The Night of the Party
The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow over the city's rooftops. But what truly lit up the night was the power, and no one knew how to command that power like Mr. Linton. In the massive underground garage of his mansion, the lights flicked on, revealing three incredible cars: a dark Rolls-Royce Phantom, a flashy Lamborghini Aventador SVJ in midnight blue, and the star of the show — a Bugatti Chiron Super Sport, polished to a deep red with gold trim. Its license plate read simply: GETTY. Linton looked at the cars, like a king picking his warhorse. "The Bugatti," he said with a cold, precise tone. "Tonight needs presence." His assistant, Eric, nodded. "Great choice, sir. The press is already there. Your arrival will probably make the front page tomorrow." Linton adjusted his tuxedo, the fabric black and smooth, catching the light just enough to show off his wealth. His bowtie was sharp, the whole look screaming power. His tuxedo, custom-made in Milan, had a nearly invisible L crest on the left breast — his mark, his claim to a legacy. As they got into the car, Eric sat in the passenger seat while Linton eased the Bugatti out of the garage. The car purred quietly but with power. "Sir, if I may," Eric said, glancing at his tablet. "The guest list tonight is impressive — Sir Callum Winthrope, Lady Dreyford, even the Prime Minister's nephew." "And what does that make me?" Linton asked, turning slightly, his face illuminated by the streetlights. Eric chuckled. "The lion in the garden." Linton smiled faintly. He liked Eric's metaphors. They flattered him without being too obvious. As they drove, the city passed by in streaks of gold and grey. The car hummed quietly, heading toward the Hazelgrove Estate, just outside of London. The silence between them grew meaningful as they neared their destination. Five minutes passed before Linton spoke. "Eric… money doesn't just move the world. It controls it. Behind every law, every crown, and every revolution, money was the first voice. "Eric looked at him but didn't say anything. "My brother, Peeta," Linton continued, "he's become too soft. My daughter, as beautiful and charming as she is, doesn't have the drive. But my grandson…" Linton's voice softened, but it held a dangerous edge, "he has it. That hunger. The mind." He turned to Eric, his eyes sharp. "My legacy has to move past sentiment. It has to grow. Peeta won't get a penny. Not my daughter either. The empire, Eric, it will go to the boy. He'll carry the Getty name through England." Eric nodded slowly, taking in the weight of Linton's words. "A bold move, sir." "It's not bold. It's necessary." By now, they were getting close to the estate. The road widened, lined with royal palms lit by soft LED lights. When they pulled into Hazelgrove, it was like entering another world. The estate spread across twelve acres, with manicured lawns, a fountain spewing crimson and gold water, and towering white columns at the entrance. The driveway curved like a waltz, lined with luxury cars — Bentleys, Ferraris, Aston Martins — but none caught the attention like the Bugatti. When Linton's car pulled in, the crowd went wild. Flash. Flash. Flash. Cameras flashed, and phones shot into the air. "There it is! It's Getty! The Getty car!" "Linton's here! Linton's here!" The excitement was almost chaotic. The Bugatti stopped, and Eric quickly opened the door for Linton. He stepped out, looking like royalty. His tuxedo shimmered in the golden light, and his custom-made shoes reflected the luxury around him. A black diamond ring gleamed on his right pinky — a quiet symbol of power. Gasps filled the air as photographers scrambled to get a shot. Linton raised his hand, not to wave, but to calm the crowd. And it worked. The noise settled down, but the cameras kept flashing. Eric leaned in. "Sir… they're waiting for your silence." Linton smiled slightly. "That," he said, stepping forward, "is the sound of power." The entrance to the estate was stunning, with white silk hanging from the arches and gold lanterns glowing softly. Classical music floated from the ballroom, where chandeliers sparkled like stars. Linton took his time, each step slow and deliberate, making sure his presence was felt. It wasn't just seen, it felt like a storm in a still lake. At the top of the stairs stood Lord Hamilton, the estate owner, dressed in navy and silver, smiling. "Linton!" he called out. "You wear the night like a crown!" Linton gave a small nod. "You built the kingdom for it, Hamilton." They shook hands, the kind of handshake that meant much more than just a greeting. The cameras clicked nonstop. Someone whispered near the back of the estate, "That man doesn't walk… he declares." Inside, the party was in full swing — golden lighting, champagne flowing, walls draped in satin. Conversations paused when Linton entered, some trying not to look, others staring openly. Eric stayed close, scanning the room for any threats or opportunities. "Eric," Linton murmured, his eyes moving over the crowd like a strategist, "tonight, we don't charm… we conquer." "And tomorrow, sir?" "Tomorrow, we collect." Outside, the Bugatti gleamed in the spotlights, its license plate — GETTY — a bold statement of power. And as the music played on, something shifted in England's heart. Quietly. Dramatically. Irrevocably.