THE TRILLIONAIRE BUTLER

Chapter 2

2

“You bastard!”

Clara's voice echoed across the garden.

“How dare you?!”

Eric kept kneeling, lost for words.

“Clara, I…”

“A common butler…proposing to me?... I feel so insulted.”

The guests covered their mouths in shock and embarrassment.

“Wait,” Clara continued, “What gave you the guts to think, even in your wildest dreams, that I would shame myself by settling for you?”

Eric slowly rose to his feet, stiffly closing the ring box.

“Clara,” he said, voice low. “This wasn’t meant to embarrass you. I just…”

“Oh… You think because we are friends, you could… propose? To me?”

The air was cold now. Every word hung heavy like fog.

Clara gestured to herself, sweeping her manicured hand down her designer gown.

“Look at me. Look at you. I’m the daughter of the President’s Chief Advisor. I dine with kings and senators, while you pour their drinks.”

So, what about those moments we shared together?

Clara laughed. “It was fun. But marriage? With a nobody?”

Eric stared at her, blinking once. “You’ll regret this, Clara.”

“You're out of your mind, Eric.” Clara hissed and walked away.

Then a slow tap echoed behind him; it was Mr Faraday, wearing the “I told you so” smile.

“I always told you,” Faraday continued, strolling closer, “You can never succeed in anything. Even in a simple proposal, you still fail.”

“Not now, Sir.” Eric struggled to say.

“Oh, come on,” Faraday chuckled. “A proposal? To Clara Raynor? What were you thinking, boy?”

Eric was silent.

“As a common butler, why not go for people in your wretched class? You know…chefs, gardeners, janitors. People who can love you back in your wretchedness.”

Eric turned his head away, his jaw clenched.

“You should sell the ring,” Faraday was laughing now, nodding at the box. “Use the money for something practical. New shoes, perhaps; or therapy.”

He patted Eric’s shoulder like a disappointed father. “Or better yet, maybe start saving up for a real future. Because let’s face it, you're too poor to marry up. You marry across, or down.”

“I thought she was different,” Eric stared at the shattered remnants of the celebration.

“You're a butler with slow dreams, she's the Advisor's daughter. Do the maths.” Faraday snorted and, with one final smirk, he walked off.

Eric pocketed the box in shame and returned to the White House just as a series of sirens wailed outside, signalling the arrival of DSS Malcolm and his van of Gold.

Guards poured from the east gate, and Helicopters hovered above as motorcades wheeled in. An armoured truck escorted by military personnel drove in.  Inside the car was pure Indian gold.

Down the white steps, First Lady Hillary Tate stood, stiff as a statue with a grave expression.

A second convoy rolled in, this one sleeker and darker. Out stepped Felicia Haywale, the President’s mistress, clothed in designer silk and sunglasses too large for her eyes.

Her presence made the First Lady Hillary turn to the nearest Secret Service agent.

“What the hell is she doing here?”

“Ma’am, she was invited by the President himself.”

Felicia’s presence was an insult, and everyone knew it.

Meanwhile, near the central reception platform, Raynor Castlefield, the President’s Chief Advisor, was all teeth and polish, shaking hands with the man of the hour.

DSS Malcolm Frees.

He stepped out like the Prince of England; his British American accent rolled out like a symphony.

“I trust the capital has not dulled your edge, Malcolm,” Raynor said.

“Oh, not at all,” Malcolm smiled. “Though it was a bit rough.”

Clara, Raynor's daughter, stood by her father’s side, practically melting before DSS Malcolm.

“Mr Frees, I’ve read all your reports from the Istanbul Embassy,” she gushed. “Your infiltration analysis was brilliant, too.”

Malcolm turned slightly, offering her a charming half-smile which almost made her pass out. “Brilliant is generous. I simply do what needs to be done.”

“Still. Not many men could have escaped that hostage situation unharmed.”

Somewhere, female staffers whispered excitedly.

"He's so tall…"  

"Did you see that jawline?"  

"And that voice… god."

Every woman in the White House wanted Malcolm Frees: everywoman but one: Quentin Tate.

She stood near the fountain, cigarette glowing between her lips. She didn't give a hoot about what was happening, who was essential or whoever thought himself a god.

“Can we cut to the part where we get to the business of the day, rather than glowing over a proud and privileged baboon?”

She yelled from where she sat, then her eyes flicked toward Eric.

Eric met her gaze and looked away instantly. He didn’t need that attention right now. Not while he was still recovering from his public humiliation.

Later in the day, he’d been ordered personally by Mr Faraday to clean the room of Quentin Tate,

He knocked gently. “Ms Tate? I’m here to clean the room.”

No answer; he pushed open the door and walked in past the half-naked figure of Quentin on the bed, her legs crossed at the knee, a wine glass perched in one hand and a smile on her lips.

“Eric.” she winked seductively.

Eric turned instantly. “Put something on. This isn’t…this isn’t appropriate.”

She laughed.

“You think I don’t see the way you've been watching me?” she said, sliding off the bed. “The way you look at me with passion.”

“Ma’am, I came to clean. That’s all.”

“Every man in this place wants to touch me, even you”

Who?...me? Eric wondered.

With his hands, he stopped her, mid-step. “You’re the President’s daughter, ma'am.”

He didn’t wait for her next move. He turned and walked out.

Two hours later, at the lounge, Eric was surrounded by armed security.

“Eric Pason, you’re under arrest for the attempted assault and attempted murder of the First Daughter, Quentin Tate,” barked the lead officer. “Anything you say…”

“There is a mix-up somewhere!” Eric shouted, struggling. “I didn’t touch her!”

“You’ll explain that to the judge,” Faraday repeated, emerging smugly from behind the gathering crowd of staff.

“I didn’t hurt anyone!”

As he was dragged away, Clara Raynor and her father, Raynor Castlefield, stood by, looking at him with disgust.

“I always told you nothing good can come out of him,” Raynor muttered.

“I was right to leave him,” Clara added coldly.

“This is insane! She set me up!”

He was whisked away and thrown into the detention facility.

Then, from the darkness of the adjacent cell, a dry voice drifted out.

“Eric Pason?”

Eric turned slowly to the scarred and cold face of a man peeking behind the bar.

Eric squinted. “Do I… know you?”