Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I breathe it in deep, letting it flood my lungs, a sharp contrast to the smell of exhaust fumes and crowds of hurrying bodies in London. The city is a beast, holding opportunity and riches beyond imagination for the ruthless, but this? This is peace. I come back here at least once a month—my manor, my sanctuary—to rest, recharge, and shake off the stresses of running billions in assets.
My phone buzzes in the center console, a harsh rattle against the leather. I snatch it up, thumbing the screen alive. Athena’s name glows. She’s my assistant, sharp as a tack and shockingly competent. I hit the speaker, keeping one hand on the wheel as the car purrs around a bend.
“Yeah?”
“Good Morning, Sir,” she says in her clipped, super-efficient voice. “Good news. Barrington & Hauser have finally agreed to your terms. They will sign the contract this afternoon at 2:00 p.m. Hopefully, you will now feel it justified to thoroughly enjoy your week in the country.”
“Excellent. Well done,” I say with a victorious smile. This news is the icing on the cake for an idea I’ve been planning on.
“Thank you, Sir. The team did a brilliant job.” There is pride and joy in her voice.
“I’m going to stay longer than a week this time, Athena. Can you reschedule and work on shifting most of my meetings for the next three weeks, at least, to the manor? I think we can set up some kind of system here. Let’s use the next week to test it. I want to run things remotely, only heading to London for emergencies. Can you handle it?”
I hear the faint tap of her keyboard in the background, and my gaze flicks towards the rolling pastures flashing by—cows dotting the green, lazy and fat, chewing cud without a care in the world.
“Of course,” she says moments later, smooth as ever. “I’ll get started with arranging everything—video calls, secure lines, the works. Anything else?”
“Not for now. Good work with the Barrington deal. There’ll be a special bonus in your paycheck this month.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
She cuts the call, and l lean back with a sense of great satisfaction. The team worked hard, and it was not an easy deal to put together, and it’s the perfect news to start my retreat. The countryside stretches out ahead, endless and gorgeous—fields stitched together with stone walls, the sky a pale blue streaked with wispy clouds. It is a balm for the soul, peace soaks into me, easing the knots in my shoulders.
Montrose Manor comes into view as the road crests—a magnificent white stone piece of history. Built in the eighteenth century, it has survived two world wars, five fires, and long periods of neglect and decline, but I have restored it to its former glory. The windows glint in the morning sun. Deer graze in the fields beyond, their faces turned towards the noise of my car, their tails swishing nervously. It is a fucking postcard, pristine and picturesque, and every acre is mine.
I pull up the drive, gravel crunching under the tires, and kill the engine. Silence reigns, broken only by a distant whinny from the stables. I step out, boots hitting the ground, and stretch, my spine popping from the drive. The air’s cool, tinged with the sweet rot of manure and hay. Home.
Then my eyes snag on it—the cottage. That damned eyesore squatting next on what should be my land, a blight on the horizon. Crumbling brick, sagging roof, overgrown with ivy and weeds. It literally looks like it’s trying to claw its way back into the earth. My mood sours, a tight coil of annoyance ruining my sense of well-being. I’ve been after that patch for years—offered the grumpy old woman, Mabel Morrel, who lived there more than it was worth, and she still spat in my face. Now she’s dead, she’s willed it on to some granddaughter of hers. Never even knew the hag had family. Another stubborn fool, probably. I shove the unwelcome thoughts to the back of my mind as I head inside, but still, as always, it gnaws at me. It’s a problem unsolved.
The warm and rich smell of coffee and bacon wafts from the dining room. I walk through the heavy oak doors and find my mother seated at the end of the long table, a plate of toast and eggs in front of her. She’s all elegance—silver hair swept up, pearls at her throat—sipping tea like she’s posing for a portrait. She looks up and smiles. I cross the room and kiss her offered cheek. Her skin is soft and powdery under my lips.
“Morning, darling,” she greets warmly.
“You’re dressed up,” I comment.
“I have some errands to run in the city, and I was thinking of spending the night in the flat. My flight to Paris tomorrow is quite early, and I fear missing it.”