Chapter 2: Something Went Very, Very Wrong (rewrited)

Why would Butler Sean call me at this hour? Had I left a scandalous trail of debauchery that even an aristocratic butler couldn't cover up?

With a sigh, Barron picked up the phone.

"Butler Sean, it's me—Barron."

"Young Master! Finally! I couldn't reach you last night! I was about to send Ramos to track you down!"

Barron winced at Sean's panicked tone. This was a man who could probably arrange an entire royal banquet while blindfolded, so hearing him sound this frazzled was… concerning.

"What's going on?" Barron asked, suddenly feeling a twinge of dread.

"It's the Duke and the Eldest Master… You need to come home. Now."

London in May was, for once, not completely miserable. The sun had decided to grace the city with its presence, and the streets were bustling with the kind of cheerful energy that made one forget that England was normally just a giant raincloud with buildings.

Too bad Barron wasn't in the mood to enjoy any of it.

He had barely had time to process his bizarre reincarnation before the universe decided, "Nope, no time for existential crises—you've got a noble family to deal with."

Apparently, his father and older brother had been in a car accident. His brother? Dead on the spot. His father? Clinging to life in the hospital.

Fantastic. Barron hadn't even had time to test whether his new aristocratic status came with unlimited caviar privileges, and now he was about to inherit a full-blown family crisis.

As he sat in the back of a well-maintained (read: ancient) Rolls-Royce, he turned to his personal butler, Ramos—the poor soul who was supposed to keep him from making a fool of himself in public.

"Ramos, Butler Sean was too frantic on the phone to explain. What exactly happened?"

Ramos cleared his throat. "The Duke and the Eldest Master were in London on urgent business. But on the way back, their car crashed. The Eldest Master died at the scene. The Duke was rushed to the hospital, but his condition is…"

He trailed off, but Barron got the message.

And then, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, Ramos added:

"Oh, and Master… they didn't tell you they were coming to London because, well, historically speaking, you don't… um… care about family matters. Or… anything that isn't nightlife-related."

Ah. Yes.

The original Barron had been, for lack of a better term, a walking scandal in the making. The kind of aristocrat who probably thought "responsibility" was a disease and "financial planning" was a myth.

Great. So now he had to play against type while figuring out how to survive a family crisis. No pressure.

The Cavendish family estate, Chatsworth House, was less of a home and more of a historical event.

Spanning over a thousand acres, the estate was basically what happened when rich people spent four centuries one-upping each other on home décor. Every inch of the place screamed old money, from its lavish halls to its meticulously sculpted gardens. It was also the inspiration for the Darcy estate in Pride and Prejudice, which, frankly, explained a lot about the kind of ego one needed to live here.

As the Rolls-Royce pulled up to the grand entrance, Barron had barely stepped out before being greeted by a parade of servants.

At the front stood Butler Sean, the human embodiment of dignity—except today, he looked like someone had told him the Queen had just started using plastic cutlery.

"Master Barron, thank heavens you've returned," Sean said solemnly.

Barron gave the twenty or so servants lined up behind Sean a once-over. He had no clue who half of them were, but he nodded like a man who definitely knew all their names.

"Butler Sean," Barron greeted, trying to sound serious. "I… uh, I'm still processing everything. I want to see my father immediately. How is he?"

Sean's face twitched. He took a deep breath. His lips quivered.

Oh no.

"Master…" Sean exhaled, as if forcing the words out physically hurt. "The Duke… has passed away."

If the Cavendish family had been around for over 400 years, then today was easily their worst day.

Not only had they lost the Duke and the heir in one go, but Barron's grandmother—an iron-willed aristocratic relic of a woman—had apparently taken one look at the situation, decided, "Nope," and died of sheer grief three days later.

So now, out of an entire dynasty, guess who was left standing?

That's right.

Barron.

A man who, just yesterday, had been a 45-year-old Chinese securities expert enjoying a very expensive drink.

A man who, by all accounts, was the worst possible choice to inherit a centuries-old noble legacy.

Barron sighed, rubbing his temples.

He had been rich before, sure. But this? This was a whole new level of money and influence. And responsibility.

...Ugh. Responsibility.

Barron exhaled dramatically and turned to Butler Sean.

"So, let me get this straight. In the last 24 hours, I woke up in someone else's body, found out I'm British nobility, and now I've apparently inherited a dukedom?"

Sean hesitated. "That… would be correct, Master."

Barron let that sink in. Then he turned to Ramos.

"Tell me, Ramos. What are the odds that this is all just an elaborate prank?"

Ramos coughed awkwardly. "Very… very low, Master."

Barron sighed again, massaging his temples.

"Bloody hell."

If he was going to survive this, he needed a plan.

And maybe a drink.