Lady Beatrice sat in her temporary office in the city, reviewing the custody filing. The intercom buzzed.
“Mr. Fotheringham is here to see you, Madame. He says it’s regarding the ‘1992 Protocol’.”
Beatrice’s pen froze. She signaled for him to enter.
Malcolm walked in, closing the door behind him. He didn’t sit. He stood by the fireplace, his silhouette casting a long shadow that looked exactly like William’s.
“I assume you are here to beg,” Beatrice sneered, recovering her composure. “Tell my grandson he can see the boy on weekends.”
“I’m not here for William,” Malcolm said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly low register. He reached up and loosened his tie, pulling his collar aside to reveal the dark port-wine stain on his neck–the mark Beatrice had seen on her own husband, Arthur .
Beatrice gasped, her hand flying to her throat.
“You recognize it, don’t you?” Malcolm smiled coldly. “The flaw that made you discard the spare heir. I have the birth certificates, Beatrice. I have the adoption records stamped with your signature.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed. “It would destroy the company.”
“I am the ‘Seed’ you threw in the trash,” Malcolm replied. “I don’t care about the company. I care about the balance sheet. Drop the lawsuit by noon, or I release the documents to the press. The world will know you didn’t just lose a grandson–you threw your son away.”