A week later, the sky was a bruised purple as the small procession gathered in the private family cemetery on the edge of the estate.
It was a private service. No press. No board members. Just the family.
The casket was lowering into the ground next to William’s grandfather. The priest finished his prayers and stepped back.
Lady Beatrice stepped forward. She was dressed in black silk, but she stood straighter than she had in decades. She was sober. Her hands were steady.
She looked down at the mahogany box containing the man who had been her husband, her master, and her prisoner. She didn’t weep. She reached into her coat and pulled out a single white rose–a symbol of surrender and new beginnings.
“Goodbye, Alistair,” she whispered, dropping the flower onto the lid. “I forgive you. Because I have to.”
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the stone path. She didn’t look back. She was finally, truly free.