Montgomery lived the kind of life most people would kill for – if only they could get past the gates.
The estate alone spanned more acres than some European monarchies, with a circular driveway wide enough to land a private jet – not that Montgomery would ever allow that. It would ruin the gravel. He hated gravel being ruined.
He had everything. Not metaphorically. Literally. Money, beauty, bloodline, influence. His smile could open boardroom doors, his surname could close deals. He wore silk like other people wore excuses.
And then there was Julian.
Julian, who brushed Montgomery’s hair when he was hungover. Julian, who preheated the car so the steering wheel would never be too cold. Julian, who remembered every tiny preference – no garlic, no pleats, only dark chocolate, and never, under any circumstance, call before noon. Montgomery didn’t need to ask for anything. Julian anticipated.
People liked to say that Montgomery had it all. That wasn’t quite true. He didn’t have Julian.
Julian gave himself willingly.
Montgomery opened the door with the reluctance of someone summoned by peasants.
The courier—a man in a cap and synthetic polo—stood there holding a small brown parcel. No monogram, no ribbon, no taste.
Montgomery frowned. “I wasn’t expecting anything today.”
The courier smiled. “Private delivery, sir. Scheduled.”
Montgomery snatched the package with a dramatic sigh. “Scheduled for eleven-fifteen. It is now”—he glanced at the Cartier on his wrist—“eleven twenty-two. Fascinating how linear time is still such a challenge for some people.”
The courier said nothing. Wise.
Montgomery rolled his eyes and turned the box in his hands. “I assume it’s the cufflinks,” he muttered to himself. “Although I asked for white gold, not silver. If they got that wrong again—”
He took a breath, clearly already rehearsing the complaint email in his head. It would be laced with condescension and cc’d to far too many people.
Then something caught his attention. The box was too light.
And the label—handwritten?
He looked back at the courier. “Who exactly sent this?”
The man just smiled. “Enjoy, sir.”
Montgomery stood there, package in hand, lip curled in suspicion. For a second, he considered tossing it straight in the bin.
But curiosity, for once, outweighed arrogance.
Montgomery stared into the box as though it had personally insulted him.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper that looked offensively cheap, lay a thick gold chain and two matching bracelets. Heavy, vulgar, impossibly shiny. The kind of accessories worn by third-rate footballers or influencers who reviewed protein powder in their bedroom mirrors.
He lifted one bracelet between thumb and forefinger, holding it as far from his body as possible.
He turned the box over. No card. No brand. No receipt. Just the chain. And the horror.
“Absolutely not,” he muttered.
There were only two explanations. Either Lloyd’s—Lloyd’s, for God’s sake—had suffered a mental breakdown and started peddling club bathroom jewellery… or this was yet another tragic attempt by some admirer to impress him.
Which was, frankly, worse.
Montgomery had made it abundantly clear on multiple occasions that he did not do gold. Or bulk. Or anything that might reasonably be described as "bling."
Still, someone had paid for a private courier. Someone had wanted to make a statement.
“Ridiculous,” he said aloud, tossing the bracelet back into the box with a flick of his wrist. “But flattering.”
He stood, stretched, and rang the bell. Time to have Jasper trace the delivery route. Discreetly, of course.
It would be fun to find out which fool had dared.
And even more fun to put him in his place.
The boutique door clicked shut behind him with a sound so soft it felt like silk. Instantly, the world recalibrated: the lighting was warm and flattering, the air scented with cedarwood, cashmere, and the faintest trace of oud—discreet, expensive, dignified. In other words: reality restored.
Montgomery exhaled. A little spending would do him good. Not as an act of consolation. As an act of principle.
That thing with the gold chain? Unspeakable. Tacky beyond reason. He’d felt almost contaminated when he’d lifted the bracelet out of the box. Who even made jewelry like that? People who needed to spell out “status” because they didn’t look like they belonged anywhere near it.
No—he needed refinement, reassurance. A sartorial palate cleanser.
He drifted between the shelves, hands in the pockets of his ivory trousers, gaze sharp and slow. A pale blue roll-neck in Sea Island cotton? Maybe. A camel overcoat from Loro Piana? Closer.
A sales associate approached. Elegantly. Silently. Competently. As one should.
"Mr. Montgomery," she said with the smallest, most respectful smile. "How lovely to see you again."
"I’ve been assaulted," he said coolly. "By taste. Or rather, the lack of it."
She nodded. As though she’d already guessed.
“May I suggest the Vicuña suiting we’ve just received? We have a bolt reserved exclusively for you.”
Montgomery raised an eyebrow. Vicuña? Now we were speaking the language of civilization.
“Wrap it,” he said. “And bring me something that reminds me culture still exists. I nearly drowned myself in Eau de Nil in the ladies' powder room.”
The associate smiled. “The Italian tailor is in residence today. Shall I have him brought to you?”
“Immediately,” Montgomery replied. “Before I remember that the world sent me gold chains this morning.”
Balance, at last, was being restored.
For a second, reality didn’t compute. His brain refused to register what his eyes were clearly—clearly—seeing.
White. With black gradients.
And his trousers—his trousers—were stuffed into white sports socks. Nike socks. Ribbed. Pulled high like a common trackside jogger.
Montgomery staggered back a step. No. No no no. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. He didn’t own sports socks. He didn’t wear sneakers. He donated athleticwear to the club’s seasonal charity drive. He sponsored a squash player. That was as close as it got.
His hand shot out for the nearest wall. The sales assistant blinked.
“Sir—are you quite alright?”
“I…” Montgomery stammered, looking like a man just informed that his blood was being replaced with Mountain Dew. “I… am wearing… trainers.”
He said it the way one might say: I am possessed.
The assistant opened his mouth—then thought better of it.
Montgomery yanked at the socks. Nothing. They were snug. His legs were cooperating. His trousers—crumpled—like Lycra.
He stumbled into the fitting room, half-horrified, half in disbelief.
Somewhere, in the distance, a man laughed.
And Montgomery knew:
Someone was playing a very dangerous game.
Not walked.
Not strode.
Ran.
Out of the boutique, past the sales assistant calling after him, past the horrified looks from two women in linen and pearls. He didn't care. He couldn't care. His breath came in tight, shocked bursts, and still—still—the nightmare worsened.
His trousers.
They squeaked.
He looked down mid-stride and nearly tripped. The fabric… it shimmered. Not the crisp, matte texture of high-end cotton. No. This—this was synthetic. Nylon, maybe. Or PVC.
What had started as a minor style mishap had now evolved into sartorial terrorism.
The fabric clung to his legs in odd ways, catching light in a way no gentleman's trouser ever should. And the shoes. The shoes! Loud, plastic, impossibly white with air bubbles in the sole. Nike Tn.
"Help," he whispered, almost inaudibly, as if someone in the marble-floored mall might hear the existential dread behind his breath.
What was happening to him?
Where were his pleats? His pressed seams? His dignity?
He made a promise to himself right then, as his Nikes slammed against polished tiles:
Montgomery dropped to his knees.
Right there, on the pavement. In front of the mall.
In public.
In broad daylight.
In his hand: a pack of Marlboros.
Red. Stark.
Vulgar.
He stared at it like it had insulted him personally.
What was it doing here?
What was it doing in his pocket?!
He hadn’t bought cigarettes.
He didn’t buy cigarettes. He didn’t even handle them.
He had staff for that kind of thing—if ever, if ever there was an occasion for it.
Which there wasn’t.
And yet—
Something stirred in him.
A pressure, low and hot in his chest.
He could almost taste the cigarette. That dry, acrid pull. The throat burn. The way it would hit his lungs like a velvet hammer.
He looked down at himself.
Gold chain. Shining.
Plastic-looking pants—shiny? Nylon?!
Nike TNs? Who even wore those? His jaw clenched.
His hand trembled.
Not with rage.
With craving.
He looked around. No one was watching him.
No.
That wasn’t true.
Someone was watching.
Someone wanted this.
He had them in his pocket.
And worst of all—
he couldn’t remember when.
The park was quiet. Green. Calm.
Montgomery had come here to breathe. To get away from it all. From the mall. From the shoes. From the pants.
From himself.
And yet—
he stood there, slightly hunched, lips parted in shock.
A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Already lit. Already smoked halfway through.
He hadn’t lit it. Had he?
His fingers twitched.
His pulse throbbed, loud in his ears.
And then—he felt it.
Not just the cigarette.
Around his neck.
A thick, heavy gold chain.
It wasn't just vulgar.
It was definitive.
He reached up slowly, as if afraid it might growl.
But no—it just lay there, like it belonged.
A sick realization bloomed in his chest.
He hadn't taken it off.
Not when he fled the boutique.
Not when he knelt with that cursed red pack in his hand.
Montgomery froze mid-step.
His hand trembled as he stared down at his leg.
The fabric was no longer crisp ivory.
It was black.
Black and shiny.
And it swished.
He tugged it up in disbelief—
three unmistakable gold stripes.
“No,” he breathed. The cigarette bobbed at the edge of his lip. “No, no, no...”
This was not bespoke.
This was not Savile Row.
This was—street.
His reflection, had he seen one, would’ve shown more.
The earring glinting at his lobe.
The thick chain pulling at his collar.
The smoke curling from his mouth.
Something inside him—his upbringing, his pride, his pedigree—screamed.
But his legs shifted.
The pants swished again.
A football jersey—bright red, clinging tight across his chest.
Liverpool FC.
He didn’t even watch football.
Gold chain heavy on his neck.
Gold bracelets on both wrists.
Cigarette dangling from his lips like it belonged there.
His stomach turned.
Not from the cheap nylon swishing around his thighs—he’d somehow accepted that.
But this?
This was identity collapse.
He lifted the shirt to confirm the horror.
Yes. Elastic waistband. Drawstring. Branded boxers.
He looked like... like one of those lads.
He was Montgomery Fitzwilliam Lennox.
And yet—
the smoke tasted good.
His pulse raced.
His gold chain caught the light.
And something in him whispered,
Just go with it, bruv.
He stood still in the middle of the street, heart thudding.
The jacket—where had it come from?
Black, shiny, the golden Adidas stripes catching the morning light like they belonged on royalty. Liverpool crest gleaming. Matching the chain. Matching the track pants. Matching the vibe.
Montgomery blinked. Slowly.
People passed. No one stared. No one laughed.
Because this look—it wasn’t irony anymore. It fit.
"Where the hell am I?" he whispered.
The buildings around him looked normal. Shops. Cafés. But something was off.
Too quiet. Too… local.
A kebab place across the street. A betting shop. A barber advertising "fresh fades & fire trims".
This was… Croydon? Lewisham? Bootle?
And the cigarette? Still lit.
Still in his mouth.
Montgomery Fitzwilliam Lennox didn’t smoke.
But someone else—someone new—apparently did.
He stared at the mirror.
Then at the barber.
Then back at the mirror.
Montgomery blinked hard, as if the reflection might correct itself. But the buzzed scalp stared right back at him—shiny, brutal, and terrifyingly authentic.
His hand shot up, fingertips grazing the short stubble.
Gone. His perfect, sculpted, windswept crown. The hair that cost more than most people’s rent.
Now? A cropped dome fit for a street soldier.
«You said you wanted the Scouse Special, bruv.»
The barber’s voice echoed behind him. Calm. Casual. As if this butchering was somehow normal.
Montgomery tried to stand, stumbled back into the chair. His rings clinked against the armrest.
His wrists gleamed—chunky gold. His shirt clung to his chest like it had always been red.
He looked like a Liverpool fan who meant it.
The horror settled in his gut.
Somewhere—somehow—someone was doing this to him.
And worst of all?
A part of him... didn’t entirely hate it.
He grabbed his shaved head with both hands, the gold chains around his neck clinking against the collar of his shiny tracksuit.
“What the f— no, no, bruv, this can’t be ‘appnin’, innit. This ain’t me. I ain’t one of them, am I?”
The cigarette trembled between his lips.
Montgomery—Monty, posh Monty, heir of Wetherleigh Estates, the kind of bloke who never touched public transport—looked down at himself. Adidas. Nike. Chain thick enough to tow a Bentley. And his voice—his voice!—he barely recognised it.
“Gotta go. Gotta find 'im.” He bolted upright. “Jamie’s on the bleedin’ golf course. Still wearin’ them daft plaid trousers. Poor git don’t even know what’s comin’.”
He stormed out the hotel room.
“Oi, if anyone’s gonna save that toffee-nosed tosser from this madness, it’s me. I mean—look at me! I’m already halfway gone, mate!”
The hallway echoed with every stomp of his TNs.
Monty didn’t know how or why this was happening.
But one thing was clear:
Jamie needed saving.
And Monty was gonna leg it across London in full scally drag to do it.
janainaart
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
dededos
