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I step back from the window, my heart still pounding. ”He’s here," I murmur, more to myself than to Malva.
She looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Are you okay?"
I nod, though I’m not so sure and Malva helps me put on the dress we chose. ”Yeah. Let's go meet the good doctor.”
2.
Darren
I swing my leg over the side of the motorcycle, feeling the smooth fabric of my white coat shift with the motion. The engine’s rumble dies away, and I glare up at Weston Manor. It’s an intricate structure—towering spires, expansive wings, and manicured gardens. Basically it’s one of those pathetic displays of wealth and power, meant to impress and intimidate.
But I’m not that easily impressed. Or intimidated for that matter.
I take a moment to mock the scene, my eyes tracing the elaborate stonework, the ivy clinging to the walls, the pristine gravel drive. It’s all too perfect, too contrived. Typical of vain, old money. I’ve seen it all before, countless times. And as someone who grew up on the wrong side of the street, I can’t help but to despise it.
I remove my gloves and shove them into my pocket, but stop when I catch a flicker of movement in one of the upper windows. My eyes narrow. There, behind the sheer curtains, is a young girl. She’s dressed in a sheer nightgown and a robe, the fabric clinging to her youthful frame.
Our eyes lock.
For a moment, the world seems to press in on me. Her gaze is wide and innocent, a deer caught in the headlights. There’s a raw vulnerability to her that some sick, forgotten part of me wants to dissect. She shudders, wrapping the robe tighter around herself, and then she draws back, disappearing behind the curtains.
Interesting.
I adjust my coat, the lapel brushing against my neck. My footsteps crunch on the gravel as I make my way toward the grand entrance.
The heavy doors close behind me with a thud, the sound echoing through the lobby. My footsteps click on the marble floor, my nose inhaling the smell of wood polish.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the ornate ceilings, casting a fractured light across the room. Everywhere I look, wealth stares back at me.
I pass through a series of archways, my eyes taking in the overabundance of art that line the hallways. This place is only masquerading as a home, and it would be almost laughable if it weren't so pathetically predictable. Rich people and their desperate need to prove their worth through material possessions.
I’m about to round a corner, when a butler emerges from the shadows. He approaches with a measured pace, bowing slightly.
“Dr. Deathweather, I presume?” His voice is calm, respectful, but there’s a flicker of disapproval in his eyes. Something tells me they don’t like strangers around here.
I nod curtly. “That’s me.”
“Right this way, sir,” he says, turning on his heel and leading me through a set of double doors into a sitting room.
The sitting room is as vulgar as the rest of the manor, with plush, antique furniture arranged in precise symmetry. A large fireplace dominates one wall, and the other three walls are lined with bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes.
The butler gestures to an armchair near the fireplace. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Miss Weston will be with you shortly.”
I nod again, taking a seat. The chair is surprisingly comfortable to my annoyance and the butler exits quietly.
My mind drifts back to the girl in the window. Avon. What a name. It makes me think of powder puffs or something. Her reaction to me was unexpected—maybe she’d expected a kind, old gentleman. At thirty-five I’m not that old. Or a gentleman.
The minutes go by, the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. I stiffen in the chair, my gaze fixed on the door through which she will enter. My patience starts to drag.
I cross one leg over the other, fingers tapping on the armrest. The room’s silence grows frustrating, irritation bubbling beneath my calm facade.
How long does it take for an heiress to descend a flight of stairs?
I glance at the door again, letting out a sigh through my teeth. This is unacceptable. I have a schedule to keep, a practice to run. My time is valuable—certainly more valuable than waiting in some over-decorated mausoleum for a spoiled girl who was never taught that time doesn’t revolve around her.
Finally, the door opens, and she enters and I shift slightly because I wasn’t prepared for this. I saw her in the window, but it can’t be compared to seeing her straight in the flesh.
She’s stunning, even pissed off at her, I can’t deny that. Seraphic almost with shoulder-length strawberry blond hair that reflects the light. Her eyes are a rich bourbon, but there’s a sickness to her—pale skin, hollows under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights and unrelenting fatigue. She smiles tentatively at me, a fragile gesture that somehow grates on my nerves.
