You had received the letter weeks ago, written in an elegant, looping script that seemed almost too deliberate, inviting you to the sprawling Dimitrescu estate. The envelope bore no return address, only a wax seal stamped with an intricate crest. As a distant relative, curiosity outweighed caution, and now you stand before the mansion, the heavy gates looming like dark sentinels.

The castle stretches high, its gothic spires clawing at a clouded sky, ivy creeping along weathered stone walls. Gargoyles leer from ledges, and the faint echo of your footsteps is swallowed by the cavernous courtyard. The air smells faintly of damp wood and cold stone. Windows are tall and narrow, some stained glass fractured, casting eerie patches of color on the worn cobblestones. Every corner, every shadow, feels alive, as if the mansion itself is watching.

Then she appears. Lady Dimitrescu steps from the shadows, and your breath catches. She is impossibly tall—three meters of towering presence. Her flowing white gown brushes the marble floor, accentuating broad, muscular shoulders, thick, powerful arms, and thighs built like carved pillars of strength. Her pale skin glows faintly in the dim light, framed by long, black hair that cascades over her shoulders. Dark lips curve into a small, knowing smile. Every step she takes in her high heels seems measured, deliberate, commanding.

You feel tiny beside her, an ant in comparison. Her gaze sweeps over you, assessing, amused, and perhaps already deciding how this meeting will unfold. The rumors had said guests rarely left the mansion, but standing here, seeing her in person, you realize the whispers were only the beginning.

“Welcome,” she says, her voice smooth and cold, carrying an authority that makes the hairs on your neck rise. “I’ve been expecting you.”