From the windows of his office on the twenty-fifth floor of the Whitehall Palace Hotel, the grey-headed figure of Thomas C. Wolsey looked out across the city of Boston towards the grey shores of Atlantic and beyond as a prideful smile spread over his craggy features.

Under his stewardship, Synergy Industries had expanded from a small banking house into one of the largest conglomerates in the world. Its publishing arm owned three of the greatest publishing houses in the world (Knopf, Random House, and Farrar, Straus, and Giroux) as well as some of the leading magazines and newspaper (Sports America, American History, The British Historical Review, The Scotsman). Then there were the cell phone manufacturers, the internet service providers, the record labels, the soft drink companies, and the hundreds of miles of real estate that he and Henry's father, Henry Tudor Sr., had bought from under the noses of impecunious Brahmins and Oxford dons who had spent their last cent at gambling tables at the glittering casinos of Monte Carlo and Dubai.

If one had asked Thomas Wolsey how one man could accomplish so much within the span of fifty years, he would always smile whimsically and say: "Well, I really don't know either."

There was some disingenuous in this curt reply which came from rather thick lips that always seemed to curl up into a grin. He knew and the world also knew. There were hundreds of men all over the world who had horror stories to tell about how Thomas C. Wolsey had cheated them out of their businesses so that he could add them to his conglomerate.

Every time a Synergy merger floundered or the president of a once prospering pharmaceutical giant found himself increasingly surrounded by "yes men" from Boston and consistent threats of termination from above, there was one name that was on the press's lips and it was always the same: Wolsey.

Reporters would wait in front of Whitehall and then ambush the septuagenarian on one of his morning constitutionals. The journalists would press their cameras and microphones asking him whether he was directly responsible for the floundering of a merger with Valois Enterprises or the tabloid stories that had ruined the credibility of the conservative party in Britain by revealing that one of its MPs' sons was carrying on an affair with an under aged girl. To all of these, Wolsey would shrug his shoulders and reply, "You might think that, but I couldn't possibly tell you."

There were people at Synergy who did know. One was Oliver Cromwell. He was the slightly overweight, middle-aged man whose gaze was following Wolsey's. His small, beady eyes which scurried from person to person and his slightly prognathous jaw were not those of a born businessman, but of someone who had worked his way up the chain of command from humble post office clerk to the unenviable post of Wolsey's private secretary.

On Wolsey's orders, this man would pay off judges and lawyers so that they would close their eyes to the shadier business dealings. He would fight off the nosiest of reporters with restraining orders and lawsuits.

Finally, he satisfied Wolsey's sexual appetites by wandering the streets of Boston looking for prostitutes that would be willing to sleep with his boss. "A very rich man," was the way that he always introduced Wolsey. Then, after the woman had dressed herself sufficiently, he would drive her to the street corn where she had been picked up the night before threatening her never to reveal the identity of the man she had slept with the previous night.

He could see Wolsey's eyes darting about from building to building in a one man game of leap frog. That was never a good sign for it meant that the dam was already leaking. When it burst, and it was a question of when and not if, Cromwell would have a front seat to one of his boss's infamous fits of anger which lasted for hours.

Wolsey turned towards Cromwell. There was lightning his gray eyes and acrid smoke would probably escape from his nostrils if he was anything like the medieval dragons that Cromwell had read about as a boy at grammar school. Clearly, there was something that was disturbing his equilibrium and it definitely was not the dover sole he had had for lunch that morning.

Cromwell twiddled his thumbs backwards and forwards for a few moments. He arranged some papers on the table in front of him. He skimmed one or two resumes that he had just received from two interns. There was absolutely nothing that he could possibly do when Wolsey was having a fit except sit back and listen.

"What are we going to do about that report, Cromwell?" Wolsey finally thundered as he took his seat at the head of the table.

"What reporter?" Cromwell immediately dropped the resume and allowed it to the slide to the blood red carpet below.

"The one that Henry has been taken with," Wolsey replied coolly.

"She's a phase," Cromwell replied trying to ease Wolsey's conscience. "I give her three more weeks before she leaves."

"She's already been here three weeks," Wolsey emphasized. "And she's a drain on my finances."

"Surely, that's not possible, sir. You make more money with Synergy…"

"Henry rearranged the entire Presidential Suite of the hotel for her. New bed, new curtains, new furnishings. Thousands of dollars spent on a woman when he has a perfectly decent one waiting for him on the floor above."

"Well…"

"Don't well me, Cromwell," Wolsey snapped. "You and I both know that Katherine is not perfect, but she is his wife and we have to respect."

"Except that he's bored with her."

"Then why didn't tell me to get him some of my whores?" Wolsey demanded.

"He told me that he doesn't make love women who smell like six packs of cigarettes and whiskey."

"Well, I don't like women who are brought into my hotel, allowed to stay here interminably, and knock on my office door every single morning demanding an interview with me."

"What do you suggest that we do?"

"Get rid of her," Wolsey emphasized every last syllable. "I will not have some woman reporter running stories in the newspapers about the dealings of the company while I'm chairman of the board."

"Be reasonable, sir."

"Why should I be reasonable?"

"He likes her a lot. I don't think it's a good idea for you to put a stick about at this very instant."

"All right, Cromwell. Let's play this game your way. What are her academic credentials?"

"A summa cum laude graduate of Oxford with a Master's from Harvard."

"In journalism," Wolsey snorted. "I've seen plenty of those."

"And don't forget post-graduate studies at the Sorbonne," Cromwell emphasized. "She's also the daughter of Thomas Boleyn, President of Boleyn & Son, and niece of Thomas Howard, the real estate magnate."

"Boleyn and Howard are small fish, Cromwell, and neither of them has influence. Last I heard Boleyn was up to his ears in debt and Howard was being investigated for embezzlement."

"Have you even talked to Anne Boleyn, Wolsey?" Cromwell asked. "She came to my office the other day to chat. She's extremely well read and intelligent, a highly skill wordsmith as well."

He pulled out an article from a hidden drawer in his desk that Anne had given him for such an occasion when she had visited his office two days before. He handed it to Wolsey who looked it over suspiciously and began skimming the page.

"The Financial Ledger," he nodded in approval.

He let out a brief chuckle and then gave Cromwell a Cheshire cat smile. "Listen to this," he said. "'Although Francis Valois has proclaimed himself the king of all media, he has not yet attained the title of emperor or pontifex maximus. A source close to the CEO of VF Media Corp. indicates that the only things that are of interest to Mr. Valois are wine, women, and song. If that is the case, perhaps, he should enter the wine business and call it a day.'"

Wolsey turned towards Cromwell and gave him a smile that stretched from ear to ear. It was one that belonged to a cat who had swallowed cuckoo, a criminal who had just found his loophole to get out of jail without a trial. Cromwell knew that look extremely well. Wolsey had a plan.

"Call Anne," Wolsey instructed Cromwell.

"Yes, sir," Cromwell bowed.

XOXOXO

Anne was lying in bed with the sheets drawn up to her and staring at the chandelier in the ceiling. Three weeks ago, she could not have imagined that she would be spending her days at the Whitehall Palace Hotel. She had not anticipated that every morning one of the maids would come and help her dress or bring her a golden tray on which was a tea pot and crackers. For a woman that had come to Boston with an crocodile skin bag that held enough clothes for three days, she now had a closet that was bursting with designer dresses and shoes that had Henry had lavished on her.

When she had first moved him, she didn't know what to feel when she woke up and found a package on her doorstep with a red bow from Louboutin in New York. When she understood that Henry was behind it, she would send it back to him with an apologetic note. "I'm sorry," she would write in her beautiful cursive hand, "but I simply cannot accept a gift from someone that loves someone else."

The gifts continued coming. Every morning, she would find a dress or a pair of shoes deposited by one of the servants on her doorstep. When she would offer to pay for her dinner at the hotel restaurant, the maître d' would explain to her that it was already paid for by someone in the management. When she would make phone calls to London in the middle of the night and worry about the bill, the manager downstairs would say that all of the fees had been waived on her behalf.

She found herself enchanted by the world she was living in. In England, she had belonged to a well off, upper crust family that had some money to burn. However, Thomas Boleyn was not a person who allowed Anne and her sister Mary to spend his money because they wanted a designer handbag or a pair of shoes. Although they heartily disliked them, he insisted that they wear out their shoes and dresses before he would buy them new ones.

Even when Anne was at university studying journalist and had begun to hobnob with editors of some worthy newspapers, someone would always comment on her rather shabby appearance. "The poor girl," someone remarked at a tea party at The Financial Times, "couldn't her father have spent a few more pounds to get her a decent looking dress."

At Whitehall, things were diametrically different. When she wandered through the marble halls allowing her six inch heels to click against the floors, an awed silence would always follow her wherever she went. Several times, an elderly clerk had asked if she would stand at the reception so that he could just gaze upon her. This was the kind of woman that she had become: desired, admired, and someone whom people stood in awe of even they didn't know her.

Henry, of course, was the person who spoiled her the most. He would take to fancy restaurants downtown or to Macy's so that she could sample their perfumes. He catered entirely to her every whim. When Anne insisted that they visit the Boston Atheneum so that she could look at a 16th century map of Nuremberg, he took her there and obtained for her a library card free of charge. When she complained to him that she was running out of things to read, he went to Commonwealth Books downtown and bought every volume of Dickens and Trollope to keep her busy.

She knew that he was fascinated and beguiled by her. When they were seated at different tables, she could feel his eyes on her neck urging her to turn around so that he could get a glimpse of her enchanting brown eyes and her slightly crooked smile. If he liked her enough, he would excuse himself and visit her table so that she could laugh at his jokes.

He came and visited her in the night when she would wait for him. He ran his hands through her silky brown hair, kissed her lips, kissed her neck, and would lie with her for hours on end when they would do nothing except talk. He asked her questions about London and whether she had ever seen the queen. She asked him if he could finance an excursion to the Grand Canyon.

"The Grand Canyon?" Henry scoffed. "Why would you want to see the biggest hole in the world?"

"Precisely because it's the biggest hole in the world," she would reply.

She knew, however, that things could not always remain in this particularly halcyon state. There were nights when Henry didn't come to visit her or when he would send a maid who would excuse him and say that he had been unavoidably detained. There was an entire week when she didn't received any presents from him at all and when he didn't acknowledge her when she sat down to eat in the restaurant. She understood it well enough. She always had. There was another woman in his life that he had to attend to and Anne couldn't be the center of his attention one hundred percent of the time.

Lying in her bed and staring at the ceiling, Anne felt like one of the princess in the fairy tales that her mother had read to her when she was a little girl. She had found her prince. She was supposed to have her happily ever after and yet that happily ever after was not her to enjoy at the present moment.

There was a soft knock on her bedroom door.

"Come in," Anne said as straightened herself.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Lupe the maid said as she poked her head through the door. "There's a Mr. Cromwell that wants to see you."

"What does he want?" Anne asked.

"He didn't say."

Immediately, Anne got out of the bed and began dressing herself. She brushed her hair and threw on a navy blue dress that accentuated her figure. She put on her makeup in a quick, slapdash manner. She didn't have the time for deliberation. If Cromwell was standing in the sitting room, it meant something important was going to happen.

She found him as anticipate sitting in one of the Louis XIV chairs with his resting on a coffee table. He was whistling an off key rendition of "God Save the Queen." Anne gave him a coy smile which he returned with nervous nod.

"Well," Anne said as she seated herself on the couch opposite him. "It's good to see you, Mr. Cromwell."

"Likewise. Mr. Wolsey wants to see you."

"Wolsey?" Anne swallowed hard. In the last three weeks, she had called on him frequently and he had constantly excused himself saying that he didn't have time or that a meeting in Hong Kong was much more pressing than meeting with a glorified graduate student in journalism from Harvard.

"Yes," Cromwell nodded. "Actually, he wants to see you right now."

There was not a moment to lose. Before the words had escaped from Cromwell's mouth, Anne was already heading towards the door. She opened and closed it so quickly that it slammed on Cromwell's face.

"I'm sorry about that," she said as she walked towards the elevator and saw how the slightly portly gentleman was holding his nose. "I'm not usually a door slammer."

"And I don't usually walk into doors," Cromwell commented drily.

She tapped her foot nervous against the carpeted floor as they made their way to the twenty-third floor. The five or six minutes seemed like five or six centuries. She felt a stabbing pain in her stomach as Cromwell continued his off key whistling. He had switched to "Rule Britannia." Anne began to wonder to herself whether he was always this subtle when it came to bringing guests into Wolsey's office.

As they got off, he led her down a darkened hallway towards the glass doors of a large spacious office. The words Synergy were engraved on the glass in frosty letters and secretary swathed completely in black was sitting behind a computer. A Vivaldi concert for four violins was playing in the background.

Cromwell led her towards a seat next to the secretary's desk and told her that Wolsey would be shortly with her.

For a time, Anne rifled through various glossy fashion magazines looking at various designer dresses. However, she could help hearing a conversation that was going on in a room directly across from her. She pressed the ear to the door.

"Now then, Mr. Stote," an aristocratic voice began in rather leisurely and forthright manner. "You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a mess and you haven't done a lot for the image of the company either, have you?"

"No, Mr. Wolsey," a timid tenor replied. "I'd like to say how terribly sorry I am…"

"You should have that before," Wolsey interrupted him. "Can we do anything for him, Cromwell?"

There was moment of hushed silence, whispering, shuffling of feet. Then Mr. Stote burst out, "Really? I can't begin to express how happy I am…"

"All right, Stote, you've been lucky," Wolsey cut him off. "Heard something else funny about you the other day. Someone said that you would be abstaining from voting on the Valois merger."

"Well…"

"Don't."

"No. No, of course not."

"All right, Stote, you've been lucky and try not to be such a damn fool. And if you must use whores, Cromwell will give you a list of whore houses where they understand the meaning of discretion."

Stote stammered his thanks. Anne heard his feet heading towards the door and made her way back to her chair where she resumed glancing at her magazine. She didn't bother looking at the pear shaped, middle aged, balding man who had just been given a dressing down. The sound of his voice was more than enough for her.

She did notice, however, Cromwell approaching her. He gently took the magazine away from her hands and bade her to stand up. He tried to take her hand in his, but she pulled it away and made her way towards the now open office door where she saw Wolsey seated behind his desk reviewing a stack of paper work. She walked right inside, but he was so completely absorbed that he didn't look up until Cromwell announced in the most solemn voice he could muster, "Miss Anne Boleyn is here to see you, sir."

Wolsey looked up from his notes and bade Anne to sit down in the armchair across from his desk. He dismissed Cromwell with a flick of his wrist and bade him to leave the door unlocked. It was only then that he fixed his gray eyes on Anne and, instantly, she felt that she was seated in front of the real power behind the throne.

"Miss Boleyn," Wolsey began. "It is such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I'm sorry, but I have been terribly busy these last few weeks."

"That is perfectly understandable," Anne replied through her slightly greeted teeth. "You have an extremely hectic schedule, after all."

"Of course, but I am here and I have a proposal for you."

"I'm sorry, sir, but when I spoke to you last…"

"Miss Boleyn," Wolsey looked her squarely in the eyes. "You must understand that what I am about to say is something that is completely outside of my comfort zone as I don't do favors for anyone, but…"

"But?"

"But I feel that due to your tenacity and your educational pedigree, I made a few phone calls and asked Mr. Preston at The Standard to take you on as a business correspondent."

"Thank you, sir," Anne replied mechanically. "It is a tremendous privilege for me to work for a newspaper as renowned as The Standard."

"However," Wolsey continued completely oblivious to everything Anne had just said, "Your position is a little bit different than a report who goes and asks uncomfortable questions. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you were capable of keeping a secret.""

"Of course."

"Well, then, how would you like to do an investigative piece of VF Media Corporation?"

"I'm not sure exactly…"

"Well," Wolsey explained. "I'm sure that you've heard that there are some companies that our company and their company are planning to trade some of our smaller investments. Of course, Henry and I cannot invest in them unless we know exactly what it is that they are planning to sell us. They have played tricks on us in the past and we are not willing to be embarrassed again. Therefore, I would like for you to go there and do some digging around in your capacity as a reporter. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," Anne smiled, "but I don't think that it would be to my benefit to go and look for another company's dirty shirts."

"Miss Boleyn," Wolsey's voice became steely. "You do not have a choice in this matter. If you won't work for me, I will not have a second thought about throwing you out of this hotel."

"This hotel is Henry's," Anne protested. "The entire company is his and you are just the chairman of the board of directors."

"Henry does own this hotel and Synergy, but who do you think runs the company?"

Silence.

"Of course," Wolsey chuckled. "You now understand exactly what kind of people you are dealing with. So what will it be, Miss Boleyn?"

"I'm going to The Standard tomorrow morning."

"Good," Wolsey smiled as he rose and shook her hand. "Cromwell will see you out."

As Anne walked out of the office and took the elevator down, she felt the entire world spinning around her in concentric circles. She had felt like this before. When she was nearly expelled from St. Anne's for smoking on school property and her father had to bail her out with a plea to Reverend, she had that same sickening feeling.

She ran to her bedroom and locked the door behind her. She laid down on her bedroom and stared at a skyscraper outside her window. She wondered aloud if she had just sold her soul to the devil himself and then she wondered if she couldn't turn herself into a demon and give Wolsey a taste of his own medicine.


A/N: Thank you for the reviews, alerts, and favorites. The story will pick up speed now. Please let me know what you think!