With my lamp switched off, I listened to her steady heartbeat for a few minutes before inching closer to her scent. It was pointless to dwell on the rut—it only left me with a hard-on and nowhere to bury my knot.
I didn’t fall asleep until my hand was splayed protectively over my children.
???
With Lielit guarded and staying with her parents for the night, I kept my appointment at 10 Downing Street.
Security ushered me through with practiced efficiency and into the White Room.
It wasn’t as impressive as I’d imagined.
The walls were dressed in pale plasterwork edged with tired gold leaf, the cornices heavy with age and money. Old oil paintings stared down from their gilt frames—statesmen, monarchs, wars won and lost—faces preserved long after consequence had faded. The ceiling was the most deliberate feature: roses, thistles, daffodils, and shamrocks woven into the moulding. England. Scotland. Wales. Ireland. Unity cast in plaster, cracks carefully painted over.
This was where visiting heads of state were received. Where smiles were rehearsed and photographs staged.
A message, then.
Posturing.
The prime minister was ready to dance.
The large folding doors slid shut behind me as David entered, the soft click sealing us in. His expression hardened the moment he noticed where I was sitting.
His chair.
Right beside the fireplace.
His jaw tightened, feathers ruffled beneath the polish.
“Mr Prothero,” he said, stretching his mouth into a tight approximation of a smile as he extended his hand.
I leaned forward and shook it without standing.
“I’ll cut to the chase, David,” I said calmly.“The documents I have won’t just cost you your position—they’ll trigger a full investigation.”
I handed him my phone.
He took it and sank into the chair reserved for dignitaries during photo calls, his movements slower now, cautious. The screen glowed against the white of the room.
“Keep swiping,” I drawled.
I watched the colour drain from his face.
His swallow was sharp. His breathing shallow. He looked as though he might vomit.
“And if you’re not concerned about your career,” I continued mildly,“perhaps you’ll be more invested in your wife. Or your children.”
His eyes flicked up, pure hostility burning through the veneer.
“It would be unfortunate for them to suffer,” I added.“Private schools can be so… unforgiving. Children are cruel. I can almost hear the whispers already.”
His grip tightened on my phone.
“Such a shame,” I went on, unhurried,“if your wife of sixteen years decided divorce was the only reasonable response.”
I fell silent.
He kept scrolling.
