The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. William looked at Isabella, holding her baby. He looked at Beatrice, who would not survive a night in prison. He looked at Victoria, standing by the door.
He stood up, buttoning his jacket. The “White Knight” who had once destroyed his marriage to save a dying woman was ready to make the final sacrifice.
“I’ll do it,” William said, his voice steady. “I’m the CEO. The accounts are in my name now. Draft the confession, Cross. I’ll sign it.”
“William, no!” Malcolm shouted, standing up. “You didn’t do this!”
“Someone has to,” William replied, picking up a pen. “I won’t let them take the mothers.”
He moved the pen toward the paper.
“No.”
The sound was like grinding gravel–raspy, broken, and agonizingly loud.
William froze. The pen hovered over the line. Everyone turned toward the doorway.
Alistair Croft sat in his wheelchair, pushed there by Victoria. His head was slumped forward, but his eyes were blazing with a terrifying lucidity. He forced his mouth open, fighting the paralysis that had held his tongue hostage for months.
“No,” Alistair rasped again, the word tearing out of his throat.