The drive to Aethelred & Finch was a study in contrasts. Davon guided the anonymous black Camry through the morning traffic, away from the gritty, neon-stained streets surrounding the Micheline and into a district where money didn’t just talk—it whispered from behind immaculate, soundproofed glass. The buildings here were monuments to quiet power, their architecture sleek and intimidating. He parked in a subterranean garage that smelled of polished concrete and wealth, the air humming with the near-silent purr of luxury vehicles.
The lobby of Aethelred & Finch was a cavern of cold elegance. A vast, marble floor reflected the light from a monumental abstract sculpture that twisted towards the ceiling. The air was still and scentless, as if all the chaos of the outside world had been filter
