THE TRILLIONAIRE BUTLER

Chapter 5

5

“Oh, didn’t expect to run into the Whitehouse stripper so early. I thought your kind vanished with the last scandal.”

Hillary threw the first jab. Eric watched in amusement.

Felicia smiled; her lipstick was perfect. “Well, you know me. Scandals keep me young.”

“I suppose the cleaners forgot to disinfect the presidential quarters,” Hillary said coldly, eyes scanning Felicia’s neckline. “You must’ve sneaked out of his bed… As usual.”

“At least someone’s keeping him warm. You’ve been rather… preoccupied, aren't you?” Felicia smirked.

Hillary smiled wickedly. “Much better than being a hoe to someone who gives zero fucks about you.”

Felicia laughed. “I would rather be worried about being neglected by my very own husband.”

“At least I am married, not a bed warmer being called upon when I'm aroused.”

Felicia scoffed. “Ohh… What do you call this? Marriage? I'd rather die single…”

“And a Hoe”, Hillary spat.

“My dear Hillary, you have just two options: either you share him or you get a divorce.” Felicia laughed.

“Ohh.. you should've told me you really envied my position as the first lady. Something you'll never come close to having.”

“You mean the position you lobbied for?” Felicia asked.

“Yes, the same position giving you sleepless nights and migraine.”

Eric stood still. Any word from him at this moment would be as risky as an elephant walking on thin ice. It was a clash between the woman who bore the title and the one who rode the man.

Felicia softened with mock calmness.

“We could’ve been friends, you know. But you chose war the moment you decided to accept a ring from a man who doesn’t love you.”

“Yes, he loves you more,” Hillary laughed. “Reasons why he sneaks you into his apartment like contraband.”

“Oh, darling,” Felicia said, adjusting her dress, “Access is access, whichever way you choose.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Felicia.”

“I didn't force your husband to have his eyes on me,” Felicia replied. “Of course he found me sexy and stunning enough.”

“I'm not surprised my husband could go as low as having a low-grade-cheap-street stripper for mistress.”

Felicia rolled her eyes.

Eric looked away. The air was thick with rage that wore perfume.

Hillary snapped, “What are you even doing here, Felicia? Slithering into places your sex organs can’t cover?”

“I came for the Presidential Gala,” Felicia replied sweetly, twirling her keycard. “Formal invite. Check your husband’s access file, once you're less busy from parading yourself like a goddess.”

“That gala,” Hillary said icily, “is for dignitaries, allies, and patriots. Not glorified strippers with a scandal history longer than their attention span.”

Eric could feel the tension, one word away from an explosion. Felicia cast a glance at him, and he quickly looked away.

She laughed. “And you brought your little butler. Is he your emotional support servant now?”

Hillary’s reply was ice: “He knows his place. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“We shall see about that,” Felicia concluded and turned towards the lounge, walking away.

Eric dared a question. “Ma’am… shall we continue?”

She didn’t look at him.

Just whispered, “There will come a day when that woman learns her limits. And on that day, I’ll be waiting.”

Eric gave a slight nod, heart still racing. He knew one thing for sure: The gala tonight wouldn’t be just champagne and diplomacy, it would be war in gowns.  

He had to go back and tidy up Carter's room, and he was running out of time.

All around him, staff and servants were in a frenzy, setting up red carpets and floral displays, chatting about DSS Malcolm and his dignity. But Eric’s mind was on Carter’s quarters and on the hidden lock he’d found earlier.

He excused himself from the first lady and took the back stairs two at a time and arrived at Carter Brooks’ quarters.

He moved straight up to the wardrobe and lifted the lock. It was electronically intricate but with a manual override.

He pulled two alloy pins from his pockets and inserted them into the lock while listening intently to its mechanism.

And CLICK. It opened.

From the open window across the corridor, the guttural roar of Carter’s motorcycle echoed off the stones below.

Eric’s blood froze; he’s back and probably coming upstairs.

Inside the safe were files and folders stamped with the Presidential Seal. Some were tagged TOP SECRET, others unmarked.

He rifled through them quickly until he saw it:

DNA ANALYSIS REPORT: SUBJECT - QUENTIN TATE.

Eric opened the document, eyes scanning.

PATERNAL MATCH: CARTER BROOKS.

ZERO BIOLOGICAL LINK TO PRESIDENT TATE.

Carter's footsteps were sounding closer.

Eric stuffed the document into the inside of his shirt, closed the safe, swung the panel shut just as Carter Brooks walked in, the scent of whiskey trailing behind him like shame.

“Welcome, Sir.”

Eric was bent over the polished floor, mopping aggressively against a stubborn patch of stain.

"What the hell… How many hours does it take you, lazy baboon, to clean up an apartment?”

Eric quickly stood, placed the mop upright, and straightened his back with the calm dignity of someone used to being spoken down to.  

"Apologies, sir."

Carter scoffed, wobbling slightly as he threw his jacket onto the chair.  

"You’re a damn butler, and I'll kill you one day.”

“My apologies, sir.”

Carter stepped closer, towering over him like a massive tank. His breath smelled of cheap whiskey and Arizona.

You really think anyone cares a damn about your little rota?" Carter sneered. "You’re just a broom boy in a white house."

“Yes, Sir.”

“And nothing good is expected to come out of you. Not wealth, not riches, not connections. Nothing. Roll with folks in your class and stay there.”

Eric didn’t flinch. "Of course, sir. I’ll take my leave."

He grabbed the mop, nodded respectfully, and made to leave,but Carter’s voice cut through the silence.

"Hey!! STOP!."

Eric froze, heart in throat.

That was it. He’d been caught; maybe the DNA file had been found. Maybe Carter knew. Perhaps this was the end.