Luxury Or What ?

"Whoa."

The word left Anna's mouth before she could dress it up into anything more articulate.

She stood at the entrance of the estate's garage — or rather, what she had assumed would be a garage but which revealed itself, with each passing second, to be something else entirely. Something that defied the casual use of the word "garage" in the same way that the Pacific Ocean defies the word "puddle."

It was a cathedral of automobiles.

The space stretched wide and deep under high ceilings fitted with warm pendant lighting, the kind that made every surface glow with a rich, honeyed quality. The floors were polished concrete with embedded heating — she could feel the subtle warmth rising through the soles of her sneakers. The cars were arranged in neat, gleaming rows, each one more extraordinary than the last. Vintage Rolls-Royces in deep forest green and midnight burgundy sat beside newer models, their chrome catching the light like jewellery. Three long, sleek limousines anchored one wall. A trio of blacked-out Range Rovers occupied another corner with the composed authority of bodyguards. And scattered throughout — impossible to miss, impossible not to stare at — were six Lamborghinis in varying shades: one matte black, one pearl white, one in a deep arterial red that looked almost alive under the lights.

Six. Six Lamborghinis. Good heavens .

"Excuse me."

     Anna turned to Gallowglass , the young boy who had guided her there — a neat, polite child of about twelve in a smart navy waistcoat, his posture impeccable, his expression patient and kind. "What did you say this place is?"

"The estate's garage, Madam," the boy said simply.

"You're certain," 

Anna said. It wasn't quite a question.

"Yes, Madam."

"Not a shipping hall, not an automotive museum? Not some kind of showroom for a very ambitious car dealership."

"No, Madam." 

There was the faintest flicker of amusement in the boy's dark eyes, professionally suppressed. "Just the garage."

Anna turned back to face it.

     "Six Lamborghinis," she said aloud, mostly to herself. "Who keeps six Lambos in a garage?"

She began walking slowly down one of the lanes, hands clasped behind her back like someone at an art exhibition. She paused at a vintage silver Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, immaculate in a way that suggested it had never once been rained on. She moved on to a copper-gold Ferrari that seemed to hum with a quiet, contained energy even in stillness. She noted a pearl-white Mercedes S-Class beside a gunmetal Bentley Mulsanne, the two of them parked with the casual elegance of old aristocracy.

"And I thought the Ashworths were the pinnacle of luxury," she murmured.

The thought had barely settled when she heard her name — screamed across the full length of the garage with a pitch that could have shattered the windscreen of the nearest car.

Anna yanked the phone from her ear. "Isabeau!"

But the second scream didn't come from the phone. It came from across the garage floor — Isabeau herself, waving one arm enthusiastically as she half-jogged between the rows of cars, nearly catching her heel on the polished concrete in the process.

"Sorry — sorry, I'm coming!" 

Isabeau arrived breathless, one hand pressed to her chest, cheeks flushed, tablet tucked under her other arm. She then turned, composed herself with impressive speed, and addressed the young boy. 

"Well done, Gallowglass. You can head back now."

Gallowglass gave a small, dignified nod, offered Anna a polite wave, and departed with considerably more grace than anyone his age had a right to possess.

"What a gentleman," Anna said warmly, watching him go.

"Born that way, I think," 

Isabeau said. Then, turning her full attention to Anna with a bright, slightly guilty smile: "Good morning again, Madam Anna. How are you feeling? Did you sleep well? Please tell me you snored a little at least — it would make me feel better about my own habits."

Anna laughed — a proper laugh, open and unguarded.

 "I can't say whether I snored or not, but I feel extraordinary. Better than I have in a very long time." She paused. "You didn't come to the dinner last night."

Isabeau's expression shifted — briefly, sincerely apologetic. 

"I was caught up with work. I'm sorry about that. Master Ozeth also preferred it to be family only, so I wouldn't have wanted to impose regardless." She glanced at her tablet, scrolling with purpose. "Come, Madam Anna — we really do need to move."

"Right, yes." 

Anna fell into step beside her, glancing back at the rows of gleaming cars as they walked toward the garage exit. 

"Quick question though — Gallowglass genuinely insists this is the estate's garage. Not a showroom, not a warehouse, just — the garage."

"Correct," Isabeau said, not looking up from her tablet.

"Six Lamborghinis, Isabeau."

"Mm-hm."

"Three limousines."

"Yes."

"Who collects six Lamborghinis and parks them in a garage like they're ordinary?"

Isabeau glanced up now, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

     "Wait until you see the Ozeth family's private collection. Or better yet, Master JB's personal one, Alpha customized." She let the sentence land and returned to her tablet.

Anna stopped walking.

Isabeau took two more steps before noticing and turning back.

"His personal one," 

Anna repeated slowly.

"Yes, Madam."

"This —" Anna gestured back at the vast, gleaming expanse behind them. "This is not his personal one."

"No, Madam. This is the estate's general collection."

The silence stretched for approximately three seconds. Then Anna pressed both hands to her face, inhaled deeply through her nose, and made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp and a small, overwhelmed prayer.

"Oh, and Madam Anna?" 

    Isabeau continued, in the same pleasant, matter-of-fact tone she might use to announce that tea was ready. "Your car, Master Ozeth's instructions — you're to choose whichever one you like from the collection. For your use during your stay. Compliments of the Ozeth family."

Anna's hands dropped from her face. She stared at Isabeau.

Isabeau smiled serenely. "Any one you like."

What happened next was not entirely dignified, and Anna would later choose not to remember it in too much detail. There was a scream. There was a hug — a very firm, very enthusiastic hug — and Isabeau made a small sound mid-embrace that suggested something structural had shifted.

"I think something's cracked," Isabeau said, her voice muffled against Anna's sweatshirt.

"Sorry — sorry, I'm so sorry." Anna released her immediately, stepping back, eyes wide. "JB arranged this?"

Isabeau smoothed her blazer and nodded, one hand pressing briefly to her ribs. "He did."

Anna turned back toward the rows of cars. She walked slowly this time, deliberate, like someone making a very important decision. She passed the Lamborghinis — gorgeous as they were — with a small shake of her head. Too much. She paused at a deep navy Ferrari. Tempting, but perhaps a touch dramatic for a casual appointment. She considered a silver Bentley. Classic. Then her eyes settled on a pearl-white Mercedes-Benz GLE, long and understated and effortlessly elegant, parked at the end of the row like a composed, well-dressed woman waiting patiently at a reception.

"That one," Anna said.

Isabeau, who had been watching this process with the quiet enjoyment of someone who had anticipated the outcome, made a small note on her tablet and sighed lightly. "I had hoped you'd take the red Lamborghini."

"I'm pregnant, Isabeau, not reckless."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive."

"For me they are. The Mercedes."

"The Mercedes it is." Isabeau nodded, already signalling to the garage attendant. But she was smiling — small, warm, and genuine.

---

"So where are we headed, Isabeau?" 

Anna asked, settling back into the cream leather seat as they pulled out of the estate gates and turned onto the wide asphalt road that curved through the grounds of Mooncrest.

The interior of the Mercedes was warm and quiet, a sealed world of soft leather and polished wood trim and the faint, clean scent of a high-end cabin air filter. Through the tinted windows, the winter grounds of the estate scrolled by in muted greens and greys — bare-limbed trees lining the road at measured intervals, their branches catching the pale morning light like delicate ink drawings against a white sky.

"St. Maria's Memorial," Isabeau said, eyes forward, her posture straight and professional.

Anna's brows drew together. "That's a hospital."

"It is."

"Why are we going to a hospital? I thought the appointment—"

"Antenatal, Madam Anna." Isabeau glanced briefly in the rearview mirror, her expression calm. "Your check-up was overdue."

Anna sat with that for a moment. "And JB's appointment — the one we were originally scheduled for — does he know about this change?"

"He proposed it," Isabeau said. "Handpicked St. Maria's himself. Said it was the best obstetric unit in Mooncrest, and then confirmed it was the best in the wider region before making the call. His words were — " She paused, as though retrieving something from memory. "'The appointment can wait the baby cannot.'"

Anna looked out the window.

The bare trees continued their quiet procession past the glass. Somewhere in the distance, a bird crossed the pale sky in a long, unhurried arc.

    "My goodness," she said softly.

"Don't worry about the other appointment, Madam. It will be rescheduled at your convenience — weeks from now, months if needed. There's no urgency on that end." Isabeau's voice carried that particular brand of calm assurance that Anna was beginning to understand was simply her resting register.

 "It's the Ozeth way."

Anna absorbed this quietly, her hand returning to the curve of her belly beneath her sweatshirt.

The Ozeth way.

She was still turning the phrase over in her mind when Isabeau's hand found the gear shift with a decisive grip and she sat slightly forward in the driver's seat — the first sign.

"Hang on, Madam Anna," 

    Isabeau said. There was a new quality to her voice, something bright, something alert. Something Anna might have described, with the benefit of hindsight, as warning.

"Hang on for what?" 

Anna asked.

"We're going godspeed." Isabeau's foot found the accelerator. "No brakes."

"Isabeau—"

"Here it comes — whoooo!!"

"ISABEAU! Slow down — slow down right now, you speed demon — I am carrying a child, this is not a racing circuit, this is a public road in Mooncrest — ISABEAU!"

Isabeau's laughter filled the car like music — wild and bright and entirely unbothered — as the pearl-white Mercedes surged forward through the wide, open asphalt, the estate gates shrinking in the mirror, the morning air blurring past the windows in long silver streaks.

Anna gripped the door handle with both hands, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, somewhere between furious and helplessly, hopelessly laughing.

    It was, she thought — despite absolutely everything — a rather magnificent morning.