Power Runs in My Blood

Chapter 008

Toppling a Grade II — Full Director like Lynn Graves was no small feat. It required more than just a well-placed word to a patron; it required a structural failure in their political survival.

However, as Ambrose Ward watched Lynn tremble in his living room, he realized that the ledger she had described was more than just a list of names. It was the ultimate gold mine—a "blood pledge" that could either protect a dynasty or incinerate it. If he could secure that book before he arrived at the Provincial Capitol Building, it would be more than just a career move; it would be his "founding share" in the Governor’s trust. A gift for Donovan Bell that would prove Ambrose wasn't just a liaison officer with a pedigree, but a hunter who could pull the rug out from the entire Midlands underground.

"He has it, doesn't he?" Ambrose’s voice was low, cutting through the silence of the room. "Your husband has the book hidden. And you’re terrified that if I get my hands on it, your political life isn't the only thing that will end."

Lynn looked up, her eyes wide and shimmering with a frantic, desperate light. "Ambrose... you want that book? You want to open that door? You have no idea whose names are in there. It’s not just small-town graft. It’s titans clashing at the provincial level."

"I know exactly what it is," Ambrose replied, a cold smile playing on his lips. "And I know that without it, you have nothing to offer the OIG — Second Division when we come to audit your vanity projects. You want me to stop the capital flight? You want me to keep those $26 billion in Fairhaven so you don't look like a total failure when the Lord Mayor visits next week? Then give me the leverage I need to protect you."

Lynn hesitated. Her mind was a battlefield of entanglements and fears. If she gave him the ledger, she was a traitor to the "circle." If she didn't, she was a corpse in the eyes of the Provincial Committee.

"Don't forget who called you tonight, Lynn," Ambrose reminded her, his voice smooth as velvet and sharp as a razor. "Donovan Bell doesn't call county chiefs to chat about the weather. He’s the tallest tree in the Midlands. 'Stand in a tall man's shadow, and you'll never feel the heat.' If you hand me that book, you’re standing in his shadow. If you don't... well, the sun is going to be very, very hot on Monday morning."

The logic was undeniable. Fortune favors the bold, and Lynn knew she was out of options. She had spent her career burnishing her résumé and keeping up appearances, but now the facade was gone. She had to choose a new patron, or be dealt with by the old one.

"I can get it," she whispered, her voice a broken, jagged thing. "But it won't be easy. Julian is a coward, but he’s a paranoid one. He’s hidden it somewhere outside the Harborside Compound. I’ll need time to... 'persuade' him. I’ll need to use every bit of leverage I have left."

"Time is a luxury you don't have," Ambrose said, looking at the clock on the wall. "The Joint Task Force doesn't wait for 'persuasion.' And the investors? They’re already drafting the rescindment of the funds. If you want me to put a hold on that order, I need more than a promise. I need to know you’re fully committed to my... oversight."

"I am," Lynn cried, throwing herself at his feet again. "I’ll do whatever it takes! You can't let the investment go, Ambrose. If the Lord Mayor arrives for the groundbreaking and finds an empty field, I’m finished. They’ll strip me of office before the sun sets."

Ambrose looked down at the "Queen of Fairhaven." He knew she was telling the truth—she had weaponized the excuse of the "people," but her real fear was the reckoning deferred that would come from the Municipal Committee. She had promised a miracle, and now she was holding a handful of smoke.

But Ambrose was no soft target. He knew that if he let her off the hook now, she would find a way to whitewash the situation the second she felt safe. He had to ensure her "loyalty" was absolute.

"You want me to save your record?" Ambrose asked, a dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. "You want me to leave a portion of that investment in Fairhaven so you can keep your vanity project alive?"

"Yes! Please! Even just a part of it... enough to keep the foundations going!"

"Then let’s see what your 'sincerity' is really worth, Lynn," Ambrose said, stepping closer until he was towering over her. "You’ve spent years using people like tools. You used me. You used my work, my health, and my loyalty to build your throne. Now, the roles are reversed. I’m the Full Director, and you’re just a petitioner."

He reached out and tilted her chin up, his gaze boring into hers. "There are six hours until dawn. In that time, you are going to show me exactly how far you’re willing to go to save your career. You’re going to prove that you’re not just a two-faced politician, but a woman who understands the cost of her mistakes."

Lynn’s breath hitched. She saw the "devil’s smile" on his face, a look of pure, unadulterated power. She knew exactly what he was demanding. It wasn't just a "favor"; it was a total surrender of her dignity. It was the "punishment" for the years of patronizing him.

"Six hours," she whispered, her face flushing with a mixture of shame and a strange, frantic relief. "Whatever you want, Ambrose. I’m yours."

The night passed in a blur of shifting shadows and the heavy, electric tension of a power dynamic being utterly dismantled. In the small, spartan apartment that had once been the residence of a "lowly secretary," the "Queen" learned what it meant to serve.

Ambrose didn't treat her with the gentleness of a lover, but with the cold, calculated dominance of a master who had been denied his due for too long. He watched her—her face like moonlight on still water, her slender willow frame—and he saw the collapse of the old order. Every groan of the floorboards, every whispered plea for mercy, was another brick being removed from the wall of her arrogance.

He was "cutting the head off the snake," not with a blade, but with the sheer weight of his newly realized authority.

Six hours later, the first grey light of dawn began to creep over the horizon of Fairhaven County.

The door to the apartment opened, and Lynn Graves stepped out into the hallway. She looked different. Her beige trench coat was belted tight, her large sunglasses back in place, but her stride was uneven—a slight limp that betrayed the intensity of the night’s "negotiations." Yet, beneath the exhaustion, there was a glimmer of something else in her eyes. It was the look of a woman who had survived a hurricane and found herself still standing.

She had lost her pride, but she had saved her life. Or so she thought.

Ambrose stood on the small balcony of his apartment, watching as she climbed into her black government sedan. He watched the car pull away, disappearing into the morning mist that hung over the Greyvein.

He had agreed to leave $1.2 billion of the investment in Fairhaven—just enough to keep the "groundbreaking" from being a total disaster, but not enough to let Lynn feel she had won. It was a "sweet lure," a way to keep her tethered to him until she delivered the ledger.

Was it a criminal waste? he wondered, a cold smile touching his lips. No. It was an investment in the hunt.

The silence of the morning was suddenly shattered by the vibration of his phone on the railing. He picked it up. It was Donovan Bell again.

Ambrose’s expression sharpened. It was barely 6:00 AM. For the Governor to be calling this early meant the "titans" weren't just clashing; they were bleeding.

"Governor," Ambrose said, his voice instantly returning to its professional, alert state.

"Ambrose," Bell’s voice came through, sounding remarkably clear and grim. "I hope you’re packed. The situation in Stonebridge has just escalated from a 'local matter' to a provincial crisis."

Ambrose felt a jolt of adrenaline. "What happened?"

"Chester Preston," Bell said, the name sounding like a heavy stone being dropped into a deep well. "The chief of Lakeport Properties Ltd. He was found on the pavement outside the Lakeport Properties — Head Office twenty minutes ago. He 'fell' from the thirtieth floor."

Ambrose froze. Chester Preston wasn't just a businessman; he was the primary engine of the Lakeport Development Zone. He was the man who handled the funneling of benefits for the entire provincial government’s infrastructure projects. He was the hub of the wheel.

"Suicide?" Ambrose asked, though he already knew the answer.

"The Provincial Inspectorate was scheduled to serve him with an enforcement action for administrative custody at 8:00 AM," Bell replied, his voice dripping with cynical irony. "It seems he decided to 'take a shortcut' rather than face a Joint Investigation Task Force. The man is gone, Ambrose. And with him, a decade’s worth of secrets."

Ambrose’s mind raced back to Lynn’s confession about the ledger. Her husband worked in the Lakeport Division of the Development Corp. He was Chester Preston’s right-hand man for the Infrastructure EPC.

The ledger isn't just a list, Ambrose realized, his heart hammering. It’s the roadmap to the murder of a CEO.

"Ambrose, listen to me," Bell continued, his tone turning into a verbal directive that brooked no argument. "The Provincial Governor, Dalton Lawson, is already on the scene, trying to have the Municipal Police take control of the investigation. He’s trying to whitewash the scene before the Internal Affairs Bureau can get there. I want you in Stonebridge by noon. You aren't just going to the OIG to be my 'eyes and ears' anymore."

"Sir?"

"I am giving you a mandated assignment with 'no upper limit.' You are the lead investigator for the OIG — Second Division on the Lakeport Suicide Case. You have the power of cross-jurisdictional deployment. You answer only to me. I want you to pull the thread on Chester Preston until you find out who pushed him—metaphorically or literally. If you find rot, you cut it out. If you find a lion, you bring me its head. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Governor," Ambrose said, his eyes narrowing as he stared out at the distant, rising sun. "I’ll be in the City by eleven."

"Good. And Ambrose... be careful. Those who play with fire usually burn, but those who fall from thirty stories don't get a second chance. The 'circle' is panicked. A panicked animal is the most dangerous."

"Don't worry, sir," Ambrose said, his voice a low, lethal purr. "I’ve spent the last six hours learning exactly how to handle a panicked animal. I’ll see you at the Provincial Capitol."

Ambrose hung up the phone. He stood there for a long moment, the cool morning air filling his lungs.

He thought of Lynn Graves, currently driving home to find her husband. He thought of the ledger that was now the most valuable piece of evidence in the province. And he thought of Chester Preston, lying on a cold sidewalk because he knew too much.

The game was no longer about a promotion or a plum post in Brightmoor. It was about political survival in its rawest, most brutal form.

He walked back into the living room and grabbed his suitcase. He didn't look at the unmade bed or the medical clearance still lying on the desk. He walked to the bookshelf, picked up his red pen, and drew a thick, heavy circle around a single line in The Year of Silent Crowns:

[Silence is worth a hundred arguments, but a well-timed revelation is worth a kingdom.]

"Let's see if the Boaster can 'balance the ledgers' on a dead man," Ambrose whispered.

He closed the door of the apartment and locked it—not with the tentative touch of a man leaving a home, but with the finality of a soldier leaving a base.

As his car sped out of the Fairhaven County limits, heading toward the towering glass and steel of Stonebridge, Ambrose Ward felt the last of the "secretary" within him die. The Young Master Ward was gone. The Acting Director of the OIG was here.

And the Midlands were about to find out that when a Ward draws his blade, he doesn't stop until the field is red.