Chapter 4
1113 Words
London is too small for men like Aaron,” Henshaw thundered, raising a glass. “He once tried to serve soup in a courtroom!”
Roars of laughter.
Lucy clutched Gray’s arm.
“Maybe he should serve it here. I hear the staff are short.”
Gray smirked. “From prison to palace. What a journey.”
Gray swirled a glass of Dalmore 62. Lucy sat beside him, her arms in his, the perfect lovebird. Prime Minister Aldridge, impeccably dressed, watched them all with the amused detachment of someone who’d long since stopped pretending to care about ethics.
Laywone raised his glass. “To power. The kind that doesn’t need permission.”
Gray chuckled. “And to the kind that buys silence.”
Lucy leaned in, voice velvet. “And to the kind that wears diamonds before breakfast.”
Aldridge smirked. “You three are insufferable.”
Laywone’s eyes gleamed. “We’re rich. It’s a side effect.”
Gray leaned forward. “You should’ve seen the buyers’ faces when they thought the ivory was gone. Panic and desperation; like children watching their toys burn.”
Laywone laughed. “Let them panic. The Royal Ivory is back where it belongs.”
Aldridge raised an eyebrow. “You retrieved it?”
Laywone nodded proudly. “It’s in my care. I bought it off from Eric. He needed a favour; I needed the Royal ivory.”
Lucy’s smile faltered for a moment, then returned. “He thought he was clever.”
Gray scoffed.
Laywone tapped his ring against the glass. “The ivory is more than tusks. It's a legacy. It’s leverage. It’s the kind of artifact that makes empires bend.”
Aldridge leaned back. “And what do you plan to do with it?”
Laywone’s grin widened. “Display it, parade it, and maybe remind the world that the crown still owns history.”
Gray added, “And maybe auction a piece or two. Quietly, in the right hands.”
Lucy tilted her head. “Or gift it to certain ministers who appreciate rare gestures.”
Aldridge chuckled. “You’re all devils.”
Laywone raised his glass again. “We’re architects.”
Gray nodded. “Of wealth.”
Lucy whispered, “Of influence.”
Laywone finished, “And permanence.”
Aldridge’s gaze sharpened. “And what of Aaron?”
Lucy rolled her eyes.
Laywone waved a hand. “He’s a finished man. He’s of no use to me presently. I wouldn't associate myself with ill luck, lest I become infected.”
Gray leaned in. “I pity the woman who'll unfortunately settle for him.”
Lucy’s voice was softer. “He’ll disappear, like all problems do.”
Aldridge looked at them, one by one. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
Laywone smiled. “Only if you lose.”
They laughed again. This time, hard and long. But Aaron sat in the corner, listening to their mockery and bragging.
He didn’t need to fight old ghosts, he’d outlived them.
Instead, his gaze found her.
She stood alone, near the rose pavilion. A young woman, elegant and still. Her dress was satin, and her smile was carved from jealousy.
Aaron walked toward her without hesitation.
“You must be Shirley Windsor. Seraphina sent me.”
The woman turned sharply. Surprise flickered in her eyes.
“You’re Aaron? The new Mayor of London?”
Aaron smiled, just a little. “Guilty. But I’d rather keep that low-key for now.”
Shirley blinked. She had expected arrogance and authority. But instead, she found poise, calm and measured silence dressed in a black suit.
“You’re... different,” she said.
“Most people are, when you meet them outside the tabloids.”
The corner of her lips twitched, almost a smile. But it faded quickly. Urgency flooded her voice like water rising in a locked room.
“Master Laywone is planning to sell the Royal Ivory tomorrow at the House of Commons.” Her voice was sharp and steady.
Aaron’s expression didn’t change. Only his eyes narrowed.
“But as long as I stay married to your mom for that duration, the selling of the Ivory won't happen, right?”
“No, Aaron.” She was sad. “The trustees have been silenced and documents have been forged. The press doesn’t even know it’s happening. He’s selling it through a private auction corporation from Alaska.”
He let the silence linger, then spoke low.
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because Queen Elizabeth’s niece is pushing a health reform bill, and all eyes will be there.”
Clever. Loud politics to bury quiet crime.
Aaron’s mind moved quickly. The mayor’s office had no jurisdiction in parliamentary auctions, but his name did. His connections did. And now he had a motive.
Aaron offered her his arms, she hesitated, smiled, then took it like it was some treasure artifact to be rushed. Together, arms in arms, they moved away from the pavilion and the noise.
Across the garden, Shirley stopped by to exchange pleasantries with some associates, maybe colleagues. Aaron excused himself and began heading for the fountain. He needed a moment to breathe, to think.
Just then a man in blue blazers deliberately brushed past him.
“Don’t turn around,” the man’s voice sounded like a ragged gong, beaten out of use. “Stay where you are.”
Aaron froze.
“Just listen,” the man continued.
Aaron’s voice was barely audible. “Who are you?”
“You’re going to kill the Queen tonight.”
“What?”
“No questions,” the man hissed. “If you don’t… your mother dies.”
“What do you mean?”
The man pulled out a burner phone from his blazer and held it up from behind him. A live video of his mother played on the screen.
She was tied to a chair and her face was streaked with tears and sorrow. Her voice hoarse as she cried out his name.
“Mum…” Aaron whispered, his voice cracking.
Aaron’s hands clenched. “Where is she? Who are you?”
“You have until the toast,” the man said. “Make it look natural.”
Aaron’s voice rose, panic creeping in. “Tell me where she is, you s**t smelling, gut-wrenching bastard!”
But the man was already walking and as Aaron spun around, the man was gone.
The crowd swallowed him whole. Guests laughed, unaware. A waiter passed by with a trayful of champagne as the jazz band began a slow tune of “take five."
Aaron stood alone, the video still burnt into his mind. His mother’s sobs echoed louder than lightning in an empty room.
- Writer
