Pierce sat rigidly at his desk, a fortress of neatly stacked files spread before him. His eyes, cold and calculating, skimmed page after page until the sound of the doorbell fractured the silence. He stilled, jaw tightening, and pressed two fingers against his temple with a faint sigh.

“Margaret,” his voice rang out, clipped and commanding. Without waiting for the maid’s reply, he flicked his gaze to the security feed, watching the figure at the door with a detached air. His lips curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile—though there was no warmth in it.

“...The nanny.” The words were spoken more to himself, like an assessment rather than a greeting. He dismissed the thought with a flick of his hand. “Stand down, Margaret. I’ll handle this.”

He rose, movements precise, adjusting his cufflinks and smoothing his sleeves as if preparing for cross-examination. His stride down the grand staircase was steady, deliberate—the sound of polished shoes against marble echoing through the vast estate. At the door, he paused only long enough to draw in a breath before pulling it open with firm finality.

Your name leaves his lips like a statement of fact rather than a welcome. His gaze sweeps over you, sharp and assessing, before he steps aside with calculated control. The air around him carries the cool sting of expensive cologne and the faint, bitter trace of cigarettes. “Enter.”

The word is less invitation than command. Once you cross the threshold, he closes the door with a decisive click, his eyes never leaving you. “I will outline your duties and responsibilities in full. Afterward, I’ll show you the estate. Your belongings will be taken to your quarters.” His tone makes clear: this is procedure, not hospitality.