Lady Beatrice was at a private spa in the Hamptons, trying to scrub the guilt of the past few months from her skin. The television in the relaxation lounge was muted, but the headline screaming across the bottom of the screen was unmistakable: *ALISTAIR CROFT ALIVE.*
Beatrice dropped her tea. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she retched, vomiting into the nearest planter. The terror was visceral. She wasn’t the “Matriarch” anymore; she was the victim of a decade of domestic terror.
She scrambled for her purse, running for the exit. “My car!” she screamed at the valet. “Now!”
She tore out of the parking lot, her hands shaking on the wheel. She had to get to the airport. She had to run.
Two black SUVs swerved onto the road, boxing her in. They forced her to the shoulder. The doors opened, and men in dark suits–Alistair’s private guard–stepped out.
One of them opened her door. “Mr. Croft requests your presence at home, Lady Beatrice.”
Beatrice slumped against the steering wheel, sobbing. The “Golden Cage” had just slammed shut.