London
The morning after the Edinburgh Declaration, I woke with a surge of energy I hadn't felt since taking office.
I caught my reflection in the mirror: a silk camisole, barely concealing the edges of my knickers—white and green stripes, the Welsh Dragon blazing across the fabric.
A battle standard disguised as lingerie, hidden beneath the woman expected to lead Britain into a new era.
I slipped into my skirt and suit, brushed on just enough makeup to look less like a ghost, and stormed out of the flat toward the waiting car.
Traffic was its usual brand of misery. By the time I reached Westminster, I'd already fired off a message to the other leaders on WhatsApp.
The moment to act had finally arrived.
The corridors outside my office buzzed with the low‑grade panic that always precedes a national address. Staffers moved like currents—papers in hand, headsets on, eyes flicking toward me as if measuring the storm they expected me to unleash.
Inside, my desk was already staged: briefing folders stacked with military precision, a glass of water beading with condensation, the Union Flag positioned just so behind the camera setup. The comms team had transformed my office into a temporary studio, cables snaking across the carpet, soft lights warming the oak paneling.
"Prime Minister, we're live in eight," my press secretary said, slipping a tablet into my hands. Bullet points glowed on the screen—concise, sharp, unforgiving.
I took a breath, smoothing the front of my suit. The weight of the moment settled over me, not as dread but as clarity. This was why I'd fought for the job. Why I'd clawed my way through every sleepless night and every impossible vote.
The camera light blinked red.
I stepped forward.
"People of Britain.
It is with great honor I must announce my personal support for the Gaelic National Alliance in the upcoming elections. For, the only way to keep this nation united is to acknowledge the Celtic minorities are no longer going to wait for the English to acknowledge their rights.
Britain is as much Gaelic, as it's English."
I let the silence breathe for a moment, allowing the weight of it all to settle.
"Maintaining the Union has been my priority from the moment the separatist wave began. We can keep pretending our Celtic nations are an afterthought and watch Britain splinter… or we can choose a different path. One where we live together with respect — for each other's cultures, histories, and values.
Britain has always been a tapestry of identities. It's time we remembered that simple truth."
I closed the forecast and leaned back, letting the silence of my office settle around me. With emergency powers in place and no parliamentary opposition left to stall me, all I could do now was wait for the world to react.
The first response came faster than expected — a press conference from the Gaelic National Alliance in Edinburgh. I turned on the TV, settling into the sofa with a cigarette in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate warming the other.
Fiona appeared at the podium, calm but unmistakably triumphant.
"We are grateful to be acknowledged by Miss Elen Ross," she told the reporters, her voice steady. "She is the only politician in London who has shown a genuine willingness to engage in dialogue. Our alliance still views secession as the ultimate solution, but in light of her stance, we are now considering endorsing Miss Ross's candidacy in the upcoming elections."
I exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke, watching the screen as the room behind her erupted in questions. The game had shifted — and everyone knew it.
The opposition didn't take long to roar back.
"As acting president of Britain, I will not stand by while our proud nation is handed over to a separatist sympathiser," Fairfax declared from his office in Buckingham Palace, every syllable clipped with indignation. "Miss Ross has revealed her true colours today. For years, she has quietly enabled these fringe Celtic movements, undermining the very fabric of our Union."
He leaned forward, jaw tight, the Union Flag behind him almost vibrating with his fury.
"Britain must remain strong. Britain must remain united. And I will not allow anyone — least of all a Prime Minister who panders to regional grievances — to threaten that."
Washington's response landed with the weight of a hammer.
"The United States is monitoring developments in the British Isles with deep concern," announced Secretary of State Marianne Keller. "It is our responsibility as a NATO partner to ensure that Britain's upcoming elections remain transparent, stable, and free from internal coercion."
France and the European Union issues a similar statement. But Canada's reaction was the loudest — and the most personal.
"People of the United Kingdom," King Charles began, voice heavy with restrained fury. "We are witnessing a woman named Elen Ross destabilize the Isles and dismantle the very institutions our monarchy fought to preserve. The so‑called Friday of Roses is unlawful. Canada will do everything in its power to help restore order to our ancestral homeland."
Ireland's reaction was swift — and unmistakably pleased.
"What Prime Minister Ross has done is acknowledge a political reality Westminster has ignored for generations," said Prime Minister Ó hAodha, his voice bright with satisfaction. "Ireland welcomes her clarity and hopes this marks the beginning of a future in which the Celtic nations reclaim their voice. As for the situation in the North, we trust it will be resolved through a democratic referendum, as all such questions should be."
The next reaction came from Russia, a nation whose relationship with Britain had always been a tangle of rivalry, suspicion, and back‑channel cooperation. Their statement was brief, but its implications were enormous.
"This is a historic step for London," announced Exterior Minister Sergei Volkov, his tone smooth and deliberate. "Prime Minister Ross's decision helps move beyond centuries of imperial tension. The Federation congratulates her on her bold vision and expresses hope for strengthened economic ties between our nations."
China's reaction was the last, and the most unexpected.
"The Coalition wishes Prime Minister Ross success in the upcoming elections," announced Foreign Affairs Director Lin Qiang. "Should circumstances require it, China would welcome Britain's participation in the BRICS economic framework. Our door remains open."
Some Reform leaders messaged me in disbelief, struggling to reconcile my supposed "British nationalism" with what they saw as a sudden leap into separatist politics. Their outrage was almost amusing — as if they hadn't spent years redefining nationalism to suit whatever crisis they'd manufactured that week.
Meanwhile, a few English Greens reached out with surprising warmth, hinting at a potential endorsement for my presidential campaign. They spoke of pluralism, of decentralisation, of a Britain that didn't fear its own diversity. For the first time in days, a message made me smile.
The game was changing.
And the pieces were quietly sliding into place, arranging themselves on my board exactly where I needed them.
Soon, I would be able to move freely.
Cardiff
I rushed to Cardiff as soon as the sky began to darken. I'd warned Carys I was coming — partly out of courtesy, partly because I needed a quiet place to breathe before unleashing the next storm.
Coming home wasn't just emotional. It was tactical.
The Celtic leaders were gathering here, preparing to announce me as the GNA's presidential candidate after their congress. It was the moment my allies and I had spent months engineering, brick by brick, whisper by whisper.
And now the groundwork was finally set.
All I had to do was step into the role we'd carved out of chaos.
The moment I stepped through Carys' door, the political tensions of the day began melting away. There she was, lounging on her leather couch, legs crossed, a silk bathrobe hugging her form.
"Always the strategist," I observed with a knowing smile.
Carys rose slowly, letting the robe fall open as she approached. "I had a feeling the Prime Minister might need unwinding tonight," she replied, chuckling mischievously.
My lips found hers as my hands examined her body, teasing a nipple, savoring her soft curves. While I was busy with my exploration, her hands worked at the zipper of my skirt, letting it fall at my feet.
"Your feeling was right," I replied.
And, just for a moment, the night was ours.