“The charity division is a hemorrhage on our profit margins,” Malcolm Fotheringham declared from the head of the boardroom table. “We are liquidating the foundation effective immediately.”
A murmur of dissent rippled through the Board. “But sir,” one director spoke up. “The foundation is the heart of the Croft brand. William established it to–“
“William is gone,” Malcolm snapped, slamming his hand onto the table. “And we are running a business, not a shelter.”
As he pulled his hand back, a violent tremor seized his fingers. His hand shook uncontrollably, rattling the water glass in front of him.
Malcolm froze. He saw the directors staring at the twitching limb. The “DNA Time Bomb” was ticking louder than he expected.
He quickly shoved his hand under the table, clenching it into a fist until his knuckles turned white. He forced a cold, terrifying smile onto his face to mask the panic rising in his chest.
“Any other objections?” Malcolm asked, his voice steady even as his body failed him. “Good. Meeting adjourned.”