In London, Malcolm Fotheringham poured a drink he didn’t want and dialed the number he hated.
“Hello, Father,” Malcolm said when the line clicked open. His voice sounded defeated, rough with exhaustion.
“Malcolm,” Alistair’s voice was triumphant. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You win,” Malcolm lied, channeling every ounce of his manipulative skill. “The audit froze the payroll. My staff walked out. Isabella is… she’s scared. I can’t live like this, Alistair. I’m not William. I don’t want to be a martyr.”
Alistair laughed, a low, satisfied sound. “I told you, son. You have the ruthlessness required for this life. You just needed a reminder of where the power lies.”
“I’m ready to come home,” Malcolm said, swallowing his pride. “I’ll run the company the way you want. Just unlock the accounts.”
“Good,” Alistair replied, his guard dropping for the first time. “I’ll have the legal team ease the pressure. Come to New York, Malcolm. We have an empire to rebuild.”
Malcolm hung up the phone. His hand was shaking, but his eyes were cold. The Titan had opened the gate.