Divide et impera, the Romans used to say. Britain had never been more divided. I felt like an underslept Caesar in a business skirt—short enough to draw glances, long enough to fuel fantasy. The bags under my eyes were barely concealed by the hour of makeup I had forced onto my face this morning. A mountain of papers loomed on my desk, each sheet a small assault on my sanity, a tiny revolt in ink and paper.
The laptop glowed in front of me, displaying the WhatsApp group my allies and I had built for quick, secure communication. I tapped a single line: "We have an emergency."
Within moments, the chat erupted, buzzing like a hive disturbed. I typed back: "I will explain it via call." The buzzing stopped as if someone had flipped a switch. I pressed the video call icon and brushed a few rebellious strands of hair behind my ears. The screen filled with their faces.
Carys' expression was tight, worry etched into every line, but her eyes held steel. Fiona radiated composure, though I caught the faintest shadow of concern in her gaze. Moira's eyes were narrow, piercing, suspicious to the last flicker. Penrose said nothing, but his head tilt spoke volumes—analyzing, calculating, waiting for me to falter.
I took a deep breath, forcing my chest to loosen the tension coiling inside. They needed to hear it from me first.
"I've just received word," I said, letting each word land carefully, "the Reform dissenters have tabled a no-confidence motion against me. The vote is imminent."
Silence hung over the call like a curtain. I let it linger. I wanted them to feel the weight.
Carys was first to break it. "Alwenna, Plaid Cymru will vote with you. You have my word."
Fiona leaned forward, eyes glinting. "The SNP will back you too. Our votes are locked in. But this… this is bigger than any of us imagined."
I exhaled slowly, relief cutting through the tension just enough to make me feel alive. Then Penrose smirked, faint and knowing. "And for the record," he said, "Cornwall is covered. Some of our MPs have infiltrated Labour, Tory, and Lib Dem ranks. They're positioned perfectly to tilt votes if needed."
I let that sink in. Every contingency aligning—but one misstep, and the whole house of cards could collapse.
I tapped my fingers against the desk. "Then we vote as one. No surprises. No hesitation. Every vote counts."
Carys sent me a private message: You've got this. We've got you.
I allowed myself a brief, quiet smile. The storm was coming, but my allies were ready. I would be ready too.
Belfast, Northern Ireland
The flight to Belfast was quiet, gray clouds pressing against the windows, the city below a smear of wet asphalt and steel. My mind raced through contingencies, promises, threats, trust, and risk. One wrong word, one misstep, and months of planning could crumble.
The Sinn Féin office was understated, almost austere. The walls were bare, save for a single map of Northern Ireland pinned to the far wall, pins marking towns and constituencies. A faint smell of coffee mingled with damp paper, the rain outside streaking the windows in silvery ribbons. My fingers drummed lightly against the table, each tap a reminder that everything depended on this meeting.
Áine Gallagher, First Minister of Northern Ireland, entered—sharp-eyed and deliberate, a predator in a still room. She studied me not with hostility, but with calculated curiosity. Every gesture was precise: the tilt of her head, the subtle narrowing of her eyes, the fingertips lightly drumming the table. She wasted no words.
"You understand what's at stake," she said, her voice calm but unwavering.
"I do," I replied, leaning forward just enough to meet her gaze. "And I need your trust as much as your vote. This isn't just about Westminster. This is about securing a future where the Celtic nations hold power on their own terms."
Her lips pressed together, the faintest flicker of a smile—or was it amusement?—crossing her face. "We will not be pawns."
"Nor do I ask you to be," I said. "But history favours the bold—and this moment favours us both."
She studied me, silence stretching like a taut wire. I counted the seconds in my head, each tick louder than the last. Every breath was deliberate, measured.
"If I vote with you in Westminster," Gallagher said finally, "what guarantee do I have that the referendum will happen—and that it won't be sabotaged?"
"You'll have more than words," I said, letting my confidence mask the racing calculation behind it. "Signed commitments, security coordination, and oversight you approve. Everything to ensure the vote is real, fair, and irreversible."
Her eyes narrowed, evaluating, probing. "And if your allies in Scotland or Cornwall falter? Or if Westminster forces move against us?"
I let a pause hang, the weight pressing in. "Then we adapt. But I will not abandon this plan, Áine. Every step is calculated. Every risk accounted for. The only thing uncertain is the courage to act—and we both have it."
Her gaze flickered to the map, imagining constituencies, calculating loyalty, testing promises. Finally, she inclined her head slightly. "For now, I'm with you. But remember—any betrayal, and this ends."
I allowed myself a small, faint smile. One more ally secured, though conditional, though cautious. Every word, every gesture from here on would have to be perfect.
I exhaled and leaned back, letting the silence settle. The stakes had never been higher, and the storm was closing in faster than even I had anticipated.
Westminster, London
Far across London, Fairfax moved through Westminster corridors with practiced precision. Oliver Kane, the leader of Labour Party, waited in a private office, calm but wary. Fairfax's plan was simple, ruthless: Labour as the junior partner, him as Prime Minister. A no-confidence vote would be pushed in Westminster by his Reform allies, counting on collaboration from Labour, the Tories, and the Liberal Democrats. Once Elen's government fell, all these parties would form a coalition to support the Fairfax Cabinet. Fairfax's personal promise to Kane was clear: Deputy Prime Minister.
A few Labour MPs exchanged uneasy glances as Fairfax explained the plan.
"We're risking credibility, aligning with Reform," Laura Middleton, Labour's rising star, said hesitantly. "But if Elen falls… it could secure our influence on key policy."
Gareth Vance, veteran strategist, added quietly, "We must be careful. Any misstep, and we're painted as traitors to our base. But the opportunity to block her agenda is rare."
Tory leader Edwin Thorn chuckled. "Reform making a government with the established parties. So much for being anti-establishment."
His tone was sardonic, but his eyes glittered with ambition.
Julian Harrow interjected, older and sharper. "The irony alone is worth it. But the risk? A miscalculated alliance with Labour or Lib Dems could backfire spectacularly."
Liberal Democrat leader Imogen Price remained poised and silent, finally weighing in. "Opportunity favors the patient. If our support can tilt the vote while giving us leverage, we act. Anything else, we abstain."
Fairfax leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "All of you, stop pretending the risk is abstract. The reason you hesitate isn't Labour, Tory, or Lib Dem alignment—it's her. Elen. Every move calculated, every word a trap. She's a pain in the arse. She's destabilized everything, and she'll drag you down if we let her. Do you want to wait until it's too late?"
Middleton exhaled sharply, tension cracking. "She's impossible. Every move is a trap. You're right… it's gone on long enough."
Vance nodded, jaw tight. "Pain in the arse. The base hates the uncertainty she sows. If we act now, we regain control and stability."
Thorn leaned back, chuckling again. "Finally, some sanity in the system. She's a thorn in all our sides. Reform making a government with the established parties—delicious irony. But yes, she must go."
Harrow smirked. "It's not just ironic—it's overdue. One wrong misstep and she'll drag everyone down with her. Better to act while we can."
Price's voice remained calm. "Agreed. Pain in the arse. Opportunism favors the bold. If we consolidate now, we maximize influence and minimize risk."
Fairfax let their agreement settle over the room, satisfied. "We lead, you follow. Junior partner status guarantees influence without risk."
Kane's jaw tightened as he observed the subtle shifts around the table: Middleton's hesitation, Vance's analytical scrutiny, Thorn's amusement, Harrow's measured caution, Price's poised patience. None aware of the alliances Elen had secured in secret. None imagining the shock waiting for them on the day of the vote. Fairfax had to execute perfectly—and Kane had to believe it was in his interest to stay on board.
The room fell silent, the distant murmur of Westminster beyond the walls a stark contrast to the plotting within. The motion was coming, and the game was about to begin.
The Motion
The Parliament's chamber was a storm waiting to break, even from miles away. I could see it all in my mind: Fairfax, standing at the dispatch desk, flanked by Reform dissenters, submitting the motion with practiced precision. His voice, crisp and deliberate, cut through the room—a calculated attack on my government, a lecture on "strong leadership," a warning that only the decisive could survive the rising separatist wave.
"Honourable Members," Fairfax's voice echoed through the microphone. He tried to sound measured, but ambition leaked from every syllable, ready to hit Britain like plague.
"Today I rise not as a partisan, but as a guardian of the stability of this United Kingdom. It is with grave concern that I submit a motion of no confidence in the government led by Prime Minister Elen Ross.
Under her leadership, Britain has been plunged into a wave of separatist movements. From Scotland to Wales, Cornwall to the Isle of Man, communities are being encouraged to prioritize division over unity, ideology over the wellbeing of the nation. This is not mere political disagreement—it is a threat to the cohesion of our country.
Leadership demands more than ambition and rhetoric; it demands foresight, prudence, and the courage to safeguard the integrity of the state. Yet what we have witnessed under the current Prime Minister is a consistent undermining of national unity, a tolerance—if not encouragement—of forces that seek to fragment our country.
It is our duty, as elected representatives of the people, to act decisively. The motion I submit today is not born of personal grievance or party rivalry; it is an act to preserve Britain's stability, its institutions, and its future.
I urge every Member of this House to consider the gravity of our responsibility. A vote in favour of this motion is a vote for strong, measured leadership. It is a vote to reaffirm the principles that have long held this nation together. It is a vote to prevent further erosion of the unity we all hold dear.
Let us act with courage, clarity, and purpose. Let us send a message that the United Kingdom will not be divided by ambition or ideology. I submit this motion for your consideration, and I urge you to vote in its favour."
My chest tightened. Every alliance, every contingency, every secret I had painstakingly set in motion now balanced on a knife-edge. One misstep, and it could all collapse in hours.
My fingers hovered over my phone, each second stretching like taffy. Then I typed, almost instinctively: It has begun.
I pressed send.
Carys' reply came almost immediately: Stay sharp. We've got you.
I let the words settle over me, letting the weight of the storm press down. The game had begun. Every move, every vote, every promise—and every betrayal—would count.