Chapter 7 - Gates of Iron and Stone
The Maybach rolled up a quarter-mile private drive flanked by towering, weeping willow trees draped in cold autumn mist.
At the end of the drive stood the house.
It wasn't a mansion. It was a limestone estate that looked like a Gothic fortress transplanted from the Scottish highlands into the heart of Westchester County. Towering stone archways, dark slate roofs, and hundreds of tall, diamond-paned windows glowed with a pale, amber light against the dark forest behind it.
The car came to a smooth halt beneath a massive portico.
Marco was already out, opening the door before the vehicle had even fully settled.
“Welcome home, Master Michael,” Marco said gently, bending down to help the half-asleep boy out of the car.
Mikey rubbed his eyes, blinking up at the massive stone facade, then instinctively reached out and grabbed my hand again. I squeezed his fingers back, stepping out onto the wet cobblestone courtyard.
The air here was different—cleaner, sharper, smelling of pine and wet earth, completely devoid of city exhaust. But it felt heavy, oppressive, like a cage built out of ancient history and endless wealth.
Alexander stepped out on the other side, walking around the car to join us.
“Mrs. Gable!” Alexander called out sharply toward the heavy oak front doors.
An elderly woman with hair pulled back into a severe bun and wearing a neat black dress stepped out onto the porch instantly. Her eyes scanned the scene—resting briefly on Mikey, then moving to me with a sharp, judgmental appraisal that made my spine tingle.
“Mr. Cross,” she said, her voice dry as parchment. “We were beginning to fear the worst.”
“Master Michael is safe,” Alexander said curtly. “And this is Clara Carter. She will be joining the household effective immediately as the senior estate manager. Prepare the east wing suite for her.”
Mrs. Gable’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. She looked at me—standing in my cheap jeans, worn sneakers, and oversized hoodie—and then back at Alexander.
“The east wing, sir?” she asked, a clear edge of skepticism in her voice. “That suite has been vacant since... since Madam left.”
“You heard me, Mrs. Gable,” Alexander said, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked no argument.
The elderly housekeeper pressed her lips into a thin, tight line, dipping her head in a stiff nod. “Very well, sir. Right this way, Miss Carter.”
As we stepped across the threshold into the cavernous, marble-floored foyer, I realized something terrifying:
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The gates outside hadn't just kept intruders out.
They had kept everyone inside trapped in a prison of their own making. And now, I had just walked right through the front door.
