Possessive Doctor

Eventually even those houses begin to thin and we’re in what seems like a big forest. There’s green everywhere, so green it almost hurts. Texas has trees, but not like this, not so densely packed that there’s not enough room for anything else.

Brent slows the truck then stops. I don’t even see why until he points. Back from the road, nearly swallowed by the dense foliage, is a large black gate with two large brick pillars on either side. A fence disappears into the woods, camouflaged by the leaves.

He pulls the truck forward and stops. He presses a button on an intercom. I don’t expect it to work, but it clicks to life.

“Lofthouse Manor. How may I help you?”

“Is that Archie?”

There’s a pause. “Mr. Brent?”

He gives me a look and rolls his eyes. “Archie, yeah, it’s Brent. Open up.”

There’s a pause. The intercom clicks. Then the gate slowly slides open.

The truck moves forward.

“Archie is the butler,” he says. “Yes, we have a butler. He’s a good man, you’ll like him.”

I don’t say anything. I’m too busy marveling at the view.

The trees are incredible. They’re blossoming white and gorgeous, little explosions of white flowers all over the place. Some of them shed petals all over the ground, coating the driveway in white, making it look like a pool. The truck rolls forward and up an incline. The grass is manicured and gorgeous and I swear I can see some random statues standing out in the trees, little clusters of them staring at nothing.

We reach the top of the incline and begin heading to the house. My jaw drops.

There’s a fountain around which the driveway curls. The house itself is enormous and Victorian, but really only slightly. There are columns all over it, columns all over the front holding up a second-story porch above the first-story wraparound. The house itself is brick, yellow and gorgeous, almost shining gold in the sunlight. The railings are white, crisp white, and the shutters are all pristine and perfect.

The details are unreal. There are little reliefs, mosaics above the porch, around the windows. The slate roof is incredible and looks brand new. There are multiple chimneys, all of them brick. It’s easily as big as five of the biggest houses we passed back there combined, and I can only imagine how many people it would take to maintain a monstrosity like this. It’s more like a hotel than a family house.

Brent parks the truck out front. “Listen,” he says. “I know it’s a lot. Just be polite. Smile. Don’t speak unless you have to. Okay?”

I blink at him. “What?”

“Let me do the talking.”

“Uh—”

But my protest dies out when I see a man wearing a literal butler’s uniform come walking out of the front doors.

He’s a tall man, thin, gray on top. He has a small distinguished mustache and the pale skin of one used to staying indoors, though freckles splashed across his cheeks. I bet he used to be a redhead when he was younger.

Brent gets out. “Hi, Archie,” he says.

“Hello, Mr. Brent.”

“Stop with the mister stuff, please,” Brent says. “Don’t make me keep asking you while I’m here.”

“Yes, of course, Mr.— I mean, Brent.”

“Archie, this is Amber.” I climb out of the truck and smile. I extend my hand to him. Archie looks momentarily surprised then shakes.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“You as well, madam.” He looks to Brent. “Was this a scheduled visit? I wasn’t aware of anything. Perhaps your father forgot—?”

“No,” I say. “This wasn’t scheduled.”

“Very well. I’ll have two rooms made up right away.”

“One room,” he corrects.

I stare at him, but I don’t say anything.

“Very well.” Archie inclines his head then walks back into the house.

“One room?” I ask him.

“Better that way.”

“For who?”

He smirks a little. “For both of us. Come on.”

He walks to the steps and pauses, holding out a hand for me. I limp after him and he helps me up, one step at a time. My legs are tired from sitting for so long and my bad leg aches, but I get up without issue. The door is still open and we walk into the grandest entryway I’ve ever seen in my life.

Twin steps rise up along the walls. A marble floor is dominated by a single table with what looks like an ancient urn in the center. A huge chandelier sparkling in the natural sunlight dangles in the air.

“Wow,” is all I can manage.

He looks up at the chandelier. I’m staring at it like I’ve never see one like it before.

Honestly, I never have.

“That’s Tiffany’s,” he says. “Before it became gauche.”

I gape at him and he just laughs. He takes my hand and leads me forward, through the absurd entryway, and into a large back room. It’s half sitting room, half living room. There’s a TV above a fireplace, but there are also two more fireplaces and two more sitting areas. There’s a little bar and more gorgeous furniture than I thought possible. A young woman comes walking out from a doorway, smiling huge.