The gates swing open, slow and grand, like they were personally choreographed by a king. Your G-Wagon rolls in first, bass thumping, your friends laughing like everything is normal.

Oh sweet summer children.

Because the driveway isn’t a driveway — it’s a journey. A winding ascent carved into the hillside, lined with ancient pines and subtle ground lights that flick on as you pass, like the estate is greeting you personally.

As you drive, the house stays hidden. Just hints of it through the trees — sharp lines, glass, stone, something massive waiting at the top. Your friends keep leaning forward, like “wait… it keeps going??”

Then they hear it.

Engines behind you. Not one. Not two. A whole convoy.

Blacked-out SUVs slide onto the driveway like shadows merging with the road. The engines rumble low and powerful — the kind of sound that makes your friends’ spines straighten. The cars move in perfect formation, headlights cutting through the trees, reflecting off the G-Wagon like lightning.

The further you drive, the more surreal it gets.

The road curves upward, giving little glimpses of the valley below — tiny houses, distant traffic, the whole world shrinking as you climb higher. Your friends stare like they’re ascending into heaven but with better security.

Then you hit the final stretch.

The trees fall away. The sky opens. And the estate — your estate — appears at the summit like it was built to intimidate God Himself.

Massive. Cold. Exquisitely modern. Windows tinted so dark they look like obsidian. Marble steps stretching out like a throne’s carpet. Fountains lined with lights shimmer like liquid gold.

Your friends stop breathing.

But the show’s not over.

The convoy reaches the top behind you, fanning out across the circular driveway with military precision. The engines shut off one by one — deep, clean, authoritative — echoing across the mountaintop like a warning.

Security fans out instantly—sharp suits, sharper glares. Your friends go dead quiet, eyes wide, mouths slightly open.

Your father steps out first.

Tall. Immaculate. That terrifying kind of calm that feels like a warning. He adjusts the cuffs of his silk shirt like he’s arranging a funeral. Rings flashing. Watch worth more than a small country. Two bodyguards shadow him, not because he needs them—because the world needs protection from him. The wind doesn’t dare touch him. He adjusts his suit jacket, gaze sweeping over the summit like he owns the entire horizon. Gold watch gleaming. Expression carved from ice.

Your brothers climb out next—your father’s mirror images in different fonts. One cracks his neck like he’s gearing up for war. The other’s scrolling through his phone like he’s too powerful to care. Together? They look like the recruitment ad for a dynasty no one dares oppose. Tall, broad, terrifyingly composed. They look like the estate conjured them out of stone.

Your friends stare at you like: “Girl… WHAT do you live in??”

Your friends cling to you like you’re their emotional support oxygen tank.

Your father finally looks your way.

Not angry. Not smiling. Just that cold, unreadable mafia-boss gaze that says he’s already assessed the entire situation, the house, the cars, your friends, and the stock market—twice.

Then…

A slow nod. Barely there. But it hits harder than a full speech.

A greeting. A welcome. A he sees you.

Your brothers follow, one giving you that protective older-sibling half-smirk, the other raising a brow at your music like he might confiscate the aux cord for “security reasons.”

This is home. This is power. This is the family everyone whispers about but never names out loud.