Page 14 of The Beast's Broken Angel

A silver-haired woman appeared from a side corridor, her posture regal despite her advanced years.

She wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than three months of my salary, her hair swept into an immaculate style that somehow conveyed both sophistication and authority.

Sharp eyes evaluated me with a single glance, cataloguing details I couldn't begin to imagine.

“Mr. Hastings,” she greeted me, her voice cultured and precise. “Welcome to Ravenswood. I'm Sophia Calloway. Adrian will see you shortly.”

Viktor nodded respectfully to the woman before disappearing down another corridor, his departure silent despite his substantial size. Sophia beckoned me to follow her, moving with the unconscious grace of someone who had never questioned her place in the world.

“I hope your journey was comfortable,” she remarked as we walked through corridors lined with more artwork and occasional sculptures on marble pedestals. “Viktor drives rather aggressively when Adrian isn't present to moderate his enthusiasm.”

“It was fine,” I responded, struggling to maintain my composure amid such overwhelming opulence.

Each room we passed revealed new wonders: a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a music room where a grand piano gleamed under soft lighting, sitting areas arranged with furniture that belonged in museums.

Sophia led me to a sitting room that could have fit my entire flat with space to spare. A fireplace large enough to stand in dominated one wall, a tasteful arrangement of antique furniture creating intimate conversation areas despite the room's substantial dimensions.

“Please, sit,” she instructed, gesturing toward a velvet-upholstered chair positioned near a polished side table. “Tea?”

When I accepted out of politeness, she poured from an ornate silver service with practiced grace, the ritual clearly second nature to her. The china cup she offered was so delicate I feared it might shatter in my clumsy, hospital-roughened hands.

“My grandson mentioned your sister's condition,” Sophia said casually, stirring her own tea. “Autoimmune, yes? Such cruel conditions, attacking the body from within.”

I tensed at the mention of Isabelle, my fingers tightening imperceptibly around the fragile teacup. “Yes,” I responded cautiously, unwilling to discuss my sister but unable to be directly rude to my hostess. “May I ask how Mr. Calloway knows about my personal situation?”

Sophia's smile didn't reach her calculating eyes, which remained fixed on me with unsettling intensity.

“Adrian researches thoroughly before extending invitations,” she explained, the statement intended to sound reassuring but achieving precisely the opposite effect.

“Your dedication to your sister is admirable. Loyalty to family is something we value highly in this household.”

The implied comparison between my situation and theirs felt both presumptuous and vaguely threatening, though I couldn't articulate exactly why. There was steel beneath Sophia's polished exterior, a hardness that spoke of difficult decisions made without hesitation or regret.

“Family above all,” she continued, watching my reaction carefully. “Adrian mentioned you’ve been carrying your burden alone since your parents left. That demonstrates remarkable character.”

The casual reference to their disappearance years ago sent another chill through me. How deep had Calloway’s investigation gone? What else did they know about me, about Isabelle, about our lives?

“Mr. Calloway seems very thorough,” I observed neutrally, setting my teacup down to hide the slight tremor in my hand.

“Thoroughness prevents unfortunate surprises,” Sophia replied with the same disconcerting smile. “A lesson learned through experience.”

Before I could formulate a response, footsteps in the hallway silenced our conversation.

I rose automatically as Adrian entered, the man's commanding presence filling the room despite his injured shoulder.

He'd changed since our hospital encounter, now wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that disguised his injury while emphasising his imposing physique.

The scars on his face caught the firelight, creating shadowed topography across his features.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Adrian dismissed Sophia with gentle authority, the familial address softening what was clearly an instruction rather than a request. “Mr. Hastings and I have much to discuss.”

Sophia rose gracefully, pausing briefly to touch Adrian's uninjured shoulder. “Remember what we discussed,” she murmured, the words clearly not intended for my ears despite her making no effort to lower her voice further.

Adrian inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, his mismatched eyes never leaving my face.

The intensity of his gaze made my skin prickle, a sensation not entirely unpleasant despite the danger it implied.

Something electric hung in the air between us, charged with potential I didn't fully understand but instinctively recognised.

“This way, Mr. Hastings,” Adrian instructed once Sophia had departed. “We'll speak in my private study.”

Adrian led me through more lavish corridors, our progress tracked by security cameras disguised as architectural features and occasional glimpses of personnel who materialised and disappeared with practised invisibility.

The wealth on display was staggering, yet presented with tasteful restraint that somehow made it more impressive than gaudy ostentation would have been .

His private study surprised me, a shockingly modern space within the historical mansion.

Clean lines and contemporary furnishings created a stark contrast to the Victorian Gothic architecture surrounding it.

One wall featured multiple monitors displaying security feeds, financial data, and what appeared to be surveillance of various London locations.

Another held bookshelves containing medical texts alongside volumes on art, history, and warfare.

“Please sit,” Adrian gestured toward a sleek leather chair positioned across from an impressive desk. As I complied, he remained standing, his posture revealing no indication of the gunshot wound I'd treated less than forty-eight hours earlier.

“Your credentials are impressive,” he began without preamble, moving to a side table where a digital tablet displayed what I recognised with shock as my personal file. “Oxford nursing program, specialised trauma training, consistent excellence evaluations throughout your career.”

The casual display of information that should have been confidential paralysed me momentarily. How had he accessed my private employment records? The implications were disturbing on multiple levels.

“You mentioned a proposition involving my sister's medical situation,” I responded, pushing past my discomfort to cut through preliminaries. “I'd prefer we address that directly.”

Something like approval flickered in Adrian's mismatched eyes, the blue one catching light differently from the amber. “Direct. Good.” He moved back toward me, each step deliberate and controlled. “I appreciate people who value clarity.”

He removed his suit jacket carefully, revealing a tailored shirt beneath which I could detect the outline of the bandage I'd applied in the hospital. With methodical movements, he unfastened several buttons, exposing both the dressing and the extensive scarring surrounding it .

“Your work was excellent,” he commented, gesturing toward the bandage. “Minimal pain, clean suturing. Dr. Montgomery examined it this morning and was impressed.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” I replied automatically, medical training temporarily overriding my apprehension as I assessed the visible scarring.

The burn damage was even more extensive than I'd initially realised, covering most of his right torso in a complex pattern of grafted and regenerated tissue.

Years of reconstructive work evident in the layered textures and surgical lines.

“I require a private medical professional,” Adrian explained, his tone shifting to business-like directness. “Someone with trauma experience, burn treatment knowledge, and absolute discretion. In exchange, your sister's medical expenses will be covered completely for as long as necessary.”

The stark simplicity of the offer hung between us, its implications expanding to fill the room's considerable space. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to think through the professional aspects rather than immediately accepting out of desperation.

“What exactly would my responsibilities include?” I asked, genuine curiosity momentarily overriding suspicion.

Adrian rebuttoned his shirt with unhurriedly before answering.

“My condition requires specialised maintenance. The burn scarring affects approximately forty percent of my body, with ongoing complications that standard medical care cannot adequately address.” He returned to his desk, retrieving a folder which he placed before me.

“Dr. Montgomery has managed my care for fifteen years. His retirement necessitates replacement.”

I opened the folder to find detailed medical records and treatment protocols.

A cursory glance confirmed the extraordinary complexity of his condition—nerve damage, extensive grafting, tissue contracture issues, pain management challenges.

The documentation was professionally fascinating, a case study of survival against catastrophic injury.

“And my sister's treatment?” I prompted, looking up from the medical files.

“Fully covered under a private foundation I control,” Adrian responded, sliding another folder across the desk.

“The Calloway Burn Victim Support Trust. Legitimate, properly registered, with extensive experience funding long-term medical care. Your sister would receive comprehensive coverage, regardless of experimental status or treatment duration.”