The sun rose over a changed empire.
Beatrice sat at the head of the dining table, sipping her tea. William and Malcolm sat on either side. Alistair was parked in the corner, facing the window, forced to watch the sunrise he could no longer command.
“The Syndicate accounts have been closed,” Beatrice announced, buttering her toast. “I have transferred the funds back into the Foundation. The charity will be restored. Leo is safe to return to his school. The ‘enforcers’ have been fired.”
William looked at his grandmother. She wasn’t the frail victim anymore. She was the Matriarch who had survived a monster by becoming one.
“Thank you, Mother,” William said quietly.
“Don’t thank me, William,” Beatrice said, her eyes flashing with a dangerous steel. “Just understand the new arrangement. Your father is the figurehead. You are the CEO. But I am the Regency. I hold the spoon that feeds the King.”
She took a sip of her tea, the clink of the china echoing in the silent room.
“Do not cross me, boys,” she whispered, smiling over the rim of her cup. “Or I might have to make you tea, too.”
From his wheelchair in the corner, Alistair Croft watched his wife, a single tear of impotent rage rolling down his frozen cheek. The King had fallen. Long live the Queen.