Beatrice fled to her private bathroom, locking the door with trembling hands. The walls felt like they were closing in.
Cross knew. The secret was out. She had spent ten years protecting the family from scandal, only to become the scandal herself. If she confessed, she went to prison. If she signed, she destroyed William’s legacy.
“I can’t,” she sobbed, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The face looking back was old, tired, and broken by the weight of too many lies.
She opened the medicine cabinet. Rows of amber bottles stared back.
She grabbed a bottle of prescription sleeping pills. Her hands shook so hard the cap flew off, scattering pills into the sink. She didn’t bother picking them up. She poured the rest into her palm.
“I’m sorry, Alistair,” she whispered to the silence. “I’m sorry, William.”
She threw the handful into her mouth and swallowed them dry, seeking the only escape she had left.