The Prime Minister’s residence was quieter than usual—eerily so. Randolph stood by the tall windows of his private study, watching the black car carrying girls disappear down the driveway.
He leaned back slightly, one hand still tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers, the other swirling the amber liquid in his glass. It wasn’t whiskey—just apple juice—but the weight of the day made it feel stronger.
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