THE TRILLIONAIRE BUTLER

Chapter 6

The Whitehouse gala had begun.

And now Mr Faraday, like a captain commanding a sinking ship, barked orders across to the staff.

“Eric! For God’s sake, you useless twig of a man! Stop standing there like a monument, make yourself useful!”

Eric turned, balancing the silver tray of champagne and ice as he carved his way through dancers.

“Try not to trip over your own dignity this time,” he sneered, drawing chuckles from two junior staffers behind him. “If you had any.”

Eric didn’t flinch; he simply walked past and made his way to the VIP section, where President Tate sat, perfectly postured in a black tuxedo, holding First Lady Hillary’s hand like they were high school sweethearts instead of two sneaky secrets-keeping couples.

Clara Raynor was laughing intensely at DSS Malcolm's unfunny jokes, her hand securely wrapped around his.

Oh, love, Eric hissed.

Felicia Haywale gestured with her hands, to Raynor's amusement, while Hillary watched in disgust.

Eric approached with his tray and bowed slightly.

“Champagne?”

“Wait a moment…” Malcolm turned to Eric as he poured the champagne. “Aren’t you the… what’s his name again?”

“Eric, the butler.”

“Right. The butler who tried to marry you, Clara?”

Clara sipped her champagne and turned her eyes elsewhere, her silence louder than mockery.

Felicia giggled. “A butler proposing to an Advisor’s daughter? How brave.”

“Is that true?” President Tate raised a brow.

Hillary gave a sharp laugh. “It was a passing embarrassment. Let’s not spoil the night.”

DSS Malcolm leaned back and wrapped his arm around Clara like she was an epic reward.

“You know the saying,” Malcolm said. “Cut your clothes according to your size.”

More laughter.

From across the ballroom, Faraday was glaring at him again, arms folded, eyes boiling with contempt.

“You actually thought you could tie down Clara? My daughter? With what? Your mop?”

A few guests nearby snickered, eavesdropping with feigned disinterest.

“Clara made the right call,” Raynor continued. “Now look at her… DSS Malcolm’s lady. That’s the kind of man a woman like Clara deserves. Ivy League, world-travelled, powerful.”

Eric’s silence only made Raynor angrier.

“You never even went to college, did you?” Raynor scoffed. “Probably couldn’t spell Harvard if it slapped you across the face. Do you even know what the Ivy League means?”

Before Eric could respond, Hilary added, rubbing in the mockery.

“I advise you to consider taking a correspondence course.”

Raynor and President Tate laughed.

“Don’t be cruel,” Malcolm said with false sympathy. “Let the boy live. Besides, Clara and I are heading to Santorini next week. Five-star villa with a Private yacht, she deserves nothing less.”

Clara purred. “Ohhhh…honey.”

Ohhhh Honey. Eric mimicked her in his thought.

Just then, Quentin Tate walked in, a cigarette hung from her lips like a sorcery.

Felicia rolled her eyes.

“Oh great. Here comes the White House disaster.”

“Said a stripper whose source of income is between her legs.” Hillary shot at Felicia.

Quentin took a holy drag and blew the smoke in their faces.

“Go fuck yourself!” she said flatly, then pulled Eric away. “I need to talk to you.”

Eric followed.

“I’m sorry I framed you for rape and assault.”

Eric said nothing.

“You ignored me, Eric,” she said. “You acted like I didn’t exist. I… I don’t get ignored, not by anyone.”

Eric gave a soft laugh, bitter and amused.

So you nearly ruined my life just because I refused to flirt with you?

Quentin didn’t answer. She simply took his hand firmly as Faraday barked from a distance,

“Keep following the crackhead, this time around, she'll frame you for murder and treason!”

But Eric did not reply.

Quentin turned to him as she lit another cigarette.

“I know what they did in Colca Valley,” she said. “The gold… it doesn’t belong here.”

She took him to the vault containing the gold in the eastern wing of the White House.

Eric knew of DSS Malcolm’s classified operation and the president’s cover-up.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

Quentin’s voice was quieter now.

“Because I’m tired of being invisible too,” she whispered. “And maybe... just maybe... we could both run away with the gold.”

Eric stared at her.

“Let’s kill him,” she said flatly.

“What?... Who?”

“The president,” she said, flicking ash onto the concrete. “Let’s kill him. Steal the gold. You and me. Then we disappear, vanish to some sunburnt island and live off the grid, then we get married.”

Eric’s throat tightened, and he stepped back slightly. “Quentin, that’s not…”

“You think this gold just ended up here by chance? You think DSS Malcolm just stumbled on a valley dripping in bullion? No, this is blood gold.”

“That doesn’t mean we murder him.”

Quentin took a long drag. “You think anyone will miss that bloated old bastard? He's got a mistress for a reason; his wife can’t stand him. His cabinet’s full of shitheads.”

“And your solution is murder and a honeymoon?”

She smiled slightly. “It’s romantic.”

“No. I can’t. I won’t.”

She stepped forward. “The combination to the lock is in Tate’s chambers. I can get it, but I’m only handing it over if you promise to marry me once we’re out.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

Eric was now a Trillionaire, disguised as a mere butler; her offer didn't entice him. Not at all.

“I’m giving you freedom, power, me. And you’re still pining for Clara?” Her voice dropped into a venomous whisper. “She’s riding Malcolm now, remember?”

“This isn’t about Clara,” he said. “This is about you using me to get back at your father.”

“Fine,” she hissed. “You want to be noble? Heroic? Go ahead. But don’t think for one second you’ll walk away untouched.”

“Quentin…”

She cast the cigarette away, still looking straight at Eric.

“You’ll regret rejecting me twice, Eric.”

Just then, there was chaos at the gala.

“MAKE WAY! THE DUCHESS OF HAVOC HAS ARRIVED!”

And in came Lady Fredith, the President's aunt, draped in a golden, fluffy coat, a hat on her head with a feather perched on it.

There were gasps and whispers, and people asked in curiosity.

“Who invited her?”

“What does she want?”

“Are we safe?”