Chapter 6: Breaking News (rewrited)

Once upon a time—well, okay, a century or two ago—noble families had a simple yet efficient system in place: upstairs for the important people (a.k.a. the masters), downstairs for the ones who actually made things work (a.k.a. the servants). It was an unspoken rule that the two sides shouldn't mix. If a servant wandered upstairs uninvited, it was considered scandalous. If a noble ventured downstairs, well, that was even worse—like a lion strolling into a chicken coop, utterly baffling for everyone involved.

Need something? Just ring a bell. That was the aristocratic equivalent of sending a text message. And back in the day, this bell system was mechanical—good old-fashioned levers and pulleys. Nowadays, though, the system had been upgraded. Yes, folks, we now had… electric bells. Progress.

While Barron was still digesting this fun bit of noble trivia (and the far-too-heavy breakfast served by an overly enthusiastic chef), his personal servant Ramos brought him today's newspaper. But Ramos didn't just hand it over like normal. No, he carried it with the kind of grim expression usually reserved for delivering bad news, like, "Sir, the stock market just crashed," or "Sir, you may want to sit down before I tell you what your ex just posted on social media."

Barron took the paper. He read the headline. He blinked. He read it again.

"The Fall of the House of Cavendish?"

Well. That was dramatic.

You see, Barron was aware that his family's finances weren't exactly in great shape. The family trust had taken a nosedive thanks to some bad investments (cough "London Star" fraud case cough), and a lot of their assets were mortgaged. But now, every newspaper in town had decided to turn his life into a public spectacle.

And not in a fun, "Oh, look at this dashing young Duke" way. More like, "Watch this once-proud noble family spiral into financial despair!"

Barron sighed. "Fantastic. Just what I needed. Public humiliation before I've even had my second cup of tea."

Adding to the fun, he had Butler Sean standing nearby, looking as serious as ever, and Ramos hovering anxiously. The man had just finished helping him get dressed (a luxury Barron was still getting used to—seriously, was he a Duke or a toddler?), and now he looked like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if it was his place.

Finally, Ramos coughed and hesitantly asked, "Master Barron, um... are we really that poor?"

Barron pinched the bridge of his nose. "Define 'poor.' If you mean, 'Do I need to start learning how to budget?' then yes. If you mean, 'Are we selling the manor and moving into a two-bedroom flat in Croydon?' then no. Well. Not yet."

Ramos let out a sigh of relief—then immediately tensed up again. "Wait… not yet?"

Before Barron could reassure his increasingly nervous servant that they weren't about to start rationing the butter, his phone rang. It was Julia Moore, the ever-efficient manager of the family trust fund.

"Lord Barron, have you seen the newspaper?"

"Just saw it, Ms. Moore. It was a delightful read. Really uplifting stuff."

"The situation is… complicated."

"Complicated as in 'mild inconvenience,' or complicated as in 'we should start considering which organs to sell'?"

"Somewhere in between. The banks are calling, wanting to know about our ability to repay our loans."

Barron raised an eyebrow. "Wait, aren't those loans set for a fixed term? Why the sudden interest?"

"Pressure tactics. They're trying to rattle us."

"Well, congratulations to them, because I am, indeed, rattled."

As if his day wasn't stressful enough, Julia added, "Also, you should expect reporters to start showing up at the manor."

"Great. Shall I have tea and biscuits ready for them, or should I just release the hounds?"

Julia sighed. "I'll be coming over this afternoon. We need to discuss our options."

"Lovely. I'll be here, pretending I know what I'm doing."

After hanging up, Barron stared at the ceiling. This was fine. Everything was fine.

Barron knew that his family's financial situation, while not ideal, wasn't as disastrous as the newspapers made it seem. The family still had plenty of assets—especially in artwork.

The problem? Selling those artworks now would be a terrible idea. They'd be worth far more in the future. But with this sudden media storm and the bank breathing down his neck, it was clear someone wanted to push him into making a desperate move.

His fingers drummed on the desk.

"Someone's trying to force my hand," he murmured.

But who?

Barron didn't know yet. But one thing was clear—whoever it was, they had underestimated him.

After all, he wasn't just a clueless young Duke. He was a man with knowledge of the future. And if they wanted to play dirty?

Well.

They were about to find out that he could play even dirtier.