“Just sign the deed, Mr. Fotheringham, and the Vance Conservatory will be converted into retail space by next quarter.”
Malcolm sat at his desk, the contract in front of him. This was the final blow in the “Corporate War”–destroying the sanctuary William had built for Victoria. It was petty, it was cruel, and it was necessary to erase his brother’s footprint.
He lifted his pen.
Suddenly, the room tilted. The floor seemed to rush up toward him. A high-pitched ringing screamed in his ears, drowning out the lawyer’s voice.
*Not now,* Malcolm thought, gripping the edge of the desk.
He tried to stand, but his legs were water. The “DNA Time Bomb” detonated a warning shot. Darkness encroached on his vision, narrowing the world to a pinprick.
“Mr. Fotheringham?”
Malcolm collapsed back into his leather chair, the pen clattering across the desk. He gasped for air, clutching his chest, realizing with terrifying clarity that the doctors were wrong. The clock wasn’t ticking in years. It was ticking in seconds.