The family took their seats in the Great Hall. The atmosphere was thick with the ghost of the man who had controlled them for decades.
William sat at the head of the table. He was grieving, but he felt the weight of the crown settling back onto his shoulders. He was the CEO, the savior who had offered to go to prison, the son who had reconciled with his father. He was ready to rebuild the company.
Lady Beatrice sat to his right. She clutched a glass of water, her knuckles white. In her mind, the logic was simple: she was the surviving spouse. The voting rights, the controlling interest, the *power*–it all defaulted to her. She had survived the monster; now she would inherit his kingdom.
“Let’s get this over with,” Malcolm muttered, holding Isabella’s hand. He didn’t care about the money. He just wanted to take his family back to London and leave the toxicity of New York behind.