Page 54 of Addicted

As we approached the gate, I saw my armed guards standing at attention. Two of them, both strapped, both trained to kill on command.

They nodded at the SUV as we pulled up, and one of them pressed the button to open the gate. The heavy iron gates swung open slowly, and we drove through.

I heard Indie gasp softly behind me. I didn’t turn around, but I smirked.

The driveway was long. At least a quarter mile from the gate to the house. It was lined with perfectly manicured landscaping, trees and hedges trimmed to perfection by the groundskeepers I paid to maintain the property.

As the house came into view, I finally glanced back at Indie and Ishmael. Both of their jaws had dropped. Indie’s eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open as she stared at the property in front of us. Ishmael looked like he’d just seen a spaceship.

The estate was ten thousand square feet of luxury. Modern architecture with clean lines, floor-to-ceilingwindows, and a facade that screamed money. It was beautiful. And it was mine.

The SUV pulled up to the front entrance and came to a stop. My driver got out first, then opened my door.

I stepped out, straightening my shirt, and walked around to open Indie’s door myself.

She was still staring at the house, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.

“You actually live here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded.

“Yeah, I do. The spot you were at is where I stay when I don’t want to make the drive out here.”

Indie shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“You live here alone?” she asked.

“Just me and the staff that need to be here around the clock,” I said.

Ishmael climbed out of the SUV, his eyes still glued to the house.

“This shit crazy,” he muttered.

I didn’t respond. I just turned and walked toward the front door, knowing they’d follow.

The interior of the estate was just as impressive as the exterior. I’d spared no expense when I built this place. Everything was state-of-the-art, immaculate, designed to perfection. The floors were polished marble, the walls painted in neutral tones that made the space feel open and airy. The furniture was custom-made, luxurious but not over-the-top.

Everything had a purpose. Everything was intentional.

I led Indie and Ishmael through the grand foyerand into the kitchen first. The kitchen was easily the size of most people’s entire apartments. It had top-of-the-line appliances, a huge island in the center, and enough counter space to prepare a feast.

Brady, my live-in chef, was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. He looked up when we walked in and nodded respectfully.

“Mr. Wright,” he said.

“Brady,” I said. “This is Indigo and Ishmael. They’ll be staying here from now on.”

Brady’s expression didn’t change. He was a professional. Discreet, efficient, and paid well enough not to ask questions.

“Welcome,” he said to Indie and Ishmael. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Indie nodded, still looking around like she couldn’t believe where she was.

Ava, my housekeeper, walked in from the hallway. She was an older woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor.

“Good morning, Mr. Wright,” she said.

“Morning, Ava. This is Indigo and Ishmael. Make sure they have everything they need.”