THE TRILLIONAIRE BUTLER

Eric! You pathetic human!”

Mr Faraday, the Whitehouse head butler, yelled across the room, his voice wrapped in rage.

Eric Pason stood quietly, dressed in a crisp but faded butler’s suit with the Whitehouse’s badge. He was just another poor, tired face in the White House.

“Eric, you insufferable boy. What are these?” Faraday pointed a trembling, accusing finger at a set of abstract sculptures lining the wall.

Eric turned. “Those are the imported pieces from Valencia, sir. The ones you approved last week.”

“I asked for neoclassical. Not this…this twisted mess of iron and bronze!”

“They were in your final signature folder,” Eric replied calmly. “Page four, next to the tea vendor's approval.”

“They look like a nightmare straight out of Elm Street!”

Eric smiled. “Might be the symbolism. The artist was protesting capitalist overreach in post-colonial…”

“I DON’T CARE!” Faraday roared. “The new Chief of Staff is arriving with a truckload of Indian gold, and the reception hall looks like a third-rate nude gallery arranged by a blind butler!”

From somewhere behind them, a pair of giggling voices floated past.

Two female interns walked by, arms locked, whispering behind manicured hands.

“Did you see Malcolm Frees in that photo?”  

“God, yes. Like James Bond and Hercules in one body.”

DSS Malcolm Frees was the head of security at the White House. Eric had to admit, he was strikingly handsome, like a Roman god, sculpted to perfection. Square shoulders that resembled a hangar, solid demeanour, and a smile straight out of Heaven’s gate.

DSS Malcolm Frees. Bringing in Indian gold, which was enough to smuggle a cripple a country's GDP.

Faraday’s bellows pulled him back.

“Eric!... Look, I want these sculptures gone by sunset. Do you hear me? Gone! I don’t care if you swim to Spain yourself, I want replacements that are neoclassical, nothing modern, and no nudity!”

Eric adjusted his gloves. “That may be difficult, sir. The Valencia company is offshore, and any replacements would take two weeks, minimum.”

“Do I look like a man who enjoys excuses?”

“No, sir,” Eric replied smoothly. “I’m just saying what might happen if we do a return.”

Faraday’s nostrils flared, but the corridor phone rang and one of the guards picked up.

“The Chief of Staff’s convoy is five minutes away!”

Chaos bloomed again. Staffers doubled their pace, adjusting ties, flowers, and smiles.

Eric remained silent, like just another poor butler. But no one knew he was the best lockpicker in Europe. Or that he once opened one of the most complex MI6 security locks just to prove he could.  

To them, he was just Eric, the butler who always stood too straight and watched too much.

A young woman smoking a cigarette approached her. She was Quentin Tate, the president’s daughter.

She looked rough. Of course, she was into drugs, a situation which made her parents regret birthing her. She had run away from rehabilitation twice and was retrieved both times—from the Kalahari Desert in Africa.

“You’re Eric, right? The butler with cheekbones and poverty?”

“Eric Pason, ma’am.”

“Good,” she muttered, flicking ash to the ground, “When did you begin working for the Whitehouse?”

“Uhh...let me say, not long ago, ma’am.”

“Mm.” She studied him; eyes sharp despite the haze of whatever she was smoking. “Tell me, Eric… do you ever get tired of this Whitehouse?”

What was this psycho driving at?. Eric thought.

“I'm only a butler, ma'am.”

She took a long drag, which made Eric think she'd pass out.

“I see things, I notice you. Always quiet and minding your business. And I don't enjoy such mysteries.”

Ugh… That's your problem, chimney. Eric thought.

“And I hate my dad, mom, and that proud Head of Security who thinks himself a god.”

“We all hate our parents too,” Eric said. “Only that ours is not the President of the United States.”

She laughed, delighted. “Touché. I like you. You should come to my father’s ranch party this weekend. We’ll drink illegal whiskey and pretend the world isn’t burning.”

Eric turned to face her fully. “I’m flattered, Miss Tate. But I’m already taken.”

Her smile faltered.

“I’m proposing this afternoon to Clara Raynor, and today happens to be her birthday.”

Quentin scoffed. “The Chief Advisor’s daughter? Ugh. Her jaw’s tighter than the Pentagon’s firewall.”

Eric allowed himself a chuckle. “She’s brilliant. And she’s mine.”

“Well,” Quentin said, rolling her eyes, “good luck with your queen.” She disappeared into the garden.

Eric’s phone buzzed. It was his fiancée, Clara Raynor.

“Clara.” He picked up.

Her voice came through flatly. “Yes?”

“I… I just wanted to say… You should come to the garden today.”

Silence.

“Something is waiting for you,” he added. “A surprise birthday package.”

Another pause.

“I’m at work,” she said curtly, then hung up.

Eric slipped the phone away, exhaling slowly. Maybe she was stressed, perhaps she was tired, maybe someone made …

“ERIIIIIICCCC!!”

Mr Faraday yelled across the lounge.

“Are you drawn the drapes?”

“On it, Boss!” He yelled back, racing anxiously along the corridor.

Hours passed, like a snail crawling to its shed, and soon the garden was light with soft lights and floral decorations. Friends, Staffers, and White House aides gathered, sipping champagne and whispering in anticipation.

Everything was set for the proposal.

Then Clara Raynor walked in as cheers and claps erupted from the crowd. She was blindfolded by two of her friends.

“Okay, okay!” she chuckled, princessly. “What is this?”

“Just trust us,” one of the girls said, giggling.

They led her to the middle of the clearing where Eric stood, heart hitting hard against his ribs, kneeling on one knee. The ring box opened in his hand like a national treasure.

He cleared his throat.

“Clara,”

The girls removed her blindfold, and Clara blinked, startled. She froze like an ice lake, her expression uncertain.

Gasps and claps rippled through the crowd like a state declaration.

“Clara, I know you don’t like surprises.” Eric began his intensely rehearsed poetry.

“But I choose this occasion to break the rules for love. I love you like sunrise in Arizona, and I want to formally prove my claims in a way you'll understand better.”

He was sweating.

“I know this place isn’t exactly romantic, but… it’s the place I figured…maybe…it’s the place I could ask…”

He swallowed.

“Will you marry me?”

Everywhere went quiet.

Someone, somewhere whispered, “Say yes.”

Another chimed in, “He’s perfect!”

And for a moment, nothing moved.