Chapter 4 - The Drive to Cliffside DriveThe night air outside St. Catherine’s Hospital hit my face like a physical blow. The city of Los Angeles stretched out before me in a sprawling grid of neon and asphalt, indifferent to the personal wars being fought in its shadow.
I unlocked my black sedan, tossed my coat onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. My phone buzzed incessantly in the center console—texts and missed calls from corporate PR reps, family lawyers, and my mother’s executive assistant demanding to know my location.
I powered the phone off completely, tossing it into the glove box. There was no turning back now.
The drive up toward Cliffside Drive took forty minutes, winding through the dark, twisting canyon roads where the city lights gradually faded into the heavy, shadowy canopy of eucalyptus and oak trees. The Waverly estate sat at the very peak of the ridge—a sprawling, gothic-revival mansion surrounded by iron gates and towering stone walls.
It was the house where I grew up. A place that had never felt like a home, but rather a museum dedicated to corporate ruthlessness and emotional starvation.
When I reached the private access road leading up to the estate gates, I killed my headlights. I coasted the car forward into the dense shadows beneath a massive oak tree, cutting the engine entirely.
The main gates were locked with a heavy electronic keypad, guarded by two private security personnel stationed inside a heated guard shack. But Grandfather Arthur had never trusted modern technology. He had always believed that systems driven by electricity could be hacked, corrupted, or shut down by enemies.
Which was why he had built a secondary service entrance on the eastern cliff face—a path used decades ago by groundskeepers and delivery men, completely hidden from the main cameras and security patrols.
I stepped out of the car, the cool mountain air filling my lungs. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the brass key, running my thumb over its ridged edges.
The hike up the rocky dirt trail took fifteen minutes. My legs burned, and the heavy silence of the canyon pressed down on me from all sides, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the crunch of gravel under my boots.
When I reached the eastern retaining wall of the estate, I found what I was looking for: an old, rusted iron door half-hidden behind thick vines of ivy.
I inserted the brass key into the heavy deadbolt.
It resisted at first, clogged with years of dust and disuse. I muttered a silent curse, gripping the head of the key with both hands and applying steady, twisting pressure.
Click.
The heavy mechanism gave way with a satisfying, echoing snap.
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I pulled the door open. A rush of cold, stagnant air spilled out from the subterranean depths of the estate—the smell of old parchment, damp stone, and forgotten history.
I stepped inside into pitch blackness, pulling out my lighter to guide my way down the winding stone staircase that led straight into the heart of the Waverly family vault.
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