Linton Horse Race Event
The day began with a flurry of motion at Victoria's estate. Trucks groaned as they maneuvered into place, bearing the gilded burden of imported racing rails, electric gates, high-end grooming stalls, and the legendary sod of the Firenze Turf—soil specifically chosen from an Italian racecourse to match the world-class standard Mr. Linton insisted upon. Dozens of workers in reflective vests and blue overalls moved across the vast expanse like clockwork, laying the base for what would be the most luxurious horse racing installation England had ever seen on private land. From the south balcony of the estate, Mr. Linton stood with Eric, sipping from a glass of chilled mineral water. The late morning sun glazed the marble banisters with gold.
"Look at that," Mr. Linton said, voice crisp. "You see what money can do, Eric? It bends the world to your will. They said importing a horse track was madness. Now look—Florentine turf, Venetian gates, Tuscan-designed stables, right in my backyard." Eric grinned. "It's like building a piece of Rome in the middle of Surrey." Mr. Linton gave a short laugh, low and pleased. "It's more than Rome. This is legacy. This is Getty." Eric turned toward him, eyebrows lifting. "So, why horse racing? Why this, of all things?"
Mr. Linton took a deep breath, watching the workers stretch the fencing. "Horse racing, Eric, is a gentleman's war. No blood spilled—only speed, wit, and elegance. I grew up watching them. My father once took me to a race in Milan. I swore one day, I'd have one of my own. Not a seat. Not a box. The whole damn race."
"And now you do." "Yes," Mr. Linton said, his tone a mixture of triumph and reflection. "And I'm going to make sure they remember it. Notify every club from Manchester to Marbella. Let them send their best. The winner takes home two million dollars." Eric blinked. "Two million? That's... historic." Mr. Linton nodded. "Exactly the point. Let them know this race is not just about horses. It's about power."
By afternoon, the track was nearly complete. The green of the imported turf shimmered in the sun like velvet. Electric gates stood in immaculate rows at the starting line. High above them, flags bearing the Getty crest fluttered. Ellen and Haystrings, Mr. Linton's longtime attendants, sat beneath a parasol by the northern edge, going through the guest list. "This is not just an event," Ellen said, her tone both excited and cautious, "this is a statement. He wants the Prime Minister here." Haystrings scoffed in his Queen's English. "And the King, perhaps? Why not resurrect Caesar himself?" "You mock it, but look around you, Hay. The man just flew in racing soil. Racing soil!" "He's gone daft with ambition," Haystrings murmured. "Still, I must admit, it's bloody impressive." Inside the main hall, Mr. Linton met with his logistics team. Schedules were reviewed, jockeys confirmed, and security tightened. "Get every camera ready," he told them. "This must be televised, streamed, archived. Let no one in the future ever say they weren't witness to Getty's glory."
The evening before the race, soft golden lights bathed the estate as guests began arriving for the pre-race gala. Gentlemen in tailored tuxedos and women in silk gowns wandered the halls, sipping champagne, marvelling at the indoor preview of the racehorses—each one a muscular, gleaming creature brought from foreign stables to honor Linton's invitation. Eric found Mr. Linton standing beside the mare named La Vigna, a sleek chestnut beauty flown in from Naples. "She's fast," Eric said. "She's fury bottled in elegance," Linton replied. "And she's going to lose tomorrow." Eric frowned. "You sound sure. Why?" Linton smirked. "Because the fastest horse never wins by accident. It wins by prophecy—and I've already written the winner's name."
The race day arrived with a cloudless sky and crisp air. Guests filled the grandstand built at the eastern terrace. Luxury cars lined the estate's driveway in an endless parade. Reporters clicked photos, and drones hovered above to broadcast live. The race announcer, an Italian veteran named Salvatore, took the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first-ever Getty Horse Grand Prix!" Applause. Cheers. Mr. Linton sat at the VIP booth with Eric, and several foreign dignitaries. "This," he said as the horses lined up, "is my declaration." As the gun fired and the horses thundered forward, the sound was like a heartbeat amplified a thousand times. Mr. Linton didn't move. He watched with steady eyes, only smiling when his favored horse crossed second place, just as predicted. Eric leaned in. "How'd you know?" "Because I made sure the winner would be trained for this terrain. I bought him last year and let the trainer think it was his idea." Eric shook his head. "You don't just play the game. You own it."
Linton smiled. "That's the Getty way."