Page 95 of Boiling Point
I turned to the window, and the world outside took my breath away. It was green—but not the green I knew. Not the bright, sunbaked green of home. This was softer. Deeper. Alive in a way that felt untouched. Hedgerows lined the road like living fences, tight and neat, their edges blurred with dew. Treesstretched wide and high, their branches dense with leaves and shadow. Fields sloped gently into one another like a patchwork stitched by hand.
It felt older here. Quieter. Like the land had secrets and was in no hurry to tell them.
Then, just beyond the bend, where the narrow road brushed past a thicket of trees, the gates came into view—tall black wrought iron, latticed with delicate scrollwork, their hinges sunk into thick pillars of weathered stone. Ivy climbed up the sides, dark and glossy. A modest crest was carved into the stone—unpainted, easy to miss unless you were looking.
The car slowed, and the driver rolled down his window to tap a code into the stone-faced keypad tucked beside the gate. No fanfare, no delay—just the smooth swing of iron as the gates opened and we passed through.
The air changed. Cooler, cleaner. Even the light shifted—crisper somehow, like the trees had stepped politely back to let the estate come into view.
The drive curved gently. Trees gave way to a manicured lawn—sweeping and precise, edged by formal hedges and cone-shaped topiary. Flower beds bordered the path with disciplined bursts of color. Beneath it all, the crunch of gravel marked our arrival, steady and sharp.
And then—just beyond the final bend—stood the house.
I actually laughed. Quietly. To myself.
It looked like Wayne Manor.
Not the cartoon one—the cinematic version Dad and I used to watch on oldBatmanDVDs. Broad-shouldered and regal, with symmetry that stared you down. The kind of house that didn’t just sit on land. It ruled it.
Solid brick, three stories tall, with chimneys rising like sentinels into the sky. Tall windows framed in pale stone lined the façade in perfect rows. Nothing out of place.
This wasn’t a house. It was a legacy. A statement.
Cal hadn’t said a word.
I glanced over, but his expression hadn’t shifted. Eyes locked straight ahead, jaw tight. Whatever this place meant to him, it had already started to close in.
The car crested the final rise and slowed to a stop in front of the house. Or manor. Or whatever this kind of building was technically called. The front door stood beneath a carved stone portico, two columns rising to support an arch weathered by centuries of wind and rain. The wood was dark, the brass hardware gleaming. No welcome mat, no wreath. Just the kind of entrance that made you check your posture without thinking.
The engine stopped. And for a moment, the world outside held still.
The chauffeur stepped out and moved briskly to open Cal’s door. He unfolded from the car with that long-limbed ease he always had, adjusted his jacket sleeves, and glanced back inside.
“Come on,” he said, offering his hand.
I slid my fingers into his, and he helped me out, steadying me on the gravel. It crunched underfoot—pale and fine, like it had been raked smooth just for us.
“Welcome to Branleigh Park,” he said, giving our interlaced fingers a gentle squeeze.
Behind us, movement caught my eye—two men emerging from a side door to collect our luggage. Efficient. Silent. Not a word exchanged.
The front door eased open, and a man in a sharply tailored black waistcoat stepped forward. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath it, the collar set neatly under a slim black jacket with satin-trimmed lapels. A silver watch chain curved between the pockets. His trousers were pressed to a knife’s edge, his shoes gleaming. He stood with one hand lightly folded behind his back, the other resting at his side.
He was older—sixty, maybe more—but moved with precision, like every step and breath had been rehearsed until the man and the role were one. His expression was unreadable, save for a faint crease at the corners of his mouth that might have once been a smile.
“Welcome home, Mr. Hawthorne. Miss Clark.”
Cal gave a faint nod. “Thank you, Avery.”
The butler—I assumed—inclined his head. Not a bow. Just enough to say,I see you. He didn’t look at Cal for long, shifting to me instead.
Measured. Not cold. Not quite warm. Just…observant.
I had the distinct feeling he missed nothing. Not the way I still clung to Cal’s hand. Not the way my travel-worn flats stood out against the gravel like punctuation. Not the way I was trying very hard not to gape at the house towering over us.
I wore jeans and my green sweater. Clean, presentable, comfortable. But not what one wore to be received.
Whatever judgment passed through his mind, he didn’t show it. He simply stepped aside to let us through. “Her ladyship is in the drawing room.” There was something in the tilt of his voice—gentle, practiced, but pitched just slightly toward kindness.
