The heavy iron gates hummed as they slid open,

revealing a long driveway lined with whispering palm trees.

At the end of the drive stood a mansion, built of sun-bleached stone, and framed by arched windows.

It was the kind of house that had lived through decades of wealth. Its walls steeped in stories

no one ever spoke aloud. Daniel parked his car by the fountain in the circular driveway

and stepped out, adjusting the strap of his gym bag. He was 27, lean but muscular, his brown skin glowing

under the morning sun.

His black t-shirt clung to his frame,

and his athletic shorts revealed calves sculpted from years of sprinting.

He exuded an easy confidence, the kind that came naturally to people who understood the power of their own bodies.

He approached the front door, where an old brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head gleamed.

Before he could reach for it, the door swung open. She stood in the doorway, one manicured hand resting on the frame.

Victoria Astor, in her late 50s, blonde hair pulled back in an elegant twist, sharp blue eyes that assessed him like a seasoned gambler, reading the table.

She was tall, her posture impeccable, dressed in sleek black leggings, and a gray, long-sleeved

top that somehow made her look both regal and effortlessly casual. The scent of

expensive perfume clung to her like a signature. You're early, she said. Her voice was smooth,

but there was an edge to it, a quiet authority that had likely commanded

boardrooms and shattered lesser men. Daniel smiled. Always am. She studied him for a moment,

then stepped aside. Come in. The house was cool, the air thick what the scent of lemon polish and aged wood.

Sunlight streamed through high windows, casting golden patterns on the marble floors.

As they walked through the grand hallway, Daniel caught glimpses of art, real art, the kind that belonged in galleries, not homes.

"'You've trained people in their homes before?'

...