LEVERAGE

A SPOT ON SOMEWHAT Thames Street ran parallel to the River Thames in central London—busy, noisy, and thick with the smell of coal fires, saltwater, and the constant movement of ships docking and departing. The narrow cobbled road was lined with timber-frame buildings, warehouses, and small shops leaning into one another as if struggling to stand upright. Horse-drawn carts rattled across the stones. Porters shouted orders. Sailors moved in clusters, while merchants and traders from Europe, Africa, and the colonies filled the docks with constant negotiation and exchange. Fishmongers, craftsmen, and street hawkers called out their goods, while taverns and alehouses overflowed with sailors, laborers, and travelers seeking escape from the weight of the sea and trade. That morning, after a fair trade had been concluded, the street was louder than usual. George Wellington rode through on horseback. Behind him, Lotanna was strapped at the tail of the horse, exhausted and barely conscious. Her condition drew mixed reactions—some watched with disgust, others with quiet approval, and a few cheered as he passed. Inside a nearby tavern, voices rose in fragments. The bar attendant muttered under his breath. Anonymous 1 leaned closer. “What did you say?” “Nothing, sire,” the attendant replied quickly, eyes flickering with discomfort. Anonymous 2 laughed. “He should be outside with the lady instead,” he said, referring to his companions. The attendant snapped back suddenly, frustration slipping through. “Shut the hell up. You are African,” he said with a bitter tone, then corrected himself quickly, “—no, I mean…” The group erupted into laughter. “I’m Mexican,” he added defensively. Anonymous 1 smirked. “Ah, Hispanic. Now things get interesting.” The bar owner stepped forward, irritation rising. He c****d his gun slightly. “You old dogs have had your fill,” he warned. “I think it’s time you leave.” Anonymous 1 stood casually. “Alright. Hey, Hippo, we’ll catch you around.” Anonymous 2 gave a mocking gesture as they left. “My gift, puta.” They both laughed as they walked out. The bar owner shook his head. “Assholes,” he muttered, patting his back. “Truly Hispanic.” The attendant only smirked in response. George Wellington’s House The Wellington residence stood as a symbol of colonial wealth—built from brick and stone, designed with strict Georgian symmetry. It rose two to three stories high, its central doorway framed with columns and a decorative pediment above. Large sash windows lined the structure evenly, while iron fences enclosed the property, marking status and control. Inside, marble floors led to a grand staircase. Portraits of naval victories and family heritage lined the walls. The sitting room was richly decorated with mahogany furniture, velvet cushions, Chinese porcelain, imported rugs, and silk curtains that reflected colonial wealth. A pianoforte stood quietly in one corner, unused but imposing. Servants moved silently through the space with lowered heads. Then Flora entered. She carried herself with confidence—her gown made of silk and satin, layered with corset and petticoats, decorated with lace and embroidery. Though she came from a fish-farming background, she now carried the appearance of privilege. Her eyes scanned the room. “Who is she?” Flora asked sharply. George replied without hesitation. “A maid.” “A maid?” Flora repeated, scoffing. “We have plenty of them.” She looked at him closely. “Oh my God, George…” “Don’t start,” George snapped. “You are no better than them. The only difference is they are slaves.” Flora’s eyes darkened. She turned away, fighting tears. Servants moved quickly as another maid helped a young girl—Iheanacho—out of the room. Flora followed George into the bedroom, her anger rising. “So this is what you’ve become?” she said bitterly. “Another black concubine to corrupt this house?” George stopped walking. “You mean my house,” he corrected coldly. “Because I don’t see you bringing anything here except the stench of fish oil.” Flora’s voice trembled. “At least I am white. Unlike them.” George laughed bitterly. “Repackaged privilege. Without me, you’d still be covered in bait and fish guts.” Flora stepped closer. “f**k you.” “And I regret every bit of it,” George replied. Her voice rose. “You don’t even care about the child you brought in here!” George’s expression hardened. “I married you when you were sixteen. What’s the difference? Four years? Don’t act innocent.” Flora slapped him. “How dare you!” she shouted. George grabbed her, pushing her against the wall and slapping her back sharply. A mark formed on her cheek. “I said don’t try me again,” he whispered coldly. Then he walked out. The Porch Flora sat on the wooden porch, a bottle of rum in hand. She drank slowly, her pain visible in every movement. George stepped out. “You could die from that liquor,” he said flatly. Flora scoffed. “Like you care.” George looked away. “I care enough to know we need survival. War is coming. Even your fish matter.” He turned and walked away again. Flora smashed her glass against the floor in frustration and followed him inside. “You don’t learn, do you?” George said without turning. She sat again, quieter this time. “Besides… it is what it is.”