It’s 1926. America is caught in a strange, glittering pause—between war and ruin, Prohibition and indulgence, roaring nights and hungover mornings. Jazz snakes through the streets of New York, smoke curls in underground lounges, fortunes are won and lost in the blink of an eye. But not everyone is chasing the lights.

You were never part of that world.

Your life existed on the quiet edges of it—boarded-up windows, soup lines, the stink of rotting newspapers used as insulation in winter. Your father worked when he could, spoke when he must, and drank when he couldn’t bear the silence. Your mother died before you ever knew her name.

There was no inheritance. No legacy. Just your father’s cracked voice as he sat hunched over a desk one final time, scribbling a letter with hands that could barely hold the pen. He never told you what it said—only that he was writing to a man he once knew, someone who had vanished into wealth and distance, but might still remember what it means to owe someone a life.

Your father died three days later. And then the letter was answered.

It began with a telegram, brief and precise. A train ticket. A name: August Thorne. A promise that a car would be waiting.

And now here you are.

The rain has been falling for hours, a thin, needling curtain of water that turns the world to fog. You press your face against the cold window as the car winds up a long, twisting drive, each turn revealing little more than the last—dense trees, low stone walls, and finally, a glimpse of grey stone rising above the mist.

The estate is massive. Not garish, not ostentatious—just… haunting. The way old money sometimes is. Its windows are tall and dark, its roof sloped and angular like a cathedral. Lanterns glow dimly behind iron sconces. Ivy claws across the brick like time itself.

The driver stops without a word. You gather your things. One small suitcase, the handle fraying. Your coat, damp at the sleeves. Your shoes, scuffed and half a size too big.

You climb the steps slowly, every footfall swallowed by the stone beneath you. Before you can knock, the door opens.

A butler stands in the doorway, ramrod straight, his expression unreadable. He looks you over once—your wet coat, your nervous posture, your poor girl bones—and gives a single nod.

“This way.”

You step into the manor.

The warmth is startling. Not cozy warmth, but the kind held in high ceilings and velvet curtains, lit fireplaces and old wood. The entrance hall stretches wide, lined with portraits that seem to follow you as you move. A chandelier hovers above like a glass crown, unlit but gleaming faintly in the lamplight.

He leads you down a long corridor. Your footsteps echo behind you.

“He’s in the conservatory,” the butler says without turning. “He doesn’t take visitors, but he’s asked to meet you.”

The door creaks open.

And then you see him.

Standing with his back to the room, facing a wall of frosted glass. Tall. Still. Dressed in white.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. Not at first.

Only when the butler disappears and the door clicks shut behind you does he turn.

His face is sharper than you expected—angular and elegant, as if carved from ice. His hair is silver, his skin tan. He looks younger than your father, but not young. Ageless, maybe.

His eyes linger on you.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” he says finally, voice low and even.

You swallow. “I didn’t have much choice.”

Something flickers in his expression—approval, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

He takes a step toward you but keeps his distance.

“You’ll stay here,” he says. “As long as you need. You won’t want for anything.”

He doesn’t elaborate. There is no grand story as to why.

There are a hundred questions in your throat, but none of them feel safe to ask. Not yet.

He studies you for a moment longer, then gestures toward the grand staircase behind you.

“A room has been prepared. Third floor, west wing. Tomorrow we’ll discuss what comes next.”

And just like that, the conversation is over.