Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Oliver
I’m awakened by an urgent knocking on Callum’s bedroom door.
“Prime Minister.”
I don’t get a chance to answer before the door bursts open.
It’s Harley, head of my security. “Urgent phone call for you.” He hands me the phone like he’s holding a live grenade.
“Hello?”
“Where in hell’s name are you?” It’s Toby’s voice.
“I’m not at Downing Street at the moment,” I say.
“No kidding, Sherlock. How quickly can you get back? We’ve got a situation here. Our embassy in Nigeria was just attacked. Reports of multiple causalities and the gunmen have taken hostages.”
“Fuck. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I end the call.
Callum’s squinting at me, one eye open. A chunk of his hair is sticking up.
I’m acutely aware that Harley is still in the room with us. Is there judgment in his gaze? I’m allowed to have a personal life. Although he could easily question my judgment over who I’ve chosen to have a personal life with.
“I’ll wait outside, sir,” he says.
“Thanks, Harley.”
Callum pushes himself onto one arm to look at me.
“What’s going on?” His voice is still hoarse from sleep.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
I lean down and press a quick kiss to Callum’s mouth. His lips are warm under mine.
“Is everything okay?” he asks when I draw back.
“No. I’ve got to leave. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Okay.”
Callum is fully awake now, staring at me with concerned eyes. But I don’t have time to talk to him as I throw on my clothes and head back to Downing Street to deal with the crisis.
I pace around the briefing room as we await more information from Nigeria.
As I pace, my advisers and military personnel trickle in, hastily assembling around the conference table. Toby brings me up to speed on the situation: a group of armed militants attacked the British embassy in Nigeria, leaving three people dead and taking a number of embassy staff hostage.
"We’ve established contact with the militants," Toby says. "They’re demanding ransom and safe passage in exchange for the release of the hostages. They’ve given us a deadline of twelve hours."
I rub my temples. Fuck.
“What are our options?”
"We’ve always held a policy of not negotiating with terrorists," says General Winters, head of the Armed Forces. “I’m assuming we’re not going to change that?”
“No. We’re not changing that. What are our other options?”
General Winters points to a large screen displaying a satellite image of the embassy and its surroundings. "We’ve mobilized our SAS team stationed in the region. They’re ready to execute a tactical assault on the embassy to neutralize the threat and rescue the hostages."
"What are the odds of success without any loss of life?"
General Winters hesitates for a moment. "We can never guarantee a zero-casualty outcome, Prime Minister. But our team is highly trained, and we’ll do everything in our power to minimize loss of life."
I take a deep breath, aware of the gravity of my decision. "Let’s move forward with the operation."
And there’s nothing more I can do but wait.
Fuck. I hate this part of my job. The knowledge that I could have sent people to their death. The minutes tick by and the atmosphere in the room is tense.
A few muffled conversations break out but don’t last as we wait for news.
I find myself tapping my fingers on the table, waiting. Waiting.
General Winters receives a phone call, and my shoulders seize up.
“Winters.”
I watch him closely, and there’s a slight upturn of his mouth, which is about as happy as he gets.
“Good work,” he barks over the phone.
He hangs up, then meets my eyes. "The operation was a success, Prime Minister. The militants have been neutralized and all of the hostages were rescued unharmed.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, rubbing the back of my neck.
Thank fuck.
"Well done, everyone. Now let’s focus on repatriating the dead, supporting the injured, and ensuring the safety of our staff going forward," I say.
The general nods and discussion breaks out.
Meanwhile, I’m taking deep breaths through my nose, trying to calm my heart rate back into the normal zone.
This morning has been a stark reminder that life isn’t snuggling in bed with my lover.
It’s a brutal world where there are bad people, and the citizens of this country have trusted me to make the right decisions for them.
People’s lives depend on me.
The adrenaline in my system fades fast, leaving me feeling flat. And now I’ve got a cabinet meeting.
Toby and I are alone, heading through the rabbit warren that is Downing Street, when he turns to me.
“So, who is he?”
“Who?”
“The guy you were with last night.”
Suddenly my adrenaline spikes back up.
“You don’t want to know,” I say.
His eyebrows fly up. “Why don’t I want to know?”
I exhale deeply. “Think of the worst person it is possible for me to be with, and you’ve got it.”
His eyebrows threaten to fly off his face and shoot for the moon. “You’re not fucking Harry Matheson, are you?” he says.
“Okay, maybe don’t go quite that far,” I say.
He sniggers. “So, who is it?”
“I’m not outing him.”
His eyes widen. “You’re dating someone in the closet?”
Is Callum officially in the closet? He doesn’t seem to have any issues around that part of our relationship. He realized he was attracted to guys. He kissed me. I’ve never sensed any reluctance from him to embrace his sexuality.
I’m pretty sure the only reason he’s not officially out is because of the scrutiny that would be placed on his love life, which he can’t afford right now.
Luckily we’ve reached the cabinet briefing room, which forces our conversation to end.
My luck in escaping the Callum conundrum is short-lived because after I’ve given cabinet a rundown of the situation in Nigeria, the next item on the agenda is security for Callum’s investiture as the Prince of Wales.
The Metropolitan Police want even more funding to make the ceremony as secure as possible.
“The investiture is looking like a very risky move by the monarchy,” Rosalia says. “There’s considerable backlash building in Wales against the ceremony.”
“The protesters have got a point. It’s continuing a tradition that began as a means to humiliate the Welsh,” Alfred says.
“And it’s coming at a time when a historically high number of the public are questioning whether we still need a royal family,” Rosalia says.
“What are the numbers?” I ask.
“Latest poll has only forty-five percent of the country supporting the monarchy,” Toby says.
I wince.
“The crown is continuing to insist that the investiture is an important symbolic event showing Prince Callum as the future of the monarchy,” I say.
“We’ve got to support the palace on this. If the police are asking for more funds for security, we can’t really refuse, can we?” Alfred says. “We don’t want anything to happen to a member of the royal family on our watch.”
“Where is the threat coming from? Welsh nationalists?” Cornelia asks.
“There are the usual rumblings from those quarters. But there’s also information filtering through the intelligence network of a specific threat against the Prince of Wales,” Rosalia says.
My blood runs cold.
Before I know it, my mouth is open, and I speak. “What the fuck are they doing about it? If Scotland Yard thinks there are credible threats to him, hunt them down and take the bastards out! Treason legislation has been around since the 1300s. Use it!”
Fuck. I’m breathing heavily, my whole body tense.
And this is another reason why being with Callum is such a bad idea. I can’t think rationally in these types of situations.
Silence falls over the table, and I’m aware many of my ministers are staring at me in shock. Cornelia’s mouth has dropped open and Alfred’s eyebrows have shot up to his hairline.
I run my hand over my face.
“From what I understand, they are trying to keep the network intact until they can work out where the threat is coming from,” Rosalia says calmly.
“Make sure they’re all over this.” I try to keep my voice from wavering. “As Alfred said, it won’t be a good look if something happens to a member of the royal family on our watch. No matter what the public sentiment is at the moment.”
Rosalia nods, and thankfully the conversation moves on to other matters.
After another hour of headache-inducing discussions, the cabinet ministers file out of the room.
Eventually, it’s only Toby and me left at the table.
He’s looking at me with an expression full of questions.
“What the hell was that outburst earlier? I didn’t know you felt so passionately about security for the royal family.”
I can’t lie to him. Not about this.
“It’s personal to me,” I say.
His forehead rumples. “It’s personal to you? How the hell is it personal to you?”
“Callum Prescott’s security is personal to me,” I say quietly.
Toby is a smart person. And I see the exact moment he connects the two conversations we’ve had this morning.
The smile drops off his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His voice is steeped in disbelief. “Prince Callum is your mystery man? You’re telling me you’re fucking the future king of England?”
I nod. It’s a quick nod, but it’s definitely an affirmative gesture.
Toby blinks at me for a few seconds before he speaks again. “I’m sorry. My brain isn’t just exploding right now. It’s exploding with such force there’s going to be little flecks of Toby’s brain sprinkled in the far corners of the universe.”
I claw my hands through my hair. “Do I want to see the brain explosion that’s going to happen when I tell you it’s not just fucking?”
“What do you mean, it’s not just fucking?” His eyes are wild. “How the hell can it be more than fucking?”
I lean forward, my elbows on the table, my head resting on my fingertips.
“You’re telling me you’ve got feelings for him?” There’s so much skepticism in his voice it could probably sink a battleship.
I look up at Toby through my fingers. “I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
Toby recoils back. I get the feeling he’s reacting not just to my words but my voice. It’s stripped back of all the usual veneer, revealing the raw emotion beneath.
Ollie from Essex is telling his friend he’s fallen in love.
“Fucking hell, Oliver,” he says.
I can’t help wholeheartedly agreeing with his analysis of the situation.