At the Estate, the mood was celebratory for exactly one person. Alistair sat in the library, drinking a vintage whiskey, watching the stock ticker rise on his tablet. The “Syndicate” was pleased with the liquidation.
Lady Beatrice entered the room. She was dressed immaculately, but her hands shook as she poured herself a tea.
“The board is asking about my position,” Beatrice ventured, her voice small. “Now that you are back as Chairman… I assumed I would resume my role as the head of the Foundation.”
Alistair didn’t look up. “The Foundation is being dissolved, Beatrice. We don’t need charity tax write-offs where we’re going.”
“But… what am I to do?” she asked, her voice rising. “I held this family together for ten years. I kept your secret. I lied for you yesterday!”
Alistair finally looked at her. His eyes were devoid of gratitude. He laughed–a cruel, dismissive sound.
“You were a useful jailer when I needed a ghost, Beatrice,” he sneered. “But now? You are just a decorative antique. Go tend to your flowers. The men are talking”.
Beatrice stood frozen. She realized with chilling clarity that her loyalty had bought her nothing. She was just another asset to be liquidated.