The iron gates of the Roys estate didn't just restrict access; they separated the capital from the hidden machinery that ran it. Nestled deep within the heavily guarded hills of the exclusive Crest District, the sprawling manor sat surrounded by acres of private, ancient woodland. Security personnel in unmarked tactical gear patrolled the perimeter with silent, military precision, their presence a stark contrast to the classical, limestone architecture of the main residence. This wasn't a home built on recent market successes; it was a fortress of multi-generational, absolute authority.
Elizabeth stepped through the massive double doors of the west wing, tossing her light trench coat to a waiting butler without looking. Her heels clicked sharply against the heated marble floors as she walked toward the grand conservatory, intending to pour herself a glass of wine after a long evening of high-society functions.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
