An hour later, William Croft burst into the lobby of Croft Tower. The security guards, men he had known for years, stepped in his path.
“I need to see my brother,” William demanded. “It’s a medical emergency.”
“Let him through,” a voice commanded from the mezzanine. Malcolm stood there, looking impeccably dressed but relying heavily on the railing for support.
William rushed up the stairs. “Malcolm, listen to me. Maya called me. Your kidneys–“
“Ah, the doctors,” Malcolm sneered, cutting him off. “Did you pay them to fabricate a diagnosis? Is this the new strategy? Declare the CEO incapacitated so the ‘Exile’ can return as the regent?”
“I’m not trying to take the chair,” William pleaded, seeing the grayish pallor of Malcolm’s skin. “I’m trying to save your life. You need a donor.”
“I would rather die than take parts from you,” Malcolm hissed, his pride acting as a lethal shield. He signaled the guards. “Get him out of here. And tell the clinic they’re fired.”
As the guards dragged William away, Malcolm turned back to his office, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his forehead, convinced he had just won a negotiation rather than signed his death warrant.