Raze’s pov The gates of Carrington estate opens after the guard checks my name against whatever list he was holding. The driveway curves like a deliberate show of wealth, lined with ancient oaks and imported stone lanterns that probably cost more than my first apartment. The mansion sits at the end of it like royalty. White limestone walls, Floor to ceiling windows, Black wrought iron balconies. A fountain in front that never stops running. Old money doesn’t shout. I step out of the car, sunglasses on and an overnight bag slung casually over my shoulder. Thirty days……Thirty days inside this house. I smirk. Let the games begin. The front doors open before I reach them and Adam, the butler, stands there, perfectly composed in his dark suit, silver hair immaculate, hands folded in front of him like he has been waiting. “Good morning, Mr. Raze,” he says in that smooth, steady tone that has survived three generations of Carrington arrogance. “Adam,” I reply, genuine
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