Power Runs in My Blood

Chapter 005

"Governor Graves, please... get up. What is happening? This has to be some kind of hallucination."

Hugo Shepherd stood over Lynn Graves, his face a mask of sweating confusion. He looked at the woman who, ten minutes ago, was the undisputed chief of Fairhaven, now crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag. "Has Ward lost his mind? He’s threatening you? And that talk about Brightmoor... you’re joking, right? The Gazette is already live. The Bureau of Appointments doesn't just 'delete' a public vetting notice."

He reached out a hand to help her up, his voice oily with a forced, nervous concern. He still hadn't processed the magnitude of the tremor that had just leveled his world.

"Get away from me!" Lynn roared. She slapped his hand away with a violence that made Hugo recoil. She scrambled to her feet, her breathing ragged, her eyes bloodshot and filled with a terrifying, primal hatred. "You... you parasite! You vermin! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve destroyed me! You’ve burned the entire county to the ground!"

Hugo staggered back, his pride wounded. "Me? I didn't do anything! I just accepted the post! Governor, listen to me—my brother-in-law at the Provincial Inspectorate—"

"Your brother-in-law is a fly!" Lynn screamed, her voice echoing through the entire first floor of the County Hall. She looked like a woman possessed, her usual elegance replaced by a raw, jagged desperation. "If your brother-in-law has a problem with this, tell him to go to the Provincial Capitol Building and demand an explanation from Governor Bell himself! See how long he keeps his brass after that!"

"Governor... Bell?" Hugo whispered, the name hitting him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The air seemed to leave his lungs. He looked at Lynn, searching for any sign that this was a cruel prank. But all he saw was ruin.

Lynn didn't wait for him to recover. She turned and sprinted back toward the stairs, her mind a frantic blur of damage control. She didn't care about Hugo’s career—Hugo was a dead man walking. She had to find a way to stop Ambrose. She had to stop the capital flight. She had to stop the holy terror of the OIG from descending on her head.

Hugo stood in the lobby for what felt like an eternity, the silent stares of the other employees prickling his skin. Finally, he stumbled back toward the Office of Strategic Policy. When he pushed through the glass doors, the office was in an uproar. Usually, his subordinates would scramble to look busy when he arrived. Today, they didn't even notice him. They were all huddled around a single workstation, their faces lit by the blue glow of a monitor.

"What is it now?" Hugo croaked, his voice barely audible.

"The Gazette," a junior clerk said, turning around. The look the clerk gave Hugo wasn't one of respect; it was the look one gives a man standing on a trapdoor with a noose around his neck. "The Bureau of Appointments just pulled the old notice. They replaced it with a 'Special Emergency Appointment' Gazette. Look at the screen, Director."

Hugo pushed his way to the front. His vision blurred, but the bold, black text on the white background was impossible to miss.

[Pursuant to the Code of Appointments and critical strategic directives from the Governor's Office, the following candidate is hereby proposed for immediate provincial vetting:]

[Ambrose Ward, male, born 1995, Master’s Degree from Riverside University, Party Member. Currently serving as Assistant Director of the Fairhaven County Council Office. Following a comprehensive review of his exceptional record, the Council proposes the aforementioned for the position of Acting Director of the OIG — Second Division (Grade II — Full Director standing).]

Hugo felt the room spin. He staggered back, his hand clawing at a desk for support, but he missed. He collapsed into a chair, his eyes fixed on that single line: Acting Director of the OIG — Second Division.

He was finished. It wasn't just that Ambrose had been promoted out of turn; it was that he had been catapulted into the inner sanctum. The Second Division handled the oversight of local governments. Ambrose wasn't just leaving; he was becoming the man who would sit across the table from them during an internal affairs investigation.

Hugo thought of the snide comments he’d made in the elevator. He thought of how he had mocked Ambrose for not having political resources.

"He wasn't 'low-profile' because he was weak," Hugo whispered to himself, his voice cracking as the first tear of pure, unadulterated terror rolled down his cheek. "He was a lion pretending to be a lamb, and we tried to shear him."

The irony was a bitter, choking ash in his throat. He had spent his whole life bragging about his brother-in-law, a big fish in a small pond. Ambrose had been sitting on a founding share of the entire province's power, and he had only cashed it in when they pushed him too far.

In the corner of the room, the other clerks began to whisper, their eyes darting between Hugo and the screen. The rot had been exposed, and the reckoning had begun.

Five miles away, Ambrose Ward pulled his black sedan to the side of the coastal road overlooking the Greyvein. The air out here was fresh, untainted by the stale, recycled atmosphere of the County Hall.

He felt a profound sense of lightness. For three years, he had tried to play the game by the rules of the common man. He had wanted to prove to his uncle, and to himself, that capability was the only currency that mattered. But today had taught him a final, brutal lesson: in the Midlands, capability is the engine, but political capital is the fuel. Without it, you’re just a fast car sitting in a garage.

He picked up his phone. He had three missed calls from Lynn Graves. He ignored them. Then came another, and another—a lethal cycle of desperation. He selected her contact and tapped 'Block.' The silence that followed was beautiful.

Then, he dialed the lead representative of the $26 billion investment consortium—a man named Marcus Thorne.

"Director Ward," Thorne answered, his voice booming with a warmth that was reserved only for those with the Ward pedigree. "I saw the news on the provincial wire. A meteoric rise indeed. The OIG? My, my. You’ll be the youngest Full Director in the history of the Midlands."

"Thank you, Marcus," Ambrose said, his eyes fixed on the flowing water of the river. "But we have a problem. The political climate in Fairhaven has... shifted. The leadership here lacks the institutional loyalty required for a project of your scale. I can no longer endorse the Rose Garden Project in this jurisdiction."

There was a pause on the other end. Thorne didn't ask for details; he knew how the game was played. If Ambrose Ward was pulling his endorsement, it meant the soil was poisoned.

"I understand," Thorne said, his voice turning professional and cold. "The Investment Covenant was predicated on your personal oversight, Ambrose. Without that guarantee, we have no choice but to trigger the exit clause. I’ll have my legal team file the notice of capital flight with the Provincial Assets Authority within the hour."

"There’s no penalty?" Ambrose asked, though he already knew the answer. He had drafted the agreement himself, ensuring there were no liquidation damages if the "designated liaison"—himself—was moved.

"None for us," Thorne chuckled darkly. "But for Fairhaven? They’re going to have a $26 billion hole in their budget and a very angry Municipal Committee asking where the money went. It’s going to be a bloodbath."

"Good. Redirect the initial tranche to the Lakeport Development Zone. I’ll oversee the new groundbreaking from the Provincial Capitol."

"Consider it done. See you in the City, Director."

Ambrose hung up. He felt a fleeting pang of regret for the people of Fairhaven, but he knew that as long as Lynn Graves and Hugo Shepherd were in power, the money would have only been used to fund vanity projects and channel favors. By moving it to Lakeport, he was actually doing the province a favor.

He opened his phone one last time and logged into the Fairhaven County internal work group. The chat was a chaotic mess of "Congratulations" and "We always knew you were destined for greatness."

He typed a short, elegant message:

[To my colleagues and brothers-in-arms in Fairhaven: Thank you for the past three years. We weathered the floods together and stood on the levees as one. I had hoped to finish my tenure here with a final project, but my health and the Governor’s mandate require me to move on. I will never forget the revolutionary friendship we forged here. Stand tall, work hard, and perhaps our paths will cross again in the Capital City.]

He hit 'Send.'

Within seconds, the message was flooded with replies. Lionel Lawson, the old veteran from the Security Division, sent a heart emoji. Mia Kingsley from the Lakeport Land Registry wrote a tearful farewell.

And then, a message appeared from Lynn Graves.

[Ambrose, please. This is heartbreaking. Fairhaven is your home. We are your family. Don't let a misunderstanding destroy everything. I’m waiting for you in the office. We can fix this together. Please unblock my number.]

Ambrose watched as several other officials responded to his message, intentionally skipping over Lynn’s plea as if it didn't exist. He had made her a ghost in her own kingdom. The image of the "Powerful Chief" throwing herself at a locked door was now public knowledge. The "brass" was watching her crawl.

Ambrose didn't reply. He closed the app, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and put the car in gear. He had a long drive ahead of him, and for the first time in three years, he wasn't driving away from something. He was driving toward his destiny.

Back at the County Hall, Lynn Graves sat in her darkened office, the only light coming from her smartphone. She watched the work group chat, her eyes stinging as she saw Ambrose reply to a junior clerk while ignoring her entirely.

The $26 billion withdrawal notice had just hit her inbox. The Bureau of Census & Statistics was already calling, demanding to know why the "Project of the Century" was being scrubbed from the ledgers.

She was a silver-spoon heir who had just realized the spoon was made of lead.

She looked at her reflection in the dark window. She saw the face like moonlight on still water, the beauty that had always been her greatest weapon. But against a man like Ambrose Ward, beauty was just window dressing.

"There is only one way," she whispered to herself.

She knew Ambrose. She knew he was a man of discipline, but she also knew he was a man with a pulse. She remembered the way he looked at her during the long nights of drafting reports. There was a spark there—a spark she had ignored because she thought she outranked him.

She opened a discreet shopping app on her phone. She searched for a high-end boutique she usually avoided—one that specialized in "private evening wear." She scrolled through the selections: silk, lace, designs that were "capable of being torn" by a man in a hurry. She selected three items, choosing the "Ultra-Discreet Delivery" option to her private residence near Mere Park.

If she couldn't win him back as a chief, she would win him back as a woman. She would turn herself into a blood pledge of loyalty. She would be his snake in a sundress, his little minx, anything he wanted, as long as he didn't pull the trigger on her career.

"I’ll make you forget the OIG, Ambrose," she hissed, her eyes narrowing with a desperate, feverish light. "I’ll make you want to stay in Fairhaven forever."

She hit 'Purchase.'

As the confirmation flashed on the screen, Lynn Graves didn't feel like a County Council Chief. She felt like a gambler throwing her last chip onto the table, praying that the "Young Master" still had a weakness for the "Queen of Fairhaven."

But far away on the highway, Ambrose Ward was already thinking about the Internal Affairs Bureau files. The game had changed, and the "Queen" was about to find out that in the new era, the only thing that mattered was who held the leash.