The security gateto Dominic Steele's estate is a masterpiece of wrought iron and implied threat—scrolling patterns that, when you look closely, resolve into thorns. I clutch my portfolio case tighter against my chest as the car he sent for me (a sleek black Bentley with windows tinted to perfect opacity) glides through after the guard's respectful nod. We wind up a drive lined with precisely trimmed topiary, each one shaped with such mathematical perfection that they appear more sculpted than grown. Like everything in Dominic's orbit, nature itself bends to his exacting standards.
The house—if such an inadequate word can be applied to what is essentially a modern castle—rises before us, all clean lines and glass and stone. I've spent three days oscillating between excitement and anxiety about this meeting, and now that I'm here, anxiety is winning by a landslide. My outfit—black cigarette pants and a silk blouse I bought secondhand but looks expensive enough—suddenly feels like a child's attempt at dress-up.
The driver opens my door before I can reach for the handle, and the crisp autumn air hits my face. "Ms. Marlowe," he says with a slight incline of his head, "Mr. Steele is expecting you."
Of course he is. I scheduled this appointment through his terrifyingly efficient assistant—a woman whose voice held such clipped precision over the phone that I immediately sat up straighter even though she couldn't see me.
I follow the driver up wide limestone steps to a front door tall enough for giants. Before we reach it, it swings open, revealing a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a severe bun.
"Ms. Marlowe," she says, and I recognize the voice from the phone. "I'm Mrs. Winters, Mr. Steele's house manager. Please come in."
I step into an entrance hall that makes me instantly conscious of the scuff on my left shoe that I tried to buff out this morning. The ceiling soars two stories above, with a chandelier that looks like suspended crystal raindrops catching light from unseen sources. The floor is white marble veined with gold, and the walls display museum-quality paintings lit with precision.
"Your portfolio, please," Mrs. Winters says, extending her hands.
For a moment I clutch it tighter, irrationally protective of my work. Then I remember where I am and who I'm meeting and surrender it to her careful grip.
"Mr. Steele will examine your work privately first," she explains, reading my confusion. "He prefers to form his impressions without... interference."
Without me nervously babbling about my artistic process, she means. I nod, relieved and disappointed simultaneously.
"Please wait here. Would you care for refreshment?"
"Water would be nice," I manage, my throat suddenly parched.
She disappears with my portfolio—my future, essentially—and I'm left alone in the vast entrance hall. I resist the urge to touch anything, feeling like a bull in the world's most expensive china shop. Instead, I study the nearest painting—an abstract that whispers rather than shouts, all subtle texture and hidden depth. It's magnificent, and undoubtedly worth more than everything I own combined.
A younger woman appears with water in a crystal glass on a small silver tray. The glass is so delicate I'm afraid it might shatter in my grip.
"Mr. Steele will see you now," she says after I take a careful sip. "Please follow me."
We traverse hallways lined with art that makes my formal education feel woefully inadequate. Each piece is positioned with perfect sightlines and lighting, creating a journey through Dominic's tastes and sensibilities. It's an education in itself, revealing a man who values both tradition and disruption, who seems drawn to work that challenges while still honoring craft.
We reach a set of double doors, which she opens without knocking. "Ms. Marlowe, sir."
The room beyond is a study that looks like it was transplanted from a nineteenth-century English manor—all dark wood and leather-bound books and a massive desk that could double as a medieval dining table. And behind it sits Dominic Steele, his attention fixed on the sketches from my portfolio laid out before him.
He doesn't look up immediately, and I have a moment to observe him unobserved. He's dressed more casually than at the auction—a charcoal sweater that clings to his broad shoulders, the collar of a white shirt visible at his neck. His dark hair is slightly less controlled today, a hint of natural wave emerging. His focus on my work is absolute, his expression unreadable as his eyes move from one piece to another.
Then, as if sensing my scrutiny, he looks up. Those steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and the air pressure in the room seems to change.
"Ms. Marlowe," he says, rising to his full, imposing height. "Thank you for coming."
I step forward on legs that feel suddenly unsteady. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Steele."
"Dominic," he corrects, coming around the desk. He doesn't offer his hand this time, but gestures to a seating area near a fireplace where flames lick at artfully arranged logs despite the mild day outside. "Please."
I perch on the edge of a leather armchair that probably costs more than six months of my rent, while he takes the seat opposite, my portfolio sketches now in his hands.
"Your work is... unexpected," he says after a silence that stretches my nerves taut.
My stomach drops. "Unexpected can be good or bad."
A slight tilt of his head, acknowledging the point. "In this case, good. Very good. Your technique is less polished than some, but your perspective is unique. You see connections others miss."
Relief floods me, followed immediately by a strange pride that this man—this connoisseur of the finest art—sees value in what I create.
"The commission I have in mind," he continues, setting my sketches aside, "is for a series exploring the intersection of natural and constructed environments. Five large-scale pieces for my personal quarters."
