Chapter 7: Downsizing (rewrited)

If Barron had a bit more time, he was confident he could work some financial wizardry and turn a modest capital into enough money to save the family fortune. Unfortunately, time wasn't exactly his best friend right now—kind of like that one cousin you only see at funerals, and even then, they owe you money.

So, his top priority was gathering as much cash as possible, as fast as possible.

Luckily, there were plenty of investment opportunities at this moment. For example, oil prices were on a steady rise, currently hovering around $25 per barrel. Fast forward a few years, and they'd skyrocket to nearly $150. If he played his cards right, he could make a killing! But the problem was… he didn't have years. He barely had weeks. Maybe even just days.

At this rate, he might as well start selling "Historic Manor" tours to tourists and charge extra for ghost sightings.

Just as he was plotting his get-rich-quick schemes, his butler, Sean, approached him with a solemn expression.

"Master Barron, we need to talk about… downsizing."

Barron blinked. "Downsizing?"

Sean gave a polite cough. "Yes, sir. You see, with the passing of your father, elder brother, and grandmother, their personal servants are now… well, rather unemployed. And with only you remaining in the manor, we no longer require thirty-plus staff members. In short, sir, we need to fire some people."

Ah, yes. The Great Purge of Cavendish Manor.

It was true that an aristocratic household like his was built on a strict hierarchy of servants. There was the butler—Sean, in this case—who was the grand overseer of all household affairs. Then there was the housekeeper, Riley, who ruled over the maids with an iron fist (and an even sharper gaze). The cook, who treated the kitchen like a personal kingdom and had the power to deny requests like a medieval queen refusing peasants at her gate. And, of course, the valets and maids assigned to each family member, ensuring their masters didn't have to perform the horrifying task of dressing themselves.

But now? The Cavendish family had been reduced to one. Him.

Did he really need an army of servants just to bring him tea? Or an entire team of people dusting a ballroom that hadn't been used since the last time someone waltzed in it—probably before color TV existed?

"How was this usually handled before?" Barron asked.

"Well, sir, normally, we evaluate the servants based on their performance, let go of the ones we no longer need, and provide recommendation letters to help them find new positions."

Barron nodded. "Sounds reasonable. Go ahead, then."

Sean hesitated. "There is… one exception. Anna, the late duchess's personal housekeeper. She has served the family for forty years, sir. She's nearly sixty now, and at her age, finding a new employer would be… challenging."

Barron tapped his chin. "Well, we can't just toss her out like last season's fashion trends. Give her a choice—she can either stay with a less demanding job, or if she wants to retire, we'll cover part of her expenses."

Sean looked stunned. "Master Barron, that is… incredibly generous of you. God will surely bless you for your kindness."

Barron smirked. If God really wanted to bless me, He'd drop thirty-five million pounds into my lap right now.

With that settled, Sean handed Barron the household's asset inventory. Barron skimmed through it and sighed.

"So, if we don't sell the family jewels or any of the valuable antiques, how much liquid cash do we actually have?"

Sean gave a tight smile. "At most… £100,000."

Barron stared at him. "You mean this entire noble estate, with all its history, riches, and centuries of wealth—has only £100,000 in available funds?"

Sean nodded gravely.

Barron exhaled through his nose. "That's barely enough to buy a decent sports car."

His once-mighty fortune had been reduced to the financial equivalent of pocket change. Most of the Cavendish family's wealth was tied up in the family trust fund, which, as luck would have it, had just suffered catastrophic losses due to their investment in the "London Star" fraud case.

Sean, sensing Barron's distress, gently offered, "Master Barron, we could sell some of the antiques or mortgage them—"

"No." Barron cut him off. "I have a better idea."

Sean tilted his head. "And that is…?"

"I'm going to invest."

Sean's eyes widened in horror. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm going to invest this money." Barron repeated, completely serious. "Otherwise, we won't have enough to cover the inheritance tax or the bank loan."

"B-But, Master Barron…!" Sean sputtered, looking like he had just been told the house would be redecorated in neon pink. "Investing is risky! You could lose everything! You will lose everything!"

Barron smirked. "That's only if you don't know what you're doing."

Sean, pale-faced and clutching his heart, muttered under his breath, "Lord, I am too old for this…"

It was official. The butler thought his young master had lost his mind.