The Commander

The November air was crisp and carried the faint scent of damp earth and polished brass as the Remembrance Sunday service drew to a close at the Cenotaph. Wreaths of poppies lay heavy against the stone, their scarlet a stark contrast to the grey London sky. Ophelia Wesley stood a little apart from the small group of St Ephraim’s University representatives, her floral dress fluttering gently in the breeze. At twenty-one, she felt painfully out of place among the dignitaries and serving officers, her ginger hair catching the weak sunlight as she clutched her programme tightly. She had come to represent the university’s education department, but mostly she had come because her mother, Edith, had insisted it would look good on her CV.

Commander Gareth Mace, resplendent in his Metropolitan Police dress uniform, medals gleaming on his broad chest, scanned the dispersing crowd with the sharp eye of a man who had spent decades reading rooms and people alike. At forty-five, he stood a commanding six-foot-three, his hazel eyes missing nothing. He had spotted her during the two-minute silence: the quiet little thing with the striking red hair and the nervous way she kept her gaze lowered. Something about her pulled at him. Shy. Unassuming. The opposite of the brash, ambitious world he navigated daily as Head of Organised Crime.

After the official photographs and handshakes, Gareth made his way over, his polished boots sounding confidently on the paving stones. Ophelia was chatting—well, listening, really—to a couple of fellow students when his deep voice cut through.

“Afternoon, ladies and gents,” he said, his East End accent rich and warm, the sort of voice that had climbed every rung of the ladder the hard way. “Commander Gareth Mace, Met Police. Hell of a service, weren’t it? Proper respectful.”

The students murmured polite greetings, but Gareth’s attention was fixed on Ophelia. She looked up at him, green eyes widening slightly at the sheer presence of the man. He was older, yes, but there was a magnetic certainty about him that made her cheeks flush.

“You from the university then?” he continued, turning his body slightly to include her fully. “St Ephraim’s, yeah? Good to see the young ones remembering. Too many forget these days.”

Ophelia nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, sir. I’m studying primary education.”

“Sir?” Gareth chuckled, a low, confident rumble. “Call me Gareth, love. Ain’t no need for all that with me. What’s your name then?”

“Ophelia,” she managed. “Ophelia Wesley.”

“Ophelia,” he repeated, as if tasting it. “Pretty name for a pretty girl. You here on your own, Ophelia?”

She shook her head, gesturing vaguely towards her friends, though they had begun to drift away, sensing the shift in the conversation. Gareth didn’t seem to mind. He spoke easily, confidently, filling the space where her shyness left gaps. He asked about her studies, about whether she enjoyed London life, and shared a couple of light anecdotes about his own early days in the force—nothing classified, just enough to show he was a man who had seen things and come through stronger. His hand rested casually in his pocket, the other gesturing with natural authority.

After nearly twenty minutes, as the crowd thinned further, Gareth leant in slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto hers with that unshakeable self-assurance.

“Look, Ophelia, I ain’t one for beatin’ about the bush. I’d like ter take ya out sometime. Proper date, none of this small talk lark. What d’ya say? Give us your number and I’ll sort summink nice.”

Ophelia blinked, her heart hammering. He couldn’t possibly mean it. A man like him—decorated, powerful, so utterly sure of himself—interested in someone like her? She was sure he was just being polite, or perhaps it was a joke. Yet his gaze didn’t waver. Swallowing hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled out her phone, she gave him her number.

Gareth saved it with a satisfied nod. “Good girl. I’ll be in touch soon, yeah? Don’t go disappearin’ on me now.”

As he walked away, uniform sharp against the autumn light, Ophelia stared after him, a strange mix of flattery and disbelief swirling inside her. She didn’t think for a moment that anything would come of it.

The following week, Ophelia sat cross-legged on her bed in the small student flat she shared with Addison, her ginger hair tied back in a loose plait as she fiddled with the hem of her jumper. The flat was quiet save for the distant hum of London traffic outside the window. She had been turning the Remembrance Sunday encounter over in her mind for days, half convinced she had imagined the intensity in Commander Gareth Mace’s hazel eyes.

“Addison, you won’t believe what happened after the service,” she began softly, her green eyes uncertain. “There was this police commander… Gareth. He came over and talked to me for ages. He asked for my number and said he wanted to take me out.”

Addison Heath, sprawled on the opposite bed with her brown hair in a messy bun, sat up sharply, her expression shifting from curiosity to outright disapproval. At twenty-one, she was the bolder of the pair, always quick to voice what Ophelia only dared think. “A commander? As in, some old bloke in a fancy uniform? How old is he, exactly?”

“Forty-five,” Ophelia admitted, her cheeks colouring.

Addison snorted. “You’re having me on. Twenty-four years older? That’s not a date, Ophelia, that’s a midlife crisis with a badge. He sounds proper arrogant, striding over like he owns the place. Men like that don’t chase shy girls like you unless they want something. Trust me, he’s bad news. You’re not actually thinking of going, are you?”

Ophelia shrugged, a flicker of doubt creeping in despite the flutter in her stomach. “He seemed nice. Confident, you know? But… I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”

Meanwhile, in his office at Scotland Yard, Commander Gareth Mace leant back in his leather chair, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the polished desk. The room smelled faintly of coffee and the faint metallic tang of secure filing cabinets. With a few discreet keystrokes on his secure terminal—nothing that would raise eyebrows, just routine background checks available to someone in his position—he pulled up what little public and police-adjacent information existed on Ophelia Wesley.

Quiet girl. St Ephraim’s University, primary education course. Lived with her mother, Edith Wesley, head teacher at St Ephraim’s Primary School. No criminal record, no social media drama, barely any digital footprint at all. The sort of unassuming life that made Gareth’s possessive instincts stir deeper. She was untouched by the ugliness he dealt with daily—county lines, trafficking rings, the manipulative bastards he hunted. Ophelia represented something pure, something he could protect. Something he could keep.

A slow, confident smile crossed his face as he saved her details. “Got you, love,” he murmured to himself in his gravelly East End tone. “Ain’t lettin’ this one slip away.”

Two days later, Gareth’s text arrived while Ophelia was between lectures: Fancy comin’ to a small police charity do tomorrow evenin’? Nothin’ flash, just a remembrance gatherin’ for fallen officers. Be nice ter see ya there. I’ll pick you up. G.

Despite Addison’s warnings echoing in her mind, Ophelia found herself agreeing. Gareth arrived promptly in a sleek black car, stepping out in a well-cut suit rather than his uniform, though his medals were pinned neatly to his lapel. He opened the door for her with that unshakeable confidence.

“Evenin’, Ophelia,” he said, his Cockney accent warm and assured. “You look proper beautiful. Don’t be nervous, yeah? It’s just a few of the lads and their families. I want ’em ter meet ya.”

The event was held in a quiet hall in Westminster, low-key but filled with senior officers, partners, and a handful of dignitaries. Gareth moved through the room like he owned it, his hand resting lightly but possessively on the small of Ophelia’s back as he introduced her. “This is Ophelia Wesley,” he’d say with pride. “Bright young thing studyin’ ter teach the next generation. One ter watch, this one.”

She felt special under the weight of his attention and the subtle respect others showed him. Conversations flowed around her—tales of service, quiet toasts to the fallen—and Gareth never let her drift far. When a fellow officer made a light joke about his “new friend,” Gareth’s hazel eyes flashed with something darker for a split second before he laughed it off. By the end of the evening, as he drove her home, Ophelia felt both flattered and faintly uneasy, as though she had stepped into a current too strong to swim against.

“Had a good time?” he asked, glancing over with that confident grin.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “Thank you.”

“Good girl,” he said, satisfied. “We’ll do it again soon.”