Beneath the grandeur, beneath the masterful craftsmanship, this entrance reeked of calculated cruelty.Every detail had been chosen with purpose.This was not merely a home; it was a statement, a fortress of power belonging to a man who understood dominance.
Drawing a slow breath, I squared my shoulders.My hands smoothed over my waistcoat, adjusting the folds with meticulous attention before fussing with the crisp knot of my cravat.Appearances were everything in Georgian London.To slip, even for a moment, was to invite ruin.
But I had not come to slip.
I had come to deceive.
Lord Hassan of Anatolia.The title sat upon my shoulders like a suit of armor, impenetrable, forged in careful study and endless preparation.My disguise was flawless and calculated down to the finest detail.And yet—beneath the layers of silk and civility—my heart drummed a constant war beat.
One wrong move.
I grasped the lion’s head knocker, its weight solid in my grip.The brass was warm where my fingers touched, polished smooth by years of use.I lifted it, inhaled, and let it fall.
The sound rang through the morning air, brisk and commanding.
It was not merely a knock—a summons, an announcement of arrival.A declaration of the attention I sought.
And now, there was no turning back.
The door creaked open with a slow, eerie groan, revealing a comely young maid standing on the threshold.Her long, dark hair was neatly tied back with a red ribbon, a stark contrast against her pale skin.She was delicate, almost doll-like, yet there was something measured in her demeanor—something practiced.
“How may I be of assistance?”she asked, her voice smooth and melodic, like a gentle stream flowing over polished stones.She spoke slowly, carefully, every syllable rolling off her tongue with a refined elegance that felt cultivated rather than natural.It was the voice of someone who had spent years perfecting her speech to match the upper class—an artifice carefully constructed.
“I am here at the request of Lord Alexander.I am Lord Amir Hassan of Anatolia,” I said, offering a polite bow.
The maid inclined her head, her expression unreadable.“Of course,” she murmured, her voice as cool as frost.“You are expected, my lord.Do come in.”
I stepped across the threshold of Thomas Alexander’s estate, and an icy sensation swept through me—one that had little to do with the damp English air.
The grandeur I had anticipated was there, but it was not welcoming.It was cold, calculated.The air was thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken history, as if the walls held their breath, waiting.
The maid led me through a foyer where the furniture stood rigid, draped in heavy, lightless fabrics that seemed to drink in the dim light.The portraits lining the walls eyed me with the same disdain their subjects might have in life, their gazes hollow and condemning.
Joy had long been banished from this house.
A mausoleum of wealth remained—a place where shadows clung to the corners, where whispers of loss and lamentation settled like dust on forgotten relics.
And I had just walked into its depths.
The corners of the room were steeped in darkness, untouched by the weak slivers of sunlight that struggled through the tall windows.The dim glow barely reached the polished floors.For a fleeting moment, I half-expected to find a coffin at the heart of this mausoleum masquerading as a home, surrounded by silent mourners paying tribute to the long-departed.
Instead, there was only the stark emptiness—an oppressive void that seemed to mirror the cruelty for which Thomas Alexander was known.
The maid’s footsteps echoed through the hush as she led me up a sweeping staircase.Beneath us, the carpet was threadbare, starkly contrasting the grandeur that had once thrived here.This house had known better days, but time, like its master, had stripped it of warmth, leaving only the skeletal remains of its former splendor.
A voice rang out from beyond the halls—imperious and laced with impatience.
The maid stilled, her posture shifting with quiet caution.Her expression remained unreadable when she turned to me; her rehearsed politeness was impeccable yet absent warmth.
“I apologize; I’ve been summoned elsewhere.Lord Alexander will see you shortly,” she said, her tone clipped, impersonal.“Please proceed to the end of the hall and turn left.Lord Alexander’s study is the last door on the right.”
A single, shallow nod.
Then she was gone, disappearing down a dim corridor without another word.
Silence enveloped me once more.
Now, I was alone.
