Chapter 17 The Wager 2
The sound of Alistair’s voice is like a sudden frost in a room that was already freezing.
I stop in the middle of unbuttoning my lab coat, the crisp white fabric still clutched in my trembling fingers. Everyone else freezes too. The Old Madam, Celia, half turned toward the door, leans heavily on her silver-tipped cane. Beatrice, who was practically skipping toward the exit in her lavender silk suit, halts so abruptly her heels give a sharp squeak against the tile.
I watch him carefully and my heart pounds in my chest. There’s a small feeling beginning to grow in my tummy but I refuse to let it. These days, I’ve learned that if you expect less, then the probability of you getting disappointed is low.
Alistair walks into the center of the laboratory. The overhead LED lights always seem to catch the sharp angles of his face perfectly. It makes him look more intimidating than he already is. And a man like Alistair is already plenty intimidating. He doesn’t look at me and I don’t even expect him to. He’s looking at his grandmother.
"If you make a bet, you must accept the outcome," Alistair says. He sounds so calm that it’s hard to believe he’s challenging his grandmother and practically all the members of his family. "If you cannot bear the consequences of losing, Grandmother, you shouldn’t have allowed the gamble to happen in the first place."
"Alistair, that’s enough," Celia snaps, her voice thin and dry. Honestly, the woman sounds and looks tired. As much as I want to feel pity for her, I can’t. She’s been cruel to me. For no reason other than I don’t have enough money in my bank account.
"The girl has had her victory," Celia continues. "There is no need to drag this family’s name through the mud for a petty display of pride."
"Pride isn’t the issue here," Alistair counters. He takes another step forward, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets. "Emily pointed out a very specific fact earlier. She asked if the Wolfe family is one that keeps its promises. And we all know that we keep our promises. No matter how detrimental the consequences may be."
The last part seems to have some hidden meaning.
Richard, my uncle by marriage, steps forward, his face a mottled, angry pink. "She set a trap, Alistair! She came in here with her little box of tricks and provoked your grandmother and aunt just so she could play the savior. It was a calculated ploy."
Alistair turns his gaze toward Richard. It is a slow, predatory movement. "A trap? Let’s look at the facts, Uncle. Emily didn’t know Grandmother would collapse. She didn’t choose the time, the place, or the specific type of electrical failure her heart suffered. Beatrice was the one who demanded the appraisal. Beatrice was the one who insisted on the wager. If there was a trap, you all built it with your own arrogance. Emily just happened to be the only person in the room with the skill to survive it."
I watch him from behind the stainless steel workbench. My heart is thumping against my ribs, but it isn’t out of fear this time. It is a strange, dizzying sensation to have someone stand in the path of the storm for me. That feeling of hope in my belly that I was trying to suppress, blooms. My neck still stings where his fingers were yesterday, a dull reminder of how dangerous he can be, yet here he is, using his power to force the truth down their throats.
Alistair turns back to Celia. He uses the very principle she has lived by for eighty years. I read it in the Wolfe family file when I read up on them.
"You’ve always told me that a Wolfe’s word is more valuable than any contract we sign. You’ve built this consortium on the foundation of being a family that honors its debts. Is your word only good when you’re winning, or does it hold up when one of your own is proven wrong?"
Celia Wolfe stares at her grandson. I can see the battle behind her eyes, the clash between her desire to protect her blood and her obsession with the Wolfe legacy. The laboratory is silent, save for the steady whirring of a nearby centrifuge.
Finally, the Old Madam lets out a long, weary breath. She looks at Beatrice, and for the first time, there is no protection in that gaze.
"The wager stands," Celia says.
Beatrice’s face goes a terrifying shade of gray. She looks around the room, her eyes wide and searching for an escape that no longer exists. "Mother! You can’t be serious! She’s... she’s nobody!"
"She is a Wolfe by marriage," Alistair says, his tone final. "And you are a loser by wager. Fulfill it, Beatrice."
Beatrice resorts to a shameless, frantic stalling once again. She starts to fuss with the lapel of her jacket, her fingers shaking as she smooths the silk over and over again. She looks at her reflection in the glass of a reagent cabinet and begins to tuck stray hairs behind her ears, her movements jerky and panicked.
"I... I think I left my phone in the library," Beatrice mutters, her voice a thin, pathetic squeak. "I should go check. If there’s an emergency with the London branch, I’d hate to be unreachable."
She tries to edge toward the door, but Alistair doesn’t even have to move. He just gives a small, sharp nod to the two bodyguards standing by the entrance.
The men move swiftly. They step forward and catch Beatrice by the elbows, pinning her in place before she can take another step. She lets out a sound like a trapped bird, her heels scraping uselessly against the floor.
"Greyson," Alistair says.
The butler steps forward. He doesn’t look like he has just witnessed the whole drama that went down. The win, the fake fainting, the challenge, none of that. He looks as composed as ever, his white gloves spotless, his face a mask of professional neutrality. He walks toward Beatrice, who is now squeezing her eyes shut, her chest heaving with a desperate, silent sob.
"A Wolfe keeps their word," Alistair repeats.
Greyson doesn’t hesitate. He draws back his hand and delivers a resounding, sharp slap across Beatrice’s face. The sound of skin hitting skin is a little louder than I thought it would be.
Beatrice’s head snaps to the side. The red handprint begins to bloom across her cheek instantly, a vivid, angry mark on her pale skin. The bodyguards let her go, and she stumbles back, clutching her face. She looks at me, and her eyes are no longer just arrogant. They are brimming with a dark, concentrated venom that makes my skin prickle.
She doesn’t say a word. She turns and flees out of the laboratory and I listen till the sound of her heels disappears. Richard hurries after her, his face full of a silent, boiling rage.
Celia Wolfe doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t look at Alistair. She just turns her back on us and leads the rest of the cousins away, the doors swinging shut behind them with a heavy, final thud.
The laboratory is suddenly empty, the air still smelling of the ozone and the amber liquid I created. Only three of us remain: me, Alistair, and Dr. Aris.
The elderly doctor is still standing by the monitor, his silver spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He looks at the test tube of amber medicine as if it’s a religious relic. He turns to me, his expression full of a professional, intense curiosity.
"Ms. Vance," Dr. Aris says, his voice gentle. "Or I suppose I should say, Mrs. Wolfe. This formula... the rights to this medicinal agent. Have they already been licensed out to a pharmaceutical company or a research firm?"
I let out a breath, the tension finally leaving my shoulders. My hand goes to the pocket of my lab coat, where my mother’s notebook is hidden. "No. They haven’t. Honestly, until yesterday, no one really believed that a high school dropout from a furniture family could develop something like this. The people I talked to in the past just saw a girl with a box of weeds."
Dr. Aris nods, his eyes glowing with excitement. "Then you’ve kept a very valuable secret. This formula is more than just a miracle for the Old Madam. It has the potential to stabilize cardiac patients in the critical minutes before they reach an ER. It could save thousands of lives."
He steps closer, his gaze moving between Alistair and me.
"I have connections with several research institutions and distribution networks," the doctor continues. "I can help you find a place that will handle the licensing and the clinical trials. It would allow this agent to benefit a greater number of people. It’s too important to stay in a private metal case, Emily."
I feel a strange, fluttering sensation in my chest. I’ve spent years protecting these formulas, guarding them like they were the last pieces of my mother I had left. I never thought about them being "strategic value" or "licensing." I just wanted them to work. But the thought of my mother’s legacy saving people who aren’t cold-hearted billionaires... that changes things.
I look at Alistair. He is watching me, his expression unreadable, but he doesn’t interfere. He’s giving me the space to make my own choice.
"You really think it can help that many people?" I ask.
"I’m certain of it," Dr. Aris replies.
I look at the amber liquid in the test tube. I think of the years of being told I was a burden, a dropout, a nobody. I think of the way this family tried to tear me apart today.
"I want it to be used," I say, my voice gaining a new kind of strength. "I want it to do some good. How do you need me to cooperate, Doctor?"