Black iron. Custom-made.
Beyond it, a driveway that curved through manicured grounds so precise they looked architectural rather than natural, leading up to a house that I was already struggling to find the right word for.
Mansion felt small.
The security at the gate didn't stop the taxi. They didn't ask for ID or make a call or do any of the things I had been mentally preparing myself for during the ride over. They just looked at the car — looked at me through the window — and the gate began to move, like they already knew my face.
I didn't know what to do with that, so I filed it away and watched the grounds slide past the window as the driver followed the curve of the driveway up toward the entrance.
I reached for my bag, and my door handle at the same time, the moment the car came
