son and mother can possess. “What’s the address again?” Bo asked, hailing a yellow cab with his free hand.