The heavy oak doors of the library swung open, interrupting the screaming match between the legal teams. Julian Sterling stood in the doorway, pale, stepping aside to reveal the man he had met in the driveway.
Malcolm Fotheringham walked into the room. The silence that followed was absolute.
Lady Beatrice, sitting in her armchair by the fire, dropped her tea cup. It shattered on the hearth. She stared at Malcolm with a look of terrifying recognition–not surprise, but the horror of a ghost story coming true.
“Good morning,” Malcolm said, his voice a smooth, cold baritone that lacked William’s manic edge but shared his exact pitch. He placed a briefcase on the table. “I am the crisis counsel sent by the board. And before you ask–yes, the resemblance is striking. Genetics are a funny thing.”
William stood up slowly, staring at his own face across the table. “Who are you?”
“I am the man here to save your company from the mess you made at the altar,” Malcolm replied, unbuttoning his suit jacket with precise, robotic efficiency. He didn’t blink. He was the “Seed” arrived to take root.