The door opened, but it wasn’t a nurse. It was Lady Beatrice Croft. The Matriarch looked older than Malcolm had ever seen her, her usual armor of pearls and ice seemingly cracked.
“I assume you’re here to gloat,” Malcolm whispered, turning his head away. “The spare heir is broken. You win.”
“I never wanted to win this,” Beatrice said, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair. She reached into her purse and pulled out a yellowed, creased letter. She placed it on the bedsheet.
Malcolm looked at the handwriting. It was sharp, jagged–Alistair Croft’s hand.
“Your father was a monster, Malcolm,” Beatrice confessed, her voice trembling. “When the twins were born, he gave me a choice. He said the dynasty couldn’t support two kings. He told me to choose one to keep, or he would disown and destroy both of you.”,
Malcolm froze. He touched the letter. *Get rid of the second one, or I bury them both.*
“I didn’t throw you away because you were flawed,” Beatrice wept, a single tear tracking through her powder. “I sent you away to save you from him. I chose William to carry the burden of the crown, hoping you might find a life of freedom. I see now that I only built a different kind of prison for you.”