The London office of Croft Enterprises was usually a sanctuary of quiet efficiency, but the arrival of the private jet changed the atmosphere instantly. Alistair Croft walked into Malcolm’s office without knocking, looking every inch the “Returned King”.
Malcolm Fotheringham stood behind his desk. He didn’t offer a hand. He saw the man who had discarded him at birth, now standing there with a benevolent smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You look well, Malcolm,” Alistair said, surveying the room. “Better than the photos in the dossier.”
“I assume you didn’t fly across the Atlantic to critique my complexion,” Malcolm replied coldly.
Alistair sat down, uninvited. “I came to offer you a correction. Your mother made a mistake sending you away. She thought you were the spare, but I see the truth. You have the killer instinct William lacks. You proved that when you stole the company from him.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “William is soft, Malcolm. He let a woman break him. He let *you* break him. Join me. Help me purge the weakness from this family, and I will name you the true heir.”
Malcolm looked at the man offering him the world. He thought of the scar on his side where William’s kidney now filtered his blood. He thought of the toy soldier with the red “X” in his son’s crib.
“You think ruthlessness is strength,” Malcolm said, his voice steady. “But William gave up a piece of himself to save an enemy. That takes more strength than you’ve ever had.” Malcolm pointed to the door. “I’m not your soldier, Alistair. I’m William’s brother. Get out.”