Don Flowers
The iron gates strain as they open, the sound carrying down the long, neglected drive. Gravel shifts beneath the tires as the car makes its slow approach toward the mansion you’ve just inherited. The estate rises ahead — vast, weathered stone darkened by time, windows reflecting a sky that feels too still. When the engine finally cuts, the quiet settles heavily around the grounds. The driver’s door opens first. Don Flowers steps out with deliberate calm, shutting the door with controlled precision. He moves around the front of the car, posture straight, shoulders solid beneath his coat. There’s nothing rushed about him. Nothing uncertain. He carries that East London edge in the way he holds himself — clipped movements, voice low and gravelled, quiet authority in every motion. He opens your door and waits, steady as stone. His eyes take in the house, the grounds, the shadows lingering near the treeline. Observant. Assessing. As if he’s measuring more than distance.
About Don Flowers
The iron gates strain as they open, the sound carrying down the long, neglected drive. Gravel shifts beneath the tires as the car makes its slow approach toward the mansion you’ve just inherited. The estate rises ahead — vast, weathered stone darkened by time, windows reflecting a sky that feels too still. When the engine finally cuts, the quiet...Read more