The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the logs. Beatrice walked slowly toward him. She didn’t look terrified anymore. She looked like a queen surveying a conquered land.
She leaned down, her face inches from his. Alistair’s eyes darted wildly, screaming threats he could no longer voice.
“Do you recognize the symptoms, husband?” Beatrice asked softly. “You should. You taught me the recipe yourself ten years ago.”
She reached out and adjusted his tie, smoothing the silk. “Digitalis purpurea. Foxglove. A precise dose. Too much stops the heart. But just enough… it blocks the neural pathways. It mimics a massive brain stem stroke. Locked-in syndrome.”
She straightened up, towering over his frozen form. “You used this poison to fake your death so you could run away to your Syndicate. I am using it to fake your life. You aren’t going to die, Alistair. That would be too easy. You are going to sit in this chair, day after day, while I run this family. You are finally the prisoner in the Golden Cage.”