Three days later, Malcolm was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, dressed in fresh clothes Isabella had brought him. He held a thick stack of documents in his lap.
William walked in, moving slowly but upright. “Is that the surrender treaty?”
“It’s my resignation,” Malcolm said, handing the papers to William. “Effective immediately.”
William frowned, taking the folder. “You don’t have to quit, Malcolm. We can co-CEO. We can make it work.”
“I don’t want to make it work,” Malcolm shook his head, looking toward the door where Isabella was waiting with a sonogram photo in her hand. “I almost died for that chair, William. And when the lights went out, I didn’t wish I had spent more time at the office. I wished I had held my son.”
Malcolm smoothed his jacket. “I’m taking the European Division. I’ll run the London office. It’s quiet. It’s far away from the New York press. And it’s home.”
He extended his hand–not the hand of a rival, but a partner. “The Crown is yours, brother. You were built for the noise. I’m choosing the peace”.