The transition from the warehouse to the vehicle was a blur of motion and muffled commands. Callie was ushered into the back of a black sedan with windows so heavily tinted that the city of London became a gray, ghost-like smudge beyond the glass. The interior smelled of expensive leather and something ozone-sharp: the scent of a car that was cleaned with surgical precision.
The two men in the front seats did not speak. They did not even glance at the rearview mirror to check on her. Their silence was not the result of anger; it was the product of a terrifyingly high level of discipline. They were professionals.
Callie sat with her bound wrists resting in her lap, her mind racing to catalog every turn the car took. She counted the seconds between traffic lights and noted the shift from the uneven, potholed streets of the industrial district to the smooth, silent asphalt of a wealthier neighborhood.
Panic was a parasite: it wanted to eat her from the inside out. She fought it back by focusing on the physical sensations of the journey. The weight of the seat beneath her: the slight vibration of the engine: the cold air-conditioning blowing against her face. She was no longer under the yellow bulb of the auction house, but the weight of her situation felt even heavier now.
The car eventually slowed. Callie pressed her forehead against the glass as the vehicle turned onto a private drive. Even through the dark tint, the scale of the estate was undeniable. Massive wrought-iron gates swung open with a silent, motorized grace. Beyond them lay a compound that felt less like a home and more like a fortress.
High stone walls were topped with subtle, modern security cameras that tracked the car's progress. The grounds were meticulously kept, but there was no softness to the greenery. The trees were pruned into sharp, uniform shapes, and the gravel paths were raked with an almost obsessive level of order. It was a place where nothing was allowed to grow out of control.
When the car pulled up to the main entrance, a man Callie hadn't seen before opened her door. He reached for her arm, but she flinched away, stepping out onto the gravel under her own power. Her legs were still shaky, but she refused to let these men see her stumble.
The house loomed over her: a sprawling, minimalist structure of glass, steel, and dark stone. It was beautiful in a sterile, intimidating way. It did not welcome visitors; it demanded their submission.
The heavy front door was opened by a woman who looked as though she had been carved from the same granite as the house. She was older, perhaps in her sixties, with her gray hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to pull the skin of her face taut. Her clothes were simple: a dark, professional dress that bore no wrinkles.
"This is Callie," the guard said, his voice dropping into a respectful tone Callie hadn't heard before.
The woman's eyes raked over Callie. Her gaze was not cruel, but it was clinical. She was looking for flaws: weaknesses: anything that might disrupt the household's order.
"I am Martha," the woman said. Her voice was as dry as parchment. "I manage the staff and the domestic requirements of the estate. You will follow me."
Martha did not wait for an answer. She turned and walked into the foyer, her heels clicking a rhythmic, military cadence on the marble floor. Callie had no choice but to follow.
The interior of the house was even colder than the exterior. The walls were adorned with art that looked more like geometric puzzles than paintings. There were no family photographs: no stray books: no signs that a human being actually lived here. It was a headquarters: a place of business disguised as a residence.
"Mr. Crowley's private offices are on the third floor," Martha said as they climbed a sweeping staircase. "You are not to go there unless explicitly summoned. You are not to enter the kitchen without supervision. You are not to speak to the security staff."
Callie swallowed hard, her throat feeling like it was full of sand. "And my father? Lucas Crowley knew him. I need to know why I'm here."
Martha stopped at the top of the stairs and turned. Her expression did not change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes: pity, perhaps, or a warning. "You are here because Mr. Crowley paid a king's ransom for you, Miss Aniston. In this house, curiosity is a dangerous trait. I suggest you trade it for obedience."
Martha continued down a long, dimly lit hallway and stopped at a heavy oak door near the end. She opened it and stepped aside, gesturing for Callie to enter.
The room was larger than Callie's entire apartment. It was furnished with a plush bed, a writing desk, and a large window that overlooked the sprawling back gardens. On the surface, it was a sanctuary of luxury. But Callie saw the truth immediately. The windows were made of reinforced glass that wouldn't open. The door had no lock on the inside, but she could see the heavy electronic bolt on the frame.
It was a cage.
"There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe," Martha said, her tone returning to its professional flatness. "A bath has been drawn for you. Use it. Mr. Crowley expects his guests to be presentable."
"I am not a guest," Callie said, her voice trembling with a sudden surge of defiance. "I was sold. I am a prisoner."
Martha paused in the doorway, her hand on the handle. "In this house, the distinction between those two things is entirely up to the master of the estate. Dinner will be served at eight. Do not be late."
The door closed with a heavy, final thud. Callie heard the unmistakable whir of the electronic bolt sliding into place.
She was alone.
She walked over to the window and looked out. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the lawn. Somewhere in this house, Lucas Crowley was watching. She could feel it: that heavy, predator energy she had sensed in the warehouse. It felt as though the very walls were breathing with his presence.
She walked to the wardrobe and pulled it open. Inside were rows of dresses, all in shades of charcoal, navy, and black. They were her size. The implication hit her with the force of a physical blow: he had been planning this long before the auction began.
Callie sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the smooth silk of the duvet. She thought of her father: of the handwriting in his notebook and the fear in his eyes during their final weeks together. She thought of the price Lucas had paid.
A million pounds.
A man like Lucas Crowley did not spend that kind of money for a companion or a trophy. He spent it for an advantage.
She looked at her bound wrists, the rope still mocking her. She needed a knife. She needed information. But most of all, she needed to understand why the King of Shadows had been waiting for her to fall.
As the shadows in the room deepened, the house seemed to grow silent. But it was a watchful silence. Beneath the floorboards and behind the walls, she could hear the faint, rhythmic pulse of the estate's security systems.
She was at the heart of his world now. And the only way out was to find the crack in the stone.