After bidding farewell to the fleet that carried his most ambitious designs, Arthur Lionheart returned to his daily rhythm as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
By day, he moved between the Future Industrial Park and the Royal Promotion Association—
a tireless force, juggling projects that would reshape the century: the telegraph, improved steel production, modern machinery.
By night, he always returned to Buckingham Palace, punctual as a clockwork spring, where his increasingly regal yet endlessly affectionate wife waited for him. Victoria wore the crown with the poise of a born monarch—
yet with him, she became soft, spoiled, teasing, human.
That evening, after a lavish dinner, the couple curled together on the plush sofa in Arthur's study, each reading in companionable silence.
Arthur was studying a technical report on converter steelmaking, while Victoria held the annual royal financial ledger, her delicate brows furrowed and her lips forming tiny, troubled sighs.
He lowered his papers, amused.
"What is it, my love? Has the Treasury collapsed again? Or is yet another colonial governor begging for funds?"
"The Treasury is fine," Victoria huffed, closing the heavy ledger. "It's my personal funds that are nearly gone."
"Your personal funds?"
"Yes!" She began counting on her slender fingers, like a very distressed—yet very adorable—accountant. "I invested everything I had in your sewing-machine factory to support you. Then I spent a fortune buying those old ships. And just recently, for the Royal Promotion Association's salon, I donated money from my own pocket to make everything look splendid…"
The more she calculated, the more aggrieved she looked, until she finally puffed her cheeks and declared:
"I am probably the poorest queen in all of Europe right now! I cannot even commission new dresses without first asking the Chancellor of the Exchequer!"
Her expression—half outrage, half childish indignation—made Arthur burst into warm laughter.
He wrapped her in his arms and gently tapped her nose.
"My fault, entirely my fault. I'm an incompetent husband for letting my beloved wife suffer in such cruel poverty."
"Hmph! At least you know," Victoria muttered, snuggling deeper into his chest, feigning anger but clearly melting at his touch.
Arthur's eyes glimmered with mischief.
"But tell me, who said we can only spend money? Have you forgotten you're now a major shareholder of the Future Industries Group? And your husband, Arthur Lionheart, is known across London as the 'God of Wealth.'"
"And what of it?" Victoria pouted adorably. "Your factories earn plenty, but you said every penny must be invested into long-term projects like the telegraph network and railways. My dividends are pathetic."
"Who said we need to rely on factory dividends?" Arthur's smile deepened. "My dear, let me teach you a game. A game far more thrilling—and far more profitable—than running a factory."
"A game?" Her curiosity sparked instantly.
"A game of making money… with money."
Arthur stood, retrieved the latest issue of The Times, and pointed to the modest financial page.
"Here," he said, tapping rows of stock prices. "This is the table for our little game: the London Stock Exchange."
"Stocks? I know of them." Victoria nodded. "People invest and wait for dividends. But many say it's full of crooks, and one wrong move makes you lose everything."
"That's because they don't know how to play."
A wolfish grin curved Arthur's lips—sharp, confident, intoxicating.
"They know 'value investing,' but what we will play is… speculation."
He leaned close, speaking softly as if whispering a secret spell.
"My love, remember this: in the short term, stock prices depend not on whether a company actually earns money, but on whether people believe it will earn money."
"And belief," he added, tapping the newspaper, "can be shaped through information."
He pointed to an article:
George Stephenson announces the final stretch of the London–Birmingham railway is nearly complete.
"Take this railway," Arthur continued. "People know it's valuable. But most don't understand how valuable. They're waiting, uncertain."
"But I know."
His voice carried absolute certainty. Victoria felt it vibrate against her shoulder, electric.
"When this line is completed, coal and steel from Birmingham will reach London in eight hours instead of a week. That means factory costs drop by 30%. Every industry linked to this railway will see explosive profit growth. Their stocks will skyrocket."
Victoria's heart raced. She could already see piles of golden sovereigns shimmering in her imagination.
"And so?" she whispered.
"And so," Arthur said with a conspiratorial smile, "before the crowd wakes up, while prices are still low, we will quietly pour every coin of your private fund into this railway company."
"But what if… if it doesn't rise as you say?" she asked, though her voice betrayed how much she wanted to believe him.
"There is no 'if.'"
Arthur cupped her chin, his tone smooth and commanding.
"Because I will make it rise."
Her breath caught.
"You've forgotten our Royal Promotion Association. In three days, Stephenson will speak at our salon about 'How Railways Will Transform the British Empire.' I'll invite every banker and journalist in London. Once they hear what I want them to hear… what do you think they'll do?"
"They'll rush to buy railway stocks!" Victoria exclaimed.
"Exactly." Arthur snapped his fingers. "And we will have already taken our positions. When the frenzy peaks, we sell. Let the latecomers take the risk. We take the profit."
Victoria's eyes sparkled like starlight.
Her brilliant, cunning, dangerous husband—she adored him.
"Let's do it!" she cried, handing all her private funds to him with total trust.
Thus began a silent financial drama, directed entirely by Arthur Lionheart.
Using discreet accounts, Arthur accumulated railway stocks.
Stephenson's speech—edited, sharpened, and weaponized by Arthur—ignited London's financial world like wildfire.
The next morning, the stock price exploded upward.
Investors flooded the market like a tidal wave.
And as the stock reached its peak, Arthur sold everything—quietly, calmly, flawlessly.
A few days later, Victoria checked the profit report.
Her hand trembled.
In just one week—
Her private fortune had multiplied fivefold.
She gasped, jumped from the sofa, and threw herself into Arthur's arms, planting a delighted kiss on his cheek.
"Arthur! You truly are my God of Wealth!"
"No, my love," he murmured, holding her tightly, voice warm against her ear. "I am no god."
"I'm simply a capable husband… who knows how to command capital."
Victoria shivered—
not from fear, but exhilaration.
For the first time, she truly understood the intoxicating power of "the capital game."
And the man she loved—
the man she trusted—
stood at its center like a sovereign.
Following Arthur, she realized, meant never wanting for anything again.
Not dresses.
Not jewels.
Not even entire cities.
For with Arthur Lionheart beside her—
the world itself felt purchasable.