The drive to Miss Claire’s home took just over thirty minutes, the road ahead unfolding in long, quiet stretches. The radio filled the silence with low, steady music, but neither spoke much. The only time she broke the calm was to ask, in her usual composed way, if she could smoke in the car. Don had simply said yes. He already knew the shape of her estate from the research he’d done before—articles, photographs, aerial shots—but seeing it in person was another matter entirely. The road wound through heavy woodland on one side, the trees dense enough to blot out sections of the sky, while on the other, thinner stretches revealed glimpses of the coastline beyond. Sunlight shifted in brief flashes between the branches, the occasional cry of gulls cutting through the muffled hum of the engine. He followed the curves until the road tilted left, a small sign marking the private turn. Even through the trees ahead, the mansion was visible—stone arches and towering windows catching faint glints of light. The style was pure renaissance: carved balconies, grand columns, the kind of building that looked like it had been plucked out of a European estate and dropped here by force of will. The paved road ended abruptly at the final turn, giving way to a smooth but unpaved lane, lined with tall, evenly spaced lamp posts. The Mustang rolled to a slow stop at the gates—a pair of wrought iron panels in an intricate pattern, framed by carved stone pillars. Through the gaps, the mansion loomed against the slightly clouded sky. Two men in suits stood on either side of the gate. Both were broad-shouldered, with clean-shaven scalps and earpieces tucked in their ears, the kind of silent presence that didn’t need to posture. One of them stepped forward as Don lowered the window. The guard’s eyes swept the interior once, then settled on Miss Claire. "Good afternoon, ma’am." She exhaled a stream of smoke out the window before answering. "Afternoon, Mutambo. Is all well?" "Yes, ma’am," he said in a voice that was low but firm. After a glance toward Don, he added, "Welcome, sir." Mutambo stepped back, gesturing to the other guard. A quick word into his earpiece, and the gates eased open with a low mechanical hum. rrgh ~ Inside, the grounds stretched wider than Don expected. Perfectly cut lawns rolled out on either side, intersected by paved walking paths bordered with sculpted shrubs. A peacock strutted lazily in the distance, its tail dragging like an afterthought, while two swans glided across a pond that featured a marble sculpture rising from its center. The place felt less like a private home and more like a resort that catered only to the absurdly wealthy. The drive from the gate to the front steps took almost a full minute. Dogs started barking before he even brought the car to a stop. Miss Claire had finished her cigarette by then, her gaze still cast outward, the clouded sky hanging low enough to give the estate a soft, almost painted look. "I hope you don’t have an issue with dogs," she said without looking over. "My darlings tend to get excited when something unfamiliar comes near." "Not at all," Don replied as he cut the engine. The moment he stepped out, he saw them—two Dobermans, lean and muscled, barking with quick, sharp bursts as they closed the distance. Don met their eyes for barely a second, and both went silent, breaking into a run around the car to position themselves behind Miss Claire instead. She was already bending slightly to stroke two other Dobermans, these with sleeker collars in silver and blue. They were calmer, their tails moving with slow, expectant sways. When the first pair pressed up behind her, still brimming with energy but barking from their new vantage point, she glanced over her shoulder. "Goodness, what is it with you two?" Her eyes shifted to Don, brows lifting. "How did you manage to make them retreat? They rarely do so, even when I tell them to behave." Don only gave a small shrug. "I’m not quite sure, honestly." A hint of a smile touched her lips, but she didn’t push for an answer. She turned toward the front steps, her heels clicking lightly against the stone. "Well then," she said, "please do come in." The interior of the house matched the grandeur of its façade—perhaps even outdid it. Every inch of the place seemed touched by a hand that valued precision. The marble floors were so clean they almost reflected the ornate gold and dark wood details above, while the air carried a faint, warm scent of polished wood and fresh flowers. Don’s eyes roamed freely, but there was too much to take in. Every chandelier, every carved banister, every piece of molding demanded attention, yet it was impossible to settle on a single detail and say this was the most impressive. Miss Claire didn’t linger on pleasantries once inside. A short exchange with an older maid was all it took before she excused herself to get changed, leaving Don in the woman’s care. She was the kind of older woman one might expect to see in the service of an English country estate—a gentle face aged by fine lines, framed by perfectly arranged grey hair. Her traditional maid’s attire was elegant rather than plain, the black fabric crisp and the white apron pressed without a single crease. A pair of small, oval spectacles rested on her nose, and the polite curve of her smile never once slipped as she guided him through the house. Her voice, when she spoke, carried a polished British accent, not the kind picked up from films, but the kind formed in drawing rooms and old halls. "And this," she began, as they stepped into a wide hallway lined with tall portraits, "is what we call the Lineage Hall." The paintings were striking—oil on canvas, the colors rich but aged, each frame an artwork in its own right. At first glance, Don assumed these were historical figures pulled from the pages of this world’s history books. But the maid paused in front of the first portrait, depicting a young woman in elaborate royal attire, her gaze sharp yet dignified. "This," the maid said, her hand lifting slightly toward the image, "is Princess Éloise de Valcourt, fourteenth princess of Lécartienne, and sixth in line to the French throne during the Era of Sable Courts." Don studied the painting with new interest. "Wow... I never thought Miss Claire came from a royal lineage." The older woman’s smile deepened, polite but touched with pride. "The royal status of the family has been formally nonexistent for over a century, so it is, as they say, history now. However, it is the reason the Madam bears no formal surname. Officially, she—much like other members of the bloodline—is addressed solely by her name and her birth region." That was news to him. He’d dug through every available source on Miss Claire before, but this detail had either been buried too deep or intentionally kept out of public reach. "So... what’s Miss Claire’s name? Or is it a title?" The maid’s eyes glimmered faintly with amusement. "You should ask her yourself. She is, after all, your partner for the evening." Don chuckled lightly. "I’m more like a plus one, I think." She shook her head with an unhurried grace, her own chuckle soft but knowing. "Nonsense. The Madam would never carelessly choose someone to appear with at an important public spectacle. I do not know how you achieved this, young man, but she most certainly trusts you to an extent." "You seem so sure," Don replied, still humoring the conversation. "I have watched over the Madam since she was a child. I am well aware of her manner toward new people in her life. I only ask that you do not betray this trust... or I shall deal with you myself." She said it in the same refined tone, yet the sudden firmness made it land. Whether she was joking or not, Don couldn’t quite tell. They reached the end of the hallway and emerged into a hall—a vast open space where polished marble stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling. Two grand staircases curved up from either side, meeting at a balcony that overlooked the hall. The banisters were carved dark wood, and the faint golden glow from the chandeliers made the space feel almost ceremonial. Find the newest release on ⓝovelFire.net From above, a voice—low, smooth, and carrying effortlessly—spoke. The sound echoed faintly in the high space. Don didn’t need to look to know it was her.