Chapter 4 - Threshold of the Estate
The wrought-iron gates of Roman’s estate swung open with a heavy, oiled groan, swallowing the town car as we turned onto the long, winding gravel drive. Unlike the flashy glass-and-steel high-rises that defined the city's financial district, the Gallow manor was an imposing brick structure built in the late nineteenth century, surrounded by ancient oaks that cast long, skeletal shadows across the lawn. Warm amber light spilled from tall arched windows, cutting through the heavy evening mist.
When the car stopped at the grand front portico, the door opened instantly. A tall man in a dark gray suit stood waiting, his expression as impassive as granite.
"Welcome, Miss," he said, his voice flat as he offered a gloved hand to help me out.
I ignored his hand, stepping unsteadily onto the wet gravel. My black heels crunched against the stones, the sound loud in the cavernous silence of the courtyard. Roman emerged from the other side of the car, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke jacket. He didn't look back to see if I was following; he simply walked toward the massive oak double doors, which swung inward automatically at his approach.
The foyer was breathtaking—a soaring three-story atrium with a sweeping marble staircase and dark wood paneling that absorbed the light of a massive iron chandelier. But there was no warmth in the opulence. It felt like a museum designed to intimidate anyone who dared cross the threshold.
"You'll be quartered in the east wing during your working hours," Roman said, pausing at the foot of the stairs and turning to face me. "Mrs. Gable will show you your uniform. It will be an upgrade from the polyester rag you wore tonight."
"I have my own clothes," I said, crossing my arms defensively over my white shirt.
"You have a uniform requirement while serving under my roof," Roman corrected smoothly, his eyes dropping briefly to my right wrist, which was once again wrapped in the plain nude bandage. "And your wrist will be wrapped in medical-grade support, not that drugstore tape you were using. We don't tolerate clumsiness twice."
"It was an accident," I muttered, the humiliation of the restaurant floor rushing back like a physical blow. "The pitcher was wet."
"Accidents are expensive, Paige. And I am a man who keeps strict accounts." He turned to the guard who had met us at the car. "Take her to the medical suite first. Have Dr. Vance re-evaluate the tendon before she touches a single tray."
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"I don't need a doctor—" I started, but Roman raised a single gloved finger, cutting me off completely.
"You work for me now. Your body is a functional asset required to perform specific duties. Take care of it, or I will find someone who can."
