Chapter 7 - The Greenwich Estate
The iron gates of the Ashcroft estate in Greenwich loomed out of the swirling fog like the ribs of a buried leviathan. High stone walls, topped with motion-sensor cameras and coiled barbed wire, sealed off forty acres of manicured lawns and towering oak trees from the rest of the world.
The black sedan Nathaniel had managed to rent using a secondary credit union account ground to a halt fifty yards from the main entrance.
“We shouldn't be doing this,” Julian muttered from the passenger seat, his fingers trembling as he clutched the leather folder. “If Douglas catches me helping you inside the compound, I won't just be disbarred. I’ll end up at the bottom of the Long Island Sound.”
“Then stay in the car,” Nathaniel said, turning off the ignition. He looked over at Clare in the passenger seat. Her face was illuminated by the faint amber glow of the dashboard clock, showing 11:15 p.m. “Clare, listen to me. We turn back now, we spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders while lawyers pick our bones clean. We go through those gates, we end this tonight.”
Clare reached across the center console and placed her hand over his. Her fingers were steady, entirely devoid of fear.
“I didn't burn down an empire just to hide in Brooklyn, Nathaniel,” she said softly. “Let’s go see your father.”
They didn't wait for the security guards to approach. Nathaniel pushed open the car door and strode directly toward the heavy iron pedestrian gate, his coat billowing behind him in the midnight wind. The guard inside the security booth—a massive man in a tailored black suit with an earpiece—stepped out, his hand instinctively moving toward his jacket.
“Private property. Turn around,” the guard barked.
Nathaniel didn't slow down. He stepped right into the yellow pool of light cast by the gatehouse lamp, his eyes cold and devoid of any hesitation.
“Tell Douglas that his son is here to audit the final balance sheet,” Nathaniel said, his voice carrying an icy authority that made the guard freeze mid-motion.
Before the man could reach for his radio, the electronic lock on the gate gave a sharp, mechanical click and swung inward.
The gravel crunch under their boots sounded deafening in the vast, silent courtyard. The main manor house stood before them—a sprawling Georgian revival structure of dark brick and white pillars, its tall arched windows blazing with harsh, artificial light from within.
As they mounted the broad marble steps leading to the grand double doors, the memory of another staircase flashed across Nathaniel’s mind—the terrifying vision of Clare tumbling down into the dark, the silent watchers on the landing, the blood staining his shirt. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.
The heavy oak doors swung open before they could knock.
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Douglas Ashcroft stood in the grand foyer, flanked by two private security contractors and corporate legal counsel. Eleanor sat in a velvet armchair near the grand piano, her expression carved from stone. Victoria Bowmont stood near the foot of the curved marble staircase, watching them with a look of triumphant, venomous anticipation.
“You walked right into the trap, Nathaniel,” Douglas said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “How poetic.”
