CHAPTER 5 — EDWARD’S PROBLEM

The Harrington offices did not look like a place where scandals were born.

They looked like a place where scandals were buried.

Polished stone floors. Soft recessed lighting. Glass walls so clean they felt theoretical. The reception area smelled faintly of eucalyptus and expensive coffee beans no one ever finished.

Edward Harrington stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his private office on the twenty-third floor and watched London perform normalcy.

Black cabs moved in careful lines.

Cyclists threaded between buses.

Tourists photographed buildings older than their governments.

Everything looked steady.

That was the danger.

His phone vibrated once on the desk behind him.

Then again.

Then a third time.

He didn’t turn immediately.

He knew who it would be.

When he finally pivoted, his reflection followed him in the glass—tailored navy suit, silver cufflinks, posture trained by boarding schools and boardrooms. The kind of man newspapers described as “measured.”

Measured was another word for careful.

His screen lit up with the name:

Oliver Reed – Crisis Advisory

Edward exhaled slowly and answered.

“Yes.”

“Morning to you too,” Oliver said dryly.

“What is it?”

A pause.

“That journalist we discussed? He’s filed a request for archived regulatory documents.”

Edward’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “From when?”

“2011. Northern Infrastructure Fund.”

Edward walked back toward his desk and sat down slowly.

“On what grounds?” he asked.

“Conflict of interest. Improper allocation of pension assets. He’s asking very specific questions.”

Of course he was.

Edward leaned back in his chair. “Has he published?”

“Not yet.”

“Has he spoken to the regulator?”

“Yes.”

Edward closed his eyes briefly.

The regulator.

That meant this wasn’t gossip.

This was movement.

“Who tipped him?” Edward asked quietly.

“We don’t know yet.”

Edward did not respond immediately.

But he knew.

Scandals didn’t resurrect themselves.

Someone had dug it up.

And the only person who benefited from digging was—

“Jonah Kade,” Edward said aloud.

Oliver didn’t sound surprised. “He’s been circling.”

Edward’s fingers drummed once against the desk. Controlled. Precise.

Jonah had lost the last acquisition battle. Lost face publicly. Lost leverage.

Men like Jonah did not accept loss quietly.

“What exactly does the journalist have?” Edward asked.

“Emails. Meeting minutes. A recorded conversation.”

Edward went still.

“A recording?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Of whom?”

“Your father.”

The room seemed to sharpen around him.

Edward’s father had been many things—brilliant, charismatic, reckless. But recorded admitting wrongdoing?

That was different.

“What does the recording contain?” Edward asked.

Oliver hesitated.

“It suggests he was aware pension funds were being rerouted through a shell subsidiary before approval.”

Edward stood abruptly.

“That was never proven.”

“It doesn’t have to be proven,” Oliver said. “It just has to be plausible.”

Edward walked to the window again.

In 2011, Northern Infrastructure Fund had collapsed after risky offshore investments. Publicly, it was framed as market volatility.

Privately?

His father had shifted capital into a vehicle that allowed a leveraged property play in Eastern Europe.

It failed.

Pensioners lost millions.

But the paper trail had been… incomplete.

Edward had spent the last decade cleaning that incompleteness.

New governance.

Transparent audits.

Compliance committees.

Charitable donations large enough to soften memory.

He had rebuilt the Harrington name brick by brick.

And now someone wanted to remind the world what those bricks were laid over.

“What does he want?” Edward asked.

“Comment.”

“Of course he does.”

“And possibly blood.”

Edward’s lips thinned.

“How long do we have?”

“A week. Maybe less.”

Edward ended the call without goodbye.

He stood there for a long moment, breathing evenly.

Optics.

That was the game now.

Because this wasn’t about criminal conviction.

It was about narrative.

His father had died three years ago—cardiac arrest, sudden, inconveniently timed.

Dead men couldn’t defend themselves.

But they also couldn’t apologise.

And Edward had inherited not just assets.

But memory.

A soft knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Margaret Doyle entered without waiting—Chief Financial Officer, grey hair cut sharply, eyes sharper.

“I assume Oliver called,” she said.

“Yes.”

She closed the door behind her.

“They’ve found the recording.”

“Yes.”

Margaret didn’t sit.

She rarely did.

“How bad?” she asked.

“Ambiguous enough to be interpreted as intentional misconduct.”

Margaret exhaled through her nose. “Damn him.”

Edward didn’t respond.

She meant his father.

Not the journalist.

“You’ve stabilised this firm,” she continued. “Your governance is clean. Independent oversight. We’ve outperformed the market three consecutive years.”

“That won’t matter if the story becomes moral,” Edward said calmly.

Margaret nodded once.

“Public perception,” she agreed. “If the narrative shifts from ‘market miscalculation’ to ‘exploitation of pensioners’—”

“We lose institutional trust.”

“And investors panic.”

“And the regulator reopens files.”

Silence.

Margaret studied him.

“There’s another issue,” she said.

Edward turned.

“What?”

“The charity gala next month. The mayor. The press.”

“Yes?”

“If this breaks before then, you’ll be asked publicly.”

Edward’s gaze sharpened. “Then it cannot break before then.”

Margaret almost smiled. “That’s ambitious.”

“I don’t do reactive,” Edward said quietly. “I do prepared.”

She tilted her head. “And what does prepared look like?”

Edward didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he walked back to his desk and opened a separate file.

Inside were briefing notes.

Media analysis.

Reputation matrices.

And one page with a different heading.

Personal Optics: Stabilisation Measures

Margaret noticed.

“You’re considering it,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Marriage?”

“Yes.”

Margaret crossed her arms. “To whom?”

“Amara Adebayo.”

Margaret searched her memory. “Immigration consultant?”

“Financial analyst. Nigerian national. Clean background. No public controversies. Intelligent. Discreet.”

“And?”

“And in need of legal stability.”

Margaret’s eyebrow lifted. “So it’s transactional.”

“Yes.”

“Does she know about the scandal?”

“Not yet.”

Margaret stepped closer to the desk.

“Edward,” she said carefully, “marriage as image management is risky.”

“So is being perceived as a solitary heir defending his disgraced father’s legacy.”

Margaret didn’t argue.

The optics were brutal:

Wealthy, unmarried, powerful man.

Father accused of exploiting pensioners.

Reclusive.

Defensive.

But add:

Married.

Stable.

Committed.

Domestic.

It softened edges.

It humanised.

It reframed.

“You’re sure she can handle scrutiny?” Margaret asked.

“She can handle pressure,” Edward said. “I’ve confirmed.”

“And emotionally?”

Edward’s expression cooled slightly.

“This isn’t emotional.”

Margaret held his gaze.

“No,” she said slowly. “It never is. Until it is.”

He ignored that.

“I want the paperwork drafted,” he said. “Prenuptial. Confidentiality clauses. Clear separation of assets.”

Margaret nodded.

“And the journalist?” she asked.

“I’ll meet him,” Edward said.

“Personally?”

“Yes.”

Margaret studied him one last time.

“You’re not your father,” she said quietly.

Edward’s voice was even. “I know.”

But knowing and being believed were not the same thing.

That evening, Edward sat alone in his father’s old study at the Kensington townhouse.

He had not redecorated it.

Dark wood shelves lined the walls. Leather chair. Decanter untouched.

The room still smelled faintly of his father’s cologne.

Edward stood by the fireplace, staring at a framed photograph on the mantel.

Himself at twenty-two.

His father beside him.

Hand on his shoulder.

Pride, unmistakable.

“You were careless,” Edward said aloud.

The room, as always, did not respond.

His phone buzzed again.

A message this time.

Unknown Number:

You built something impressive, Edward. Shame if people remembered the foundation.

Jonah.

Edward did not reply.

Instead, he poured himself a drink he would not finish.

He thought of the journalist.

Of pensioners.

Of headlines.

He thought of the word exploitation.

His father had called it strategic risk.

History preferred harsher vocabulary.

Edward set the glass down untouched.

Marriage.

He walked to his desk and opened the folder Yasmin had sent earlier.

Amara Adebayo.

Her CV was precise.

Her references strong.

No scandals.

No debts.

No reckless social media trail.

He paused at her photograph.

She wasn’t smiling widely.

Just composed.

Watchful.

She looked like someone who understood contracts.

He appreciated that.

His phone buzzed again.

This time, it was Yasmin.

Yasmin Khan:

She’s agreed to meet.

Edward stared at the message for several seconds.

Then typed:

When?

The reply came quickly.

Friday. Private location. No press.

Edward set the phone down.

Friday.

Before the journalist’s deadline.

Before the gala.

Before the past fully resurfaced.

He walked back to the window of the study.

Outside, London glowed.

A city that rewarded reinvention but never forgot scandal.

He had spent ten years repairing damage done by a man who believed consequences were theoretical.

Now he would do what that man never did.

He would plan.

Optics mattered now more than ever.

And marriage, for Edward Harrington, was not about love.

It was about containment.

About control.

About ensuring that when the story broke — and it would — the image standing beside his name was calm, credible, and unshakeable.

Amara Adebayo.

He didn’t know her yet.

But he suspected she understood something essential:

Staying in a country, like staying in power, always had a cost.

And some contracts were written in silence long before they were signed.

Edward picked up his phone one last time and typed a message to Oliver.

Prepare a statement acknowledging historical complexity. Emphasise governance reforms. Highlight philanthropic restitution fund.

Then he added:

And discreetly leak that I’m engaged.

He didn’t smile.

He simply pressed send.

Because in war — and this was war — you didn’t wait for the first blow.

You adjusted the lighting before the cameras arrived.

And Edward Harrington intended to look steady when they did.