Adam's expression didn't waver. "And I don't believe there is anyone more capable than I am to serve as prime minister," he said, his tone flat and precise. Even with fatigue coiling around his lungs, he refused to let a single sign of strain reach the surface. Control was the currency of politics, and he had no intention of appearing poor.
The crowd of journalists bristled in front of him, packed shoulder to shoulder beneath a tangle of lights and microphones. Their devices hovered in the air like sharpened tools, ready to carve apart any ill-chosen word. Adam studied their faces—some eager, some hostile, all hungry. They weren't witnesses to history; they were scavengers waiting for weakness.
He had no intention of feeding them.
Adam turned away without another breath wasted. His bodyguards moved immediately, forming a tight protective wall as they guided him across the pavement. The air outside the venue was cooler, but it did nothing to cut through the tension coiled in his spine.
The black sedan waited at the curb like a shadow he could step into. He slid inside, the door closing with a soft, decisive thud that smothered the noise of the press behind him. For a moment, the world outside fell away—replaced by the dim, insulated quiet of the car's interior.
As the vehicle pulled into motion, the city lights blurred across the windows. Adam leaned back, his exhaustion finally catching up to him in the privacy of the cabin. The journalists would twist his words by morning. Parliament would dissect them by noon. And the palace would certainly hear of them before dusk.
None of that mattered.
What mattered was the next move—one that would unfold far from the cameras, far from the stage, and far from anyone who still believed the political battlefield ended at the podium.
The car continued toward his mansion, and Adam let his eyes narrow. The night was young. And so was his ambition.