Cardiff City Centre was blooming with life. Victorian and Edwardian facades draped in Welsh flags, stone-paved streets alive with harp buskers, teenagers in national jerseys snapping selfies, tourists ducking into restaurants for cawl or Welsh cakes. From time to time, old men shouted "Annibyniaeth!" and "Cymru am byth!" across the drizzle-slick pavements.
I sat with Carys in Coffee Barker on Castle Arcade. The moody, eclectic café buzzed with chatter and clinking cups. Instagram posts, teenage laughter, office gossip — all of it humming as if this weren't the calm before the storm. We sat at a small, round wooden table tucked into a corner by the window, its surface speckled with coffee rings and crumbs from earlier pastries. I cradled a mug of steaming hot chocolate, whipped cream melting into rich swirls, while Carys stirred her chai latte, the spiced aroma curling up between us. A small vase with a single, slightly drooping daffodil added a touch of charm to our little island amid the café's hum.
We had set politics aside for once, talking instead of lighter things — of her, of me. Of us. A fleeting moment of warmth, recharging us for battles still to come.
"I used to work here…" Carys whispered, reviving memories of our last school year, both of us scraping by with part-time jobs.
I grinned. "You were such a butterfinger — five cups, gone on your first day."
She pouted in mock outrage. "And you dropped a six-pack of Red Bull at Tesco!"
My turn to pout. "I wouldn't have carried three six-packs at once if I knew they were that heavy... Besides, I carried the other two just fine"
We broke into laughter, the sound too light, too fragile, for the weight pressing just beyond these walls. For a heartbeat, I wished Cardiff would stay frozen here: the warmth of chocolate, the hum of strangers, her laugh. Westminster's noise fading to static half a country away…
Then my phone buzzed. A BBC alert lit the screen.
The Prime Minister attends separatist victory rally in Cardiff.
The shot was unmistakable: me and Carys, her hand in mine, applause flaring around us. The headline weaponized context into accusation. By the time I reached the hotel lobby, aides were pale with panic, phones buzzing nonstop. Reform MPs were already bristling in WhatsApp threads. Essex hadn't wasted a second. My body moved before my mind, almost leaving her behind.
Carys caught me at the door, scarf loose, eyes wide. "They're calling it a rally," she whispered. "That you chose a side."
I almost laughed. "Of course I chose a side. The winning one." But the words tasted heavy. Perception mattered more than truth — and right now, perception was poison.
Her hand lingered at my wrist, fierce and grounding. "Don't let them spin this. You've survived worse."
Her faith steadied me more than I'd like to admit. I pressed a kiss into her hair, brief but resolute, before the waiting convoy pulled me back to London.
"I'll fix it," I promised. "Hold Cardiff for me."
London
Back in Westminster, the corridors reeked of anticipation. Essex's allies prowled the lobbies, whispering betrayals to journalists. By nightfall, he tabled a motion in Reform to withdraw support from my Cabinet. I had known this was coming — and I had prepared.
In the privacy of my office, I summoned the ones who mattered: ambitious backbenchers, nervous ministers, men and women who had tied their fortunes to mine. Tea and whiskey flowed in equal measure as I listened, nodded, and offered reassurances tailored like bespoke suits. Some got promises of posts. Others, projects in their constituencies. A few still believing in something larger received vision: a Britain reforged, Celtic and strong.
"Fairfax wants collapse," I said evenly. "But collapse delivers us to Labour and their chaos. Do you want to hand them the reins, after all we've built?"
They shifted, uneasy but attentive. The tide was bending — not enough to break the challenge, but enough to blunt it.
Later, I stood alone at the window overlooking the Thames. London glimmered, restless. Behind me, dossiers lay open — lists of names, margins of loyalty. The count was tight. Too tight. Tight was enough; a draw would hold the line — and keep me breathing.
The storm hadn't broken yet, but the fault lines were widening. I knew it: the battle wasn't in Cardiff, or even in the chamber. It was here, in the shadows of my own party, where knives never dulled. And when they struck, I would be ready.
With that thought in mind, I took my coat from the rack and stepped into the drizzle-slick streets, letting the chill sharpen my focus. London hummed under gray drizzle, streets slick with early autumn rain, as I walked with measured steps into the discreet club where a few Reform MPs had agreed to meet one-on-one. The polished wood smelled faintly of tobacco and old leather. Faces familiar but unreadable turned toward me. Some smiled with relief, others with calculating curiosity, and a few made no effort to hide doubt.
"Prime Minister," one said, voice clipped, eyes darting to the aide near the door.
"Call me Elen," I said, letting a half-smile settle. The room responded with tiny shifts, subtle gestures of alliance or defiance — the true language of loyalty.
Across the room, another MP tapped lightly on the table. "You know how some of us feel about last week," they said, nodding toward Cardiff. "That photo… it's troubling."
I let the words hang, then leaned forward. "Troubling?" I said softly. "Do you think I enjoy watching separatists gain momentum? I was there to gauge, to understand. Only I can keep Britain united. Every move, every photograph, holds the center together. Don't mistake presence for partisanship."
A murmur ran through the room. Some nodded, appeased; others pressed their lips into thin lines. I let them sit with the words, letting the authority settle.
By the time I left, walking into the drizzle-slick streets, I let myself breathe. Not out of relief, but out of quiet self-recrimination. I hadn't lied, not exactly — but I hadn't told the whole truth either. Bloody fools.
(scene break, Reform Party meeting)
Downing Street had grown claustrophobic in the hours since the Cardiff photo detonated. Advisors circled like hawks, papers stacked and restacked, the Situation Room whiteboards crammed with names, numbers, factions.
I stood at the head of the long oak table, sleeves rolled, palms pressed flat against the dossiers spread before me. The Reform Party wasn't a government; it was a nest of rivalries stitched together by ambition. And right now, the seams were straining.
"Support is split down the middle," one aide muttered, voice low, as if the walls themselves might be listening. "Fairfax is calling in favors. Backbenchers are restless. Some want clarity on your presence in Cardiff, others—"
"Others smell blood," I cut in. My eyes swept across the tally sheet. Names under loyal, names under dissent, a thick middle column of undecided. Too many undecided.
Another aide hesitated. "The best-case scenario, Prime Minister… is a draw. Enough to keep the cabinet standing, but—"
"But it hands the dissenters a justification," I finished for him. "Yes. I know."
Silence thickened, broken only by the scratch of my pen as I crossed out a name from the middle column, shifting it to loyal. The MP had been wavering — but after today's private reassurance, after I reminded him of the grants tied to his constituency — he'd fall into line.
I pulled out my phone, thumb brushing over the screen. A message drafted but unsent. Carys. She'd know what to say, even if she couldn't solve it. I thought of her face in Cardiff, her voice telling me don't let them spin this. That faith was an anchor.
Instead, I tucked the phone away. Faith was warmth. Tonight demanded steel.
"Here's the strategy," I said finally, straightening. "We're not fighting for triumph. We're fighting for balance. A draw keeps us in place. That's all we need. I will go into that meeting tomorrow calm, composed, and immovable. Every whisper of doubt becomes weakness, and weakness is death."
The aides nodded, scribbling notes, but their eyes betrayed unease.
When the room finally emptied, I leaned back against the chair, exhaling slowly. I hated that my words were true: I wasn't aiming to win. Only to survive.
And survival, for now, would have to be enough.
__________________________________________________________________
The Reform Party headquarters smelled of old carpet and ambition. MPs filed in through the side entrance, their coats damp from the drizzle, their voices lowered to whispers that carried like static across the corridors.
The vote wasn't public — not yet — but it might as well have been. Every step, every glance, every cleared throat carried the weight of history.
I walked in last, deliberately. My aides had begged me to arrive early, to work the room, but I knew better. A predator does not circle its prey. It waits, it lets the silence do the work, and then it claims its space.
Colin Fairfax, the Essex MP who had called a translator for me that one time, was already seated near the front. He didn't bother to hide the smirk, the half-smile of a man convinced he'd already won. He rose when I entered, as if to greet me, but didn't extend a hand. Calculated insult.
"Prime Minister," he said smoothly, voice dripping with the courtesy of a dagger drawn behind the back.
"Fairfax," I replied, flat and clipped. Then I moved past him, taking my seat at the head of the table.
The Chairman cleared his throat, the room falling into a hush. "We are gathered here to resolve a matter of confidence in the leadership of Prime Minister Elen Ross, and by extension, the cabinet she leads. The procedure will be by secret ballot."
Papers shuffled, pens scratched. I sat utterly still, watching the faces. Some avoided my gaze. Others held it too long. A few — precious few — nodded almost imperceptibly. Allies, or actors pretending to be.
Essex leaned forward, fingers steepled. I knew what he was thinking: that the Cardiff photograph had handed him a blade sharp enough to cut me down. That the MPs, spooked by whispers of separatism and betrayal, would not stand with me.
But I also knew my own work. The quiet promises, the threats folded into smiles, the reminders of what their constituencies stood to lose if I fell.
The ballots were cast. The Chairman and clerks gathered them, counted once, twice, a third time. The room felt smaller with each tick of the clock.
Finally, the Chairman raised his head. His voice was steady, but the words struck like iron on stone.
"The result is a tie."
A ripple surged through the room — shock, disbelief, muffled curses. Fairfax's jaw clenched, just for an instant, before he forced it back into a mask of composure.
I allowed myself the faintest smile. Not victory, not yet — but survival.
"The Prime Minister's position remains unchanged," the Chairman continued. "The leadership remains intact."
Murmurs swelled again. Some relieved, some furious. The balance of knives had been postponed, not removed.
I rose, gathering my papers slowly, deliberately. My eyes swept the room, daring anyone to meet them. "Gentlemen, ladies," I said, voice calm, "thank you for your time. Britain's work does not pause for our quarrels. Neither should we."
And with that, I walked out, heels sharp against the floor, leaving Fairfax to choke on the ashes of a battle he had not won.
But as the doors shut behind me, I allowed the truth to slip through my mind like a blade. A draw keeps me standing — but it gives them a reason. A parliamentary vote will come now. And next time, they will not settle for balance.
I left the room with that thought in mind. The corridor outside the committee room felt colder than it should have. My aides clustered near the stairwell, their faces a mix of relief and dread. One of them, young and pale, whispered, "You survived."
"No," I corrected, buttoning my coat. "We survived today."
Inside, the murmur of MPs still bled through the closed doors — relief for some, quiet fury for others. A draw was a pause, not a resolution. Fairfax would seize it. He'd polish it into a rallying cry: half the party already doubts her.
One of my closest allies, Davies, caught up to me as I strode toward the car. His voice was tight. "You bought time. But this doesn't bury them. The dissenters will go public now."
"I know," I said. "They'll push it to Parliament. It's what I'd do in their place."
He winced, hearing me name it aloud. "Then we need to lock down the numbers."
"Yes," I said, almost absently. My mind was already three moves ahead, charting lines of pressure, weighing who could be swayed by fear, who needed promises, who would crumble under exposure.
The car door opened. I slid into the back seat, pulling out my phone. Messages were already pouring in: headlines drafting themselves, anonymous quotes to journalists, whispers spreading like rot.
I typed a reply to one of the group chats, my words precise, pointed: The vote shows strength, not weakness. We held. Now we govern.
The driver pulled away from the curb. City lights blurred across the rain-streaked windows, gold and white bleeding into the night.
I let myself exhale once, slowly. The reality gnawed at the edges: a draw kept me in Downing Street, but it had cracked the façade of inevitability. That was all Fairfax needed.
And yet… cracks could be useful. Cracks let you see who rushed to fill them, who revealed their true weight when the pressure mounted.
I leaned back, letting the storm outside wash across the car. This wasn't defeat. Not yet. But the battlefield had shifted, and I would shift with it.
I wasn't done. Not with Fairfax. Not with Reform. Not with Britain.