"So what if I took a little loot from your boss. It's not like I don't deserve it. Your boss has been selfish from the start. I always did those bank dealings with him, but he never let me in with the big dogs. Humph! It pisses me off that even when I am a senator of one of the world's most powerful countries, he still uses me like a puppet."
The voice echoed crisply through the dim, lavishly furnished office, carrying a tone equal parts arrogance and frustration.
"Although I earn good gold from it, I still want to be in the big leagues. So, to get even, I started taking a little to satisfy my interest, and I don't see anything wrong with that. But anyway, since you guys know about my little secret, how about we make a wager for it? You tell me what you want to keep my little secret, and I will make sure to provide you with anything you may need and even vouch for you to enter the big table. So what do you say, boys? Are we in agreement?"
The recording ended.
An elderly middle aged man sat in a leather chair, a crystal glass of whiskey at the edge of his desk and a half-burnt cigar balanced between two fingers. His face was a slow burn of contempt.
"Bloody son of a bitch." he muttered under his breath before looking up, his cheeks flushed red with fury. Across from him, a woman sat calmly, legs crossed, clad in a black leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers. Her face was unreadable.
He sighed, tapping ash from his cigar into a ceramic tray. "How did you get your hands on that recording? Who gave it to you?"
The woman smiled faintly. "My most reliable sources."
The man arched a brow, clearly waiting for more.
She scoffed, settling deeper into her seat. "Oh, come now. Do you think I'm about to hand over my secrets for free? In my experience, deals work best when both parties trade a little curiosity. You give, I give. A slice for a slice." She tilted her head, smirking. "You know the game."
The man chuckled. "Spoken like a true daughter of Simon Milton. Though I must admit, I expected more… aggression."
"Unfortunately, Governor Wilby, this is exactly how much I feel like offering you—for now." She leaned forward slightly. "It's a shame your dear friend Williams kept something this explosive from you. And even worse, he is using you as leverage for his own climb, only to leave you stranded at the kiddie table while he dined with kings. Tell me...were you really that naïve to place your loyalty and trust in him?"
Wilby snorted. "Of course not. I never trusted that jackal. We built our secret storage houses together, but I always knew he'd sell me out if the pressure got high enough. I just didn't expect him to sell the whole lot to avoid getting his ass torched with fire. Bloody coward."
He dragged from his cigar and exhaled a long cloud of smoke, then fixed Patricia with a sharp look.
"I underestimated you, Milton. I didn't expect you to sniff around our club's secrets so fast. Though, knowing you're tangled up with Silver Snake's brother... I probably should have seen it coming. But let me give you some sisterly advice.....Jethro's a rat. Surely you've heard of his romantic history. Would be a shame if a beautiful woman like you ended up dumped and humiliated, just another pawn in his parade."
Patricia rolled her eyes. "It's a good thing I'm not interested in joining his circus. He's been trying though...but too bad...I'm not that kind of woman."
"Mmm. That much is clear." His eyes flicked over her, slow and appraising, a smirk curling his lips.
"So… you've given me your sliver of the deal," Wilby said, swirling his whiskey. "Now let's get to the real reason you came. What do you want in exchange?"
He leaned back in his chair, gaze unreadable.
"I know you're not asking for partnership—if that were the case, this dance would've ended long ago."
He was right.
After Patricia reached out to him a week ago about striking an important deal for a close partnership in the club. They wouldn't have waited this long to expose secrets and lay out their interests on the table but could have come to terms and agreed on their decisions and formed the partnership a long time ago.
Patricia gave a wry smile as she rose, slowly pacing the perimeter of his office.
"Mmm… that depends on what you're willing to give, Mr. Wilby," she said lightly. "Because a girl like me? She wants a lot."
She wandered over to a trophy case on the far wall—sleek glass, polished mahogany frame. Inside, a spread of silver and bronze medals glittered under the soft light. A few horse-shaped trophies shared the shelf, but no gold to be found.
"Oh…" Patricia tilted her head. "You never won gold, Mr Wilby?"
Wilby sighed and tapped ash from his cigar. "Regrettably, no. I was a good racer but just not good enough to earn gold. But I earned enough to build a legacy. So I have no regrets."
Patricia shrugged casually, her voice soft. "I don't judge you."
Her gaze drifted higher—toward a framed painting on the wall. A black stallion mid-gallop, eyes wild with fury, hooves smeared in dust and brilliance.
Her breath caught.
The same painting her father once kept in his study.
Why does Wilby have this?
"This painting…" she asked slowly, voice tightening with familiarity. "It's magnificent. Where did you get it?"
Wilby glanced up, smiling fondly. "Ah. That old gem. Beautiful isn't it. Painted by Daniel Plumberry...about 650 years ago. Powerful and skilled artist. He only made two originals."
He exhaled through his nose. "I have one. And your father had the other. Hell, he used to have them both. Said they were the Milton family heirlooms....claimed Plumberry was a distant relative or something. But there's a story behind that canvas…"
Wilby leaned forward. "Apparently, the man was murdered by a jealous king after the queen fell in love with him...his art, his soul, everything. Tragic. Your father cherished those paintings. But one night, we made a reckless bet. He lost. And I couldn't let it go." He smiled with a kind of distant guilt. "I fell in love with it too."
Patricia turned to face him fully. "Were you and my father… close?"
"Close friends, yes," Wilby said. "But he and Saccoth were more like brothers. Still, Simon had this… charm. He could slide into anyone's heart without trying. Hell, he did it to me too."
He took a slow sip from his drink. "However due to my ambition for power..things didn't work out for long between us. I wanted more and... he was just to stubborn and righteous to align with me...and that was it"
Patricia folded her arms. "And Governor Rockworth?"
Wilby's face twisted. "Don't even start. That man is a walking plague. A snake in silk. No one in the circle trusts him, he's too greedy, too egoistic. He clashed with your father at every turn. They were archenemies."
He leaned back, bitterness creeping into his voice.
"I'd stay far away if I were you. Rockworth poisons everything he touches. And as for Williams?" His jaw tightened. "Don't be fooled. He's Rockworth's puppet. Although he may act like he's against him sometimes but I believe he is the one whom he has been working with to betray me."
He ground out the words like gravel. "That son of a bitch!"
He cut himself off, muttering a string of curses under his breath.
Patricia didn't respond at first. She was watching him closely.
Beneath all his venom, she could see it: disappointment. Not just in Williams, but in himself—for trusting him in the first place. He had believed in loyalty once… and that loyalty had betrayed him.
Philip was right.
The wound ran deeper than Wilby would ever admit.
Patricia's eyes drifted to another painting—though calling it that felt like a stretch. It was a plain white-framed sheet, clean and stark, with a bold script in a language she didn't recognize:
'Canes et chacalli similes videntur, sed tandem alter naturam suam veram ostendet. Noli falli… effod thesaurum.'
She tilted her head, reading aloud.
"What language is this? What does it mean?"
Wilby glanced up from his glass.
"That's Latin. It means: 'Dogs and jackals look the same, but eventually, one of them will show its true nature. Don't be fooled… dig up the loot.'"
Patricia's eyes widened.
'That phrase—it's the clue Dad left me…
Could it be that Wilby has the other hard drive? He did say they were close once...'
Wilby rose, walking toward the painting. "It was a secret code," he continued. "Used by one of the most powerful ancient tyrannical factions known as 'The Black Tulips.' Sick, delusional maniacs—they thought they could evolve beyond humanity. Rule the world through transformation." He scoffed. "Of course, no one really knows what that evolution even meant. Their hideout caught fire. Burned them all alive. Or so the records say."
Patricia's heart thudded louder with each word.
"History insists they were all wiped out. Their secrets too," Wilby said with a dismissive wave. "I always wanted to crack the true meaning behind that line. It sounds simple, but there's more to it. Still…" He gave a hollow chuckle. "Seven hundred years is a long time to chase ghosts."
Patricia masked the lightning in her veins behind a slow nod. 'So the Black Tulips didn't vanish completely… and Montenegra has revived their vision. Somehow.' She swallowed hard. 'And that phrase—Dad left it for a reason. Wilby might know more. I just need to reach the right question…'
"Quite a history," she murmured, then turned toward him fully. "I think I'm finally ready to ask what I came here for."
Wilby took a slow sip from his glass, offering no reaction but a curious hum.
Patricia approached the desk. Her voice softened, intentional.
"You said… you and my father were close. Before you grew apart that is. Did he...ever leave something with you? Something important. Something like… a golden box, maybe?"
Wilby raised a brow at the phrasing, then shook his head.
"No. The only thing I got from your father was that painting. The one he lost to me in our bet."
"Oh.."
Patricia's shoulders fell slightly, disappointment visible.
But then—
"But…"Wilby set down his drink and slowly rose from his seat.
"…he did give me something else. A few weeks before the race. The one that led to his demise."
Patricia's pulse surged.
"Oh really?" she asked, voice careful.
The air thickened.
Something was coming. And she could feel it—it wasn't just history whispering anymore.
Wilby rose from his desk and moved toward the far end of the trophy case. He knelt beside it, unlocking a narrow drawer tucked beneath the medals. With deliberate care, he withdrew a small, gold-laced scroll, glimmering faintly under the room's overhead lights.
He turned and handed it to Patricia.
She took it reverently, the metal warm in her palm. Its surface shimmered faintly with age, untouched by time.
Wilby spoke quietly.
"Your father said someone would come for it. He didn't say who... but now I see it was you."
There was no seal. Patricia slowly unrolled the scroll—its edges creaking softly—and revealed a single image.
A stunningly painted portrait.
A woman, regal and radiant. Her black wavy hair cascaded down her shoulders, small black eyes glinting with secrets, a delicate nose and soft rose-pink lips framed by a golden crown. Dangling earrings and a gold necklace completed the vision.
Patricia inhaled sharply.
The scroll nearly slipped from her hands.
Wilby watched her expression.
"That's one of Daniel Plumberry's finest piece of works. Queen Adriana Wiltshire. Or as she's better known 'Lady Rose'.The same queen whose love for Plumberry cost him his life. The king ordered his execution out of jealousy. Tragic, really."
Patricia couldn't speak. The painting held her in place—eyes wide, lips slightly parted, heart hammering behind her ribs. It wasn't because of the beauty but...
She looks like me. She looks almost exactly like me…
The resemblance was uncanny—haunting, even.
Before she could say anything, the door burst open.
"Dad! I told you to stop going through my stuff! We agreed on boundaries, remember?"
Patricia flinched, quickly turning toward the voice.
A young man stood in the doorway—tousled blonde hair, piercing brown eyes, and plushy lips twisted in frustration. He wore a simple black t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, but his presence filled the room like a spark near dry kindling.
His gaze fell on Patricia—and froze.
His mouth parted slightly. His eyes locked on hers, stunned.
She blinked. That voice. It sounded strangely familiar…
Behind the desk, Wilby stood with a thunderous scowl.
"Steven Andrew Wilby! How many times have I told you—no barging in when I have guests!"
Steven faltered, his face draining of color.
His jaw clenched as he sensed Patricia's eyes scanning him, her expression unreadable but sharp.
A bead of sweat traced the back of his neck.
This is bad…