The black wrought-iron gates stood twelve feet tall. They slowly parted as the SUV approached, the infrared scanner flashing green over the license plate.
The car rolled down the long gravel drive. Oak trees lined the path, their branches trimmed into perfect, rigid arches. The estate at the end looked like a medieval fortress built from gray stone.
Two men in black suits stepped out of the shadows, holding massive black umbrellas. They opened the passenger door.
Evie stepped out. Her cheap canvas shoes sank into the gravel, then stepped up onto the pristine marble porch, leaving muddy prints on the white stone.
She looked up at the massive oak doors. Above them, carved into the stone, was the Barron family crest. Her eyes lingered on it for a fraction of a second.
The doors swung open. The butler stood aside. The light from the crystal chandelier inside was blinding, a harsh contrast to the dark storm outside.
Arthur walked quickly ahead, leading her through the vast foyer.
A high-pitched scream echoed from the depths of the house. A woman in a silk robe was throwing a crystal vase at the wall. Shards exploded across the floor.
"Useless! All of you!" Beatrice Barron shrieked, her face twisted in rage. "You're all incompetent fools!"
Evie stopped. She watched the middle-aged woman throw a tantrum surrounded by millions of dollars of art. Her expression was blank, like a scientist observing a bug in a jar.
Then, a sound cut through the chaos. Footsteps slow, measured, heavy. They came from the top of the sweeping staircase.
The foyer went dead silent. Beatrice's next scream died in her throat.
Hartwell Barron IV walked down the stairs. He wore a dark shirt, the collar open, the fabric tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders. He moved with the lazy confidence of a predator who owned the entire jungle. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
His eyes swept the room, ignoring his stepmother, ignoring the staff. They locked onto the girl standing in the shadows.
He took in the wet, dirty hair. The cheap, oversized jacket. The canvas shoes. But mostly, he took in her eyes. They were black, feral, and completely unafraid.
Hartwell's brow furrowed. A strange irritation prickled at the back of his neck. She didn't fit.
Arthur rushed over, keeping his voice low. "Sir, we found her. The Surgeon."
Hartwell's gaze dropped to Evie's hands. They were slender, but covered in tiny nicks and scars. The nails were bitten short.
He walked until he was standing directly in front of her. He was a full head taller, forcing her to look up. His presence was suffocating.
"So, you're the one they call The Surgeon?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble, laced with skepticism. "The one with the ten-million-dollar price tag?"
Evie didn't blink. She looked right into his eyes, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "These hands just bought a two-cent Band-Aid."
A security guard behind them sucked in a breath. Nobody spoke to Hartwell like that. Nobody.
Hartwell's eyes narrowed. Instead of anger, a dark, twisted curiosity sparked in his chest. He stared at her, his gaze intense.
Evie broke the stare. "The road is out. I need a room with hot water."
Beatrice finally found her voice. "She's a fraud! A beggar! Throw her out!"
Hartwell ignored Beatrice entirely. He kept his eyes on Evie. "Follow me," he said.
He turned and walked toward the east wing. He wasn't offering her a guest room. He was taking her straight to the sterile medical wing.
