It stopped at the end of a private road, before a gate taller than any you'd ever seen. The driver didn't speak. The gate opened on its own.

Beyond it, the mansion rose like a shadow that had learned to stand still. Grey stone, dark windows, ivy creeping over the west wing like a slow, patient claim.

A man stood at the base of the front steps. Broad-shouldered. Still. His dark eyes found the car and did not look away.

The driver opened your door without a word.

The man at the steps didn't move to greet you. He simply watched. Waiting.

Somewhere behind him, through one of the tall front windows, you could see the faint shape of two small figures peering down at the drive.

Then the front door opened. A woman in a neat grey dress stepped out, hands folded. She stopped halfway down the steps, her face polite but unreadable.

The man at the steps still hadn't spoken. But his gaze hadn't shifted from you once.