The car'sinterior smelled of expensive leather and subtle cologne, the luxurious appointments making my modest clothing feel even more inadequate. The driver, a mountain ofa man with cropped hair and a stony expression, had opened the rear door without speaking, his posture making it clear that waiting wasn't an option.
“Evening,” I said as I settled into the supple leather seat, feeling absurdly as though I should apologise for potentially leaving common-folk residue on the pristine upholstery.
The driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, assessing me with professional detachment. “Mr. Hastings,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. “I am Viktor. I handle security for Mr. Calloway.” The introduction felt significant, though I couldn't quite determine why.
As we pulled away from my building, I watched familiar Brixton landmarks slide past the window. Streets I'd navigated countless times suddenly felt alien when viewed through the tinted windows of a luxury vehicle. The bodega where I bought late-night essentials after hospital shifts. The pub where Mika occasionally dragged me for “forced socialisation.” The park where I sometimes sat between shifts, grabbing moments of peace before returning to the chaos of the emergency department.
We travelled through progressively wealthier London neighbourhoods, the architecture growing more imposing, the streets cleaner, the pedestrians more elaborately adorned. I watched my London dissolve into another version of itself, one I recognised primarily from treating its residents during my hospital shifts. Chelsea, Kensington, areas where wealth accumulated like sedimentary layers, building upon generations of privilege.
“Mr. Calloway values punctuality,” Viktor offered unexpectedly as we passed through Hampstead's tree-lined streets. His eyes briefly met mine in the mirror again, conveying something beyond the simple statement. “And clarity. Speak directly. He dislikes ambiguity.”
The advice felt like both assistance and warning, a cryptic orientation to the world I was about to enter. “Thanks,” I replied, uncertain how else to respond.
My medical training kicked in as I noticed the security measures at each intersection. Unmarked vehicles positioned strategically, men who appeared casual but tracked our car with subtle vigilance, the occasional earpiece visible despite attempts at concealment. We were being monitored and protected simultaneously, a realisation that sent a chill down my spine despite the car's comfortable temperature.
“First time visiting Ravenswood?” Viktor asked, breaking another stretch of silence.
“First time hearing of it,” I admitted.
Viktor nodded, as if this confirmed something. “Mr. Calloway appreciates that you came without extensive research. Shows trust.”
Or desperation, I thought but didn't say. The distinction felt increasingly meaningless.
The neighbourhoods transformed into genuine countryside with surprising speed, London's urban density giving way to sprawling estates and ancient trees. We turned onto a private road where elaborate stone columns supported ornate iron gates. Beyond stretched a driveway that curved through manicured grounds, disappearing into dense woodland that obscured whatever lay ahead.
“Ravenswood,” Viktor announced as the gates swung open automatically, responding to some unseen signal. Security cameras tracked our progress, small red lights blinking from discreet positions in the stonework. “Mr. Calloway's private residence.”
The estate revealed itself gradually as we followed the winding drive. First came glimpses through the trees, then a full view that momentarily stole my breath. The mansionloomed against the darkening sky, Gothic revival architecture creating an imposing silhouette that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Victorian novel. Turrets rose at irregular intervals, windows glowed with warm light, and stone gargoyles perched along the roofline, their weathered faces watching our approach with permanent suspicion.
My throat tightened with apprehension as Viktor parked at the bottom of a grand staircase leading to enormous double doors. This wasn't merely a house; it was a statement of power, of generational wealth, of a world operating by different rules than the one I inhabited.
“Mr. Calloway is expecting you,” Viktor said, opening my door with unexpected courtesy. “Follow me, please.”
I stepped out into the cool evening air, acutely aware of my every movement being observed by unseen eyes. Security personnel positioned throughout the grounds maintained an illusion of invisibility while missing nothing. The weight of surveillance prickled against my skin as I followed Viktor up the stone staircase toward whatever awaited me inside.
The mansion's entryway dwarfed me, marble floors and soaring ceilings designed specifically to intimidate visitors. Paintings that belonged in museums hung casually on wood-panelled walls, illuminated by discreet lighting that highlighted brushstrokes created by masters centuries dead. A crystal chandelier cast rainbow prisms across the space, its delicate tinkling the only sound besides our footsteps on the polished floor.
I felt immediately, profoundly out of place—a sensation apparently shared by precisely no one else in the history of this entranceway, judging by the confident portraits of Calloway ancestors watching my discomfort with aristocratic disdain.
A silver-haired woman appeared from a side corridor, her posture regal despite her advanced years. She wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than three months of my salary, herhair swept into an immaculate style that somehow conveyed both sophistication and authority. Sharp eyes evaluated me with a single glance, cataloguing details I couldn't begin to imagine.
“Mr. Hastings,” she greeted me, her voice cultured and precise. “Welcome to Ravenswood. I'm Sophia Calloway. Adrian will see you shortly.”
Viktor nodded respectfully to the woman before disappearing down another corridor, his departure silent despite his substantial size. Sophia beckoned me to follow her, moving with the unconscious grace of someone who had never questioned her place in the world.
“I hope your journey was comfortable,” she remarked as we walked through corridors lined with more artwork and occasional sculptures on marble pedestals. “Viktor drives rather aggressively when Adrian isn't present to moderate his enthusiasm.”
“It was fine,” I responded, struggling to maintain my composure amid such overwhelming opulence. Each room we passed revealed new wonders: a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a music room where a grand piano gleamed under soft lighting, sitting areas arranged with furniture that belonged in museums.
Sophia led me to a sitting room that could have fit my entire flat with space to spare. A fireplace large enough to stand in dominated one wall, a tasteful arrangement of antique furniture creating intimate conversation areas despite the room's substantial dimensions.
“Please, sit,” she instructed, gesturing toward a velvet-upholstered chair positioned near a polished side table. “Tea?”
When I accepted out of politeness, she poured from an ornate silver service with practiced grace, the ritual clearly second nature to her. The china cup she offered wasso delicate I feared it might shatter in my clumsy, hospital-roughened hands.
“My grandson mentioned your sister's condition,” Sophia said casually, stirring her own tea. “Autoimmune, yes? Such cruel conditions, attacking the body from within.”
I tensed at the mention of Isabelle, my fingers tightening imperceptibly around the fragile teacup. “Yes,” I responded cautiously, unwilling to discuss my sister but unable to be directly rude to my hostess. “May I ask how Mr. Calloway knows about my personal situation?”
