Power Runs in My Blood

Chapter 009

The Provincial Inspectorate had finalized the resolution to investigate Chester Preston only last night, and by dawn, the man was a shattered mess on the pavement.

Ambrose Ward felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. His gaze turned sharp, his mind working with the cold precision of a high-end processor. In the world of high-stakes administration, a timing this perfect wasn't a coincidence. To put it formally, the Provincial Inspectorate's information security had suffered a catastrophic breach. To put it bluntly: there was a double-dealer in the heart of the provincial brass, a "mole" who had whispered a death sentence into Chester's ear before the investigators could even draw their breath.

Suddenly, the reason behind Donovan Bell's decision to catapult him into the OIG — Second Division became crystal clear. Ambrose wasn't just there to monitor the local councils; he was there to act as a fail-safe, a shadow auditor for the Supervisory Authority itself. He was being sent to find the leak in the "brass" before the entire province's disciplinary system was compromised.

"I understand, Governor," Ambrose said into the phone, his voice dropping into a low, professional register. He knew that when the stakes were this high, titles were more than just formalities—they were the boundaries of the game. "I'll begin the preliminary assessment immediately. Once I'm officially inducted into the inner sanctum, I'll hit the ground running. I'll make sure the truth isn't buried with him."

Governor Bell gave a short, appreciative grunt before the line went dead.

Ambrose tossed his phone onto the couch and lit a cigarette, the blue smoke curling toward the ceiling. He sat at his laptop, the screen's glow reflecting in his dark eyes as he began to dig. He didn't start with the official files; he started with the digital ghosts. He searched for Lakeport Properties Ltd. and its architect, Chester Preston.

Lakeport Properties was the crown jewel of the Lakeport Capital Trust, the only state-backed entity in the Lakeport Development Zone with a Grade A license for real estate development. They weren't just a company; they were the builders of the new world. They handled the infrastructure EPC, the public housing development, and the massive land-use transfers that had turned a swamp into a high-tech engine of the Midlands' economy.

As the Lakeport Development Zone had taken flight over the last decade, Lakeport Properties had soared with it. They had a monopoly on every major project, their market valuation climbing into the stratosphere on a mountain of public debt and government contracts.

Infrastructure and land reserves, Ambrose thought, his eyes narrowing as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. That's the gold mine Julian Graves was digging in.

The connection was too tight to be ignored. Julian Graves, Lynn's husband, handled the infrastructure contracting for the Development Corp. Chester Preston was the man who signed the checks. If Chester had a ledger, Julian was almost certainly the man who had helped him fill the pages.

Ambrose dug deeper, shifting his search to social media platforms. He was looking for the "human element"—the cracks in the corporate facade that official reports always whitewashed. After thirty minutes of sifting through corporate PR, he found what he was looking for on a microblogging site.

It was a post written by someone claiming to be a Lakeport Properties insider. The tone was frantic, written in the breathless style of someone who had seen something they shouldn't have.

The post claimed that Chester Preston hadn't just "jumped." He had arrived at the Lakeport Properties — Head Office in the middle of the night, bypassing security with his private key. He had spent the entire night alone in his penthouse office. When the cleaning crew arrived in the morning, they found the room filled with the scent of expensive tobacco and the charred remains of thousands of pages of documents. The man had burned his life's work in a trash can before stepping over the railing.

But it was the bottom of the post that made Ambrose's heart skip a beat. The insider had ended the post with a lament for Chester's family. "He leaves behind a empire of ash for his wife, Serena Frost, and his daughter, Gwendolyn. Two beautiful women left to face the wolves alone."

Attached to the post was a photograph of the two women. They were standing on a sun-drenched balcony overlooking the Greyvein. The older woman, Serena Frost, was a vision of mature, icy elegance—a face like moonlight on still water. But it was the younger woman, Gwendolyn, who caused Ambrose to freeze.

She was radiant, her smile possessing a pure, unclouded joy that seemed to belong to a different world. She was the very definition of "youthful radiance," a "deer in the headlights" beauty that Ambrose had seen before.

"Gwendolyn..." Ambrose whispered, his voice a mix of shock and a sudden, sharp memory.

She wasn't just the daughter of a real estate tycoon. She was his Junior.

Six years ago, during the golden hour of a campus orientation at Riverside University, Ambrose had been the student leader assigned to the incoming freshman class. Amidst the sea of nervous faces, Gwendolyn had stood out like a swan among ducks. She had been shy, her clothes modest, her eyes wide with the wonder of the Capital City. Ambrose had helped her find her dorm, carried her luggage, and guided her through the labyrinth of the student union.

He had been the "big brother" figure she leaned on during those first few months. Back then, she had never mentioned her father was the king of the Lakeport Development Zone. She had played the part of a middle-class student so perfectly that even Ambrose, with his hawk-like gaze, had never suspected her pedigree.

He remembered the few messages they had exchanged over the years—mostly about Student Club business or a "Happy New Year" text. He had kept her on his Social Media Feed, but as he had descended into the grit of Fairhaven, their lives had diverged. He had watched her occasionally post photos of her travels, but she had always seemed like a ghost from a simpler time.

Ambrose moved his mouse to click on the insider's profile, wanting to see if there were more details about the "burned documents." But as he clicked, the screen flickered and died.

404.

The page was gone. Not just the post—the entire account had been scrubbed.

Ambrose leaned back, his face hard. The troll farms or the security division of the Development Corp were moving with terrifying efficiency. They were muzzling any talk of the fire in the office. They were trying to keep the narrative as a simple "suicide due to stress," rather than a desperate attempt to destroy evidence.

He pulled up Gwendolyn's personal profile. He hadn't spoken to her in three years, but he still had access to her public posts. Her most recent update was from yesterday morning. It was a photo of her standing in front of a snow-capped peak in the Western Highlands, a vibrant, "life is beautiful" smile on her face.

She had no idea. While she was breathing the thin, pure air of the mountains, her father was falling through the smog of Stonebridge.

Why didn't he send her away? Ambrose wondered. A man like Chester Preston, if he knew the Internal Affairs Bureau was closing in, why didn't he get his daughter on a plane to London or New York?

There was only one answer: the end had come much faster than Chester expected. He had been spooked by the Provincial Inspectorate's movement, but he hadn't realized the trap was already sprung until the last possible second. His suicide wasn't just an escape; it was a desperate, final stonewalling of the investigation to protect his family—and whoever was standing behind him.

Ambrose felt a heavy sense of responsibility. If he took the Lakeport case, Gwendolyn would no longer be a ghost from his college days. She would be a "person of interest." She would be the girl he had protected on campus, now caught in the crosshairs of a provincial Operation Black Harvest.

He shook the thought away, focusing his mind on the data. He spent the next three hours compiling everything he knew about Lakeport Properties. The company was a black hole. They had swallowed every gold mine project in the Development Zone—prime catchment properties, high-end penthouses, and the massive infrastructure EPC contracts that fueled the province's growth.

It was a mountain of wealth so vast that it would have taken a hundred men a lifetime to spend it. And it was all controlled by one man who had just decided to end his life.

Donovan was right, Ambrose thought, stubbing out his cigarette. This is a tough nut to crack. Anyone else would get their teeth kicked in by the people protecting this pile of money.

County Hall — Fairhaven County

At the same moment, Lynn Graves sat in her leather chair, her hands trembling as she held a steaming cup of herbal tea. The office was quiet, the frantic shouting of the previous day replaced by a heavy, expectant silence.

She had just received word from the Lakeport Properties liaison. The $1.2 billion investment—the piece that Ambrose had "allowed" to remain—had been whitelisted. The contract was back on track.

The relief that washed over her was so intense it made her lightheaded. She was safe. For now. She could face the Municipal Committee next week without fear of being stripped of office. She could keep her vanity project alive.

But the relief was tempered by a lingering, burning shame. She thought of the six hours in Ambrose's apartment. She thought of the way he had looked at her—not as a superior, but as a man who owned her. He had taken her dignity and replaced it with a leash.

And yet, as she touched her lower abdomen, a strange, feverish warmth spread through her. She had spent years playing the part of the "Ice Queen," the untouchable County Council Chief whose life was a series of cold directives. Last night, for the first time in a decade, she had felt... something. It was a "punishment," yes, but it was also the first time she had felt the raw, unadulterated power of a man who wasn't afraid of her title.

She looked at her phone. She wanted to call him. She wanted to hear that low, dangerous voice again. She wanted to ask him if the $1.2 billion was truly enough, or if she needed to provide more... "sincerity."

He's going to the Capital, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she stared at a framed photo of herself on the wall. He's going to be the Full Director of the OIG. He's going to have the Governor's ear.

She realized then that her obsession with Ambrose Ward had shifted. It was no longer just about political survival. It was about the "Young Master" himself. He had opened a door in her that she thought was locked forever, and she found herself wanting to walk through it, even if it led to her own destruction.

Maybe I should go to Stonebridge for the groundbreaking, she mused, a slow, predatory smile touching her lips. Maybe the "Queen" needs to personally thank the Director for his... generosity.

She picked up her phone and opened the shopping app again. The "private evening wear" she had bought yesterday was no longer enough. She needed something more professional, something that said "loyal lieutenant," but with just enough of a hint of the "silk" underneath to remind him of what they had shared.

"I'll see you in the City, Ambrose," she whispered to the empty room. "And this time, I won't just be asking for a favor. I'll be asking for a seat at your table."

Ambrose's Apartment

Ambrose stood at the window, watching the sunrise illuminate the Greyvein. He had finished his preliminary report. He had his map. He had his weapon.

He thought of Gwendolyn, her "life is beautiful" smile frozen in time on a screen. He thought of Chester Preston, a man who had chosen a thirty-story fall over a seat in an interrogation room. And he thought of the Boaster, Dalton Lawson, who was currently trying to whitewash a murder.

The Midlands thought they were ready for a leadership transition. They thought they were ready for a new Full Director.

They weren't ready for a Ward.

Ambrose picked up his suitcase and walked to the door. He didn't look back at the room where he had broken a Queen. He was looking toward the Capital City, where the real gods lived, and where he was about to start the fire that would burn the old order to the ground.

"If the hunt is over, the hounds are put down," he murmured, his voice echoing in the hallway. "But I'm not the hound. I'm the storm."

He stepped out into the light, and the door clicked shut behind him, sealing the past forever.