Page 68 of The Unlikely Heir

We leave the motorway, and suddenly, we’re in the streets of northeast London, driving past council estates, the dilapidated apartment buildings sticking up like stubborn sentinels among pockets of nicer houses. We turn down a high street where there are a few shops boarded up, others with metal grills pulled down over the outside like a veil.

The car swings left at the end of the high street and suddenly stops outside a rundown block of apartments. The building’s paint is flaking off, showing the faded red bricks underneath. A single dim streetlight casts long shadows around the entrance.

My forehead scrunched, I turn to Oliver. “Where are we?”

Oliver nods at the door of the closest apartment, where the window displays a torn net curtain. “This flat belongs to someone you know as BritishPatriot.”

My mouth drops open. “What? Why are we at the house of someone who loathes me?”

“I just wanted you to see exactly who these people are.”

I blink at him.

Oliver must see uncertainty on my face because his expression softens. “I promise this is safe, Callum,” he says quietly. “I’ve cleared it with my security team and your security team. This guy has no history of violence. He doesn’t know we’re coming here tonight. I would never do anything to put you in danger. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

It boils down to a basic truth.

There is no one in the world I trust more than Oliver.

Oliver opens his door and climbs out, holding the door for me. He waits until our security teams are in position before he strides up the short pathway to the front door. I follow him, my legs shaking, feeling slightly lightheaded.

I can’t believe we’re doing this.

I’m about to meet BritishPatriot. My nemesis. The person who taunts me twenty times a day, who devotes so much time and effort to pointing out my inadequacies.

In my head, he’s an Adonis: tall, broad, and incredibly handsome. And he wears a smirk similar to Cliff’s as he uses his superpower vision to see straight to all the flaws within my soul.

Oliver raises his hand to knock on the door, then glances back to where I’m hovering uncertainly behind him.

“Maybe you should stand in the shadows,” he suggests.

I step away from the pool of light that spools onto the doorstep. Jacob, one of my security officers, immediately comes up to stand beside me.

Oliver knocks, a firm, strident sound.

A weedy guy with a narrow rodent-like face answers the door. He’s wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt with a splodge of dried ketchup on it and jeans with a hole in the knee.

“Can I—” His voice cuts off abruptly as he catches sight of Oliver. His mouth falls open, gaping unattractively like a starstruck hippo, as the color drains from his face.

“Are you Trevor Adamson?” Oliver is in prime minister mode with his deep, confident voice.

Trevor blinks like he’s trying to clear his vision. “Uh…yes?”

“I’m Oliver Hartwell, the prime minister.” Somehow, Oliver manages to assert even more authority into his voice, giving it the full weight of his job title.

Trevor blinks again. “Um…all right. Uh…hi. Nice to meet you.” His voice is on the high side, with a quaver running through it.

“I would say it’s nice to meet you in return, but unfortunately, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been operating social media accounts harassing the Prince of Wales.”

Gee, if Oliver ever decides to pursue another career, school principal would be a good choice.

Maybe that’s what the prime minister actually is. School principal to the entire nation.

A look of pure terror comes onto Trevor’s face before he rallies. “I haven’t done anything illegal,” he says.

“No, I didn’t say you have. But a common piece of advice is that you shouldn’t say anything to someone online that you wouldn’t say to their face. Do you want to read your Tweets to the Prince of Wales?”