Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 257: Do You Wish to Serve the Kingdom?

Chapter 257: Do You Wish to Serve the Kingdom?

In the kingdom, the date for the National Election was declared, and soon the entire nation was consumed by it.

It was widely accepted among the public that, in the wake of the Stockport Scandal and its fallout, the opposition

party was poised for victory. The only question now being debated was which supposedly "safe seats" of the

ruling party would fall. The government found itself in a precarious position, with the constituencies of several

former ministers and MPs... tainted by their connection to the scandal had already been marked as vulnerable.

By contrast, the opposition party moved in a markedly relaxed mood. Even in constituencies where their sitting

MPs had been arrested, they showed little anxiety, confident that their perceived integrity during the Stockport

affair would return those seats to them. Aspiring candidates had already submitted application forms, CVs, and

personal statements; the vetting process was underway, and local party offices bustled with feverish activity.

At the centre of it all stood the opposition leader, Baron Anthony Hayward Chapman of Bethnal Green, who had

becthe emblem of the party’s election campaign. Leaders and supporters alike raised him to near-idol

status, extolling both his personal integrity and his family’s long service to the kingdom. His repeated refusals of

high office were now recounted as proof of selfless dedication. The narrative spreading across rallies and social

media told of a man who had lived his entire life in service to the people and the party, and who, when the

Stockport Scandal nearly brought the movement to collapse, had reluctantly taken up the mantle of leadership

at the people's request.

On social platforms and search engines, his nsurged to the top of global trends, the story of Baron Chapman

spread far beyond the borders of the kingdom.

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In an old villa at the end of George Road, beside the Worcester and Birmingham Canal, John Smith returned

hafter another long day. The house had belonged to his family for generations. Now, only he and a handful

of staff remained within its walls.

At sixty-five, John was still sharp, though solitude weighed on him. His wife had passed away two years earlier;

his children lived in London, consumed by their careers. His only sister had settled in America decades ago.

Apart from Christmas, no one returned to Birmingham. He alone kept the old villa alive.

Upon arriving, he went directly to the bath. This ritual never changed: half an hour immersed in warm water

while the staff prepared dinner. It was the one true indulgence he allowed himself, despite being one of the

wealthiest and most influential men in the region.

He closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his bones, when a voice cut through the silence. "Oh! The Mayor of

West Midlands does enjoy his bath."

John’s eyes flew open. He lurched upright in the tub, water sloshing over the rim. Decades of hard-nerved battles

in politics and business steadied him, but still, the shock was immense. His villa was guarded by police and

reinforced by his own private security. For someone to slip past them and into his bathroom... this was no

ordinary trespass. Only an assassin of the highest calibre could achieve such a feat.

As a politician, he had long accepted the risk of assassination. Still, he had believed himself careful... never

directly crossing any of the major powers. Even so, his mind sharpened instantly. There was a panic button

installed near the tub, meant for emergencies. If he could create a diversion, perhaps he could reach it.

Before he could act, the voice spoke again, calm and dismissive. "Do not waste your twith the panic button.

It has already been cut off. And sparethe sight of a naked old man. Stay where you are. | have not cto

kill you. | cto talk."

Defeated, John leaned back into the water, forcing composure into his limbs. Slowly, he turned his head towards

the intruder.

On the far side of the room, a man in black sat comfortably in a chair that had been taken from another room...

there were no chairs in the bathroom to begin with. His clothing covered him completely, his face hidden

beneath a dark mask. Not a trace of identity showed.

"Who are you?" John asked, mustering what courage he could.

"Wrong question," the man replied evenly. "The right question is... what do | want?"

John swallowed hard, adjusted, and said, "Very well... how can | help you?"

"Good. That's the question I like." The man’s voice was smooth, deliberate. "Don’t be alarmed. I've no intention

of harming you. | cto deliver a proposal... from your future PrMinister, Lord Anthony Hayward

Chapman."

John’s brows furrowed. Chapman was his party leader; he could have summoned him at any hour with a simple

call. Why send an intruder to his bathroom, of all places?

The man went on, his tone calm but edged with certainty. "You've been Mayor here for nearly a decade. Your

popularity is waning. Our projections suggest you won't survive the next cycle. But the situation can change.

Apply for this constituency. After the election, you'll be Minister of State for Investment. The party needs you in

central government."

"Or... you can finish your term as Mayor, retire in two years, and be quietly forgotten. The choice is yours. Think

carefully tonight. The party expects your application tomorrow."

John, seasoned enough never to betray what he was thinking, kept silent until the man had finished. Then he

asked quietly, "And why should | believe you? If Baron Chapman wanted this of me, he... or the party leaders

could telldirectly."

The man chuckled, low and unhurried. "Because we expect you would refuse the order outright. And we don’t

force loyalty. The decision is yours. Think of this... as a parting gift."

From his cloak, the intruder produced a phone and placed it within reach. The screen was already lit.

John glanced down... and froze. His blood turned cold. Displayed on the screen was a detailed statement of his

secret Swiss Bank transactions. Every figure, every transfer, every sum was exact. He knew them all. No forgery

could have been this precise.

With trembling fingers, he deleted the file immediately. But the phone did not clear. A video had been left open.

John’s breath caught in his throat as he watched. It was him... last week... in a Manchester hotel room with a

young lady councillor. The images were damning. His voice broke as he stammered, "H... how did you get this?"

No reply came. He lifted his eyes. The chair was empty. The man was gone.

John lurched out of the tub, dripping, his mind racing. Dressing hastily, he stormed out into the hall. One of his

private guards stood at attention outside his door.

"Did anyone enter my room?" John demanded, his voice sharp, urgent.

The guard blinked in confusion at the sudden question, then shook his head. "No, sir. No one’s been in or out.

I've been here the whole time."

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