Chapter 85 - 84 What To Believe
The human brain is a highly fragile machine when presented with impossible data.
I sit back against the plush leather seating of Table Number One. The heavy velvet curtains surrounding our private booth block out the ambient noise of the luxury restaurant. A single crystal chandelier casts a warm, golden glow across the polished mahogany table between us.
Victor Sterling sits directly across from me. He is completely frozen. The bright red handprint I left on his left cheek stands out violently against his pale skin. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose with a single, shaking finger. He stares at the sleek smartphone resting on the table. I just ended my call with Dr. Aris. I just informed the senior medical director that I am perfectly satisfied with Victor’s emotional restraint.
Victor takes a slow, deep breath. The sharp scent of his expensive citrus cologne mixes with the rich aroma of roasted garlic drifting in from the main dining room. He smooths the lapels of his silver-gray suit. He attempts to stitch his shattered composure back together using sheer corporate willpower.
"You are the assistant," Victor states. He nods once. He convinces himself of this rapid deduction. "Dr. Aris sent you to test my temperament before the actual meeting. It is a highly unconventional tactic, but I appreciate the thoroughness. I passed your little stress test. Now, when does the developer arrive?"
I cross my arms over my chest. I look at him with absolute pity. He is a brilliant strategist, but he is currently trapped inside his own rigid expectations. He expects an old, seasoned professor. He expects gray hair and a white lab coat.
"Dr. Grayson is not arriving, Victor," I say gently. "Dr. Grayson is already sitting here."
Victor stares at me. His dark eyes scan my tailored black blazer. He studies the youthful contours of my face. His gaze drops to the thick white medical tape wrapping my raw palms. The math simply does not add up in his logical mind. I am a young woman who just slapped him across the face in a VIP restaurant. I absolutely do not fit the traditional profile of a brilliant pharmaceutical pioneer.
"That is a terrible joke," Victor says. He forces a stiff, awkward laugh that dies instantly in the quiet room. "You are clearly a college student. You do not possess the decades of laboratory experience required to synthesize a complex cardiovascular compound like SN1818."
"I possess a functioning brain and an extreme tolerance for sleep deprivation," I reply calmly. "I spent hundreds of hours in a poorly ventilated university laboratory perfecting the chemical stability. I am the sole creator of the formula. I am your future business partner."
Victor shakes his head side to side. He refuses to accept the reality. He leans forward and plants his manicured hands on the polished mahogany table. He adopts a cold, patronizing tone.
"Listen to me," Victor says. "I do not know who you actually are. You might be a secretary. You might be a rogue intern trying to play a prank. But I refuse to engage in these ridiculous games. The Monroe family is actively trying to destroy my entire enterprise. I need this patent to secure my company’s survival. If the real Dr. Grayson does not walk through those velvet curtains in the next sixty seconds, Sterling Pharmaceuticals is walking away from this negotiation entirely."
I do not argue with his logic. I simply pick up my smartphone.
I tap the glass screen and dial Dr. Aris again. I hit the speakerphone icon. I set the device flat on the wooden table, directly between Victor and me.
The line rings loudly in the small, enclosed booth.
"Emily, is everything alright?" Dr. Aris answers on the second ring. His familiar, warm voice echoes clearly through the small digital speaker.
"Everything is perfectly fine, Dr. Aris," I say. I keep my eyes locked entirely on Victor’s face. "President Sterling is having a slightly difficult time accepting my true identity. He thinks I am a rogue intern. Would you mind clarifying the situation for him?"
A heavy, exhausted sigh transmits over the phone connection.
"Victor," Dr. Aris says. His tone drops the friendly warmth and adopts the strict, no-nonsense authority of a senior medical director. "The young woman sitting across from you is Emily Vance. She operates under the professional alias of Dr. Grayson to protect her privacy. She personally developed the SN1818 formula from scratch. She owns the patent outright. She holds complete authority over the manufacturing contract."
Victor goes completely rigid. His jaw drops open a fraction of an inch.
"If she tells you to jump, Victor, you ask her how high," Dr. Aris continues sternly. "Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
The color drains rapidly from Victor’s face. The only pigment left on his skin is the stark red outline of my handprint on his cheek. He stares at the glowing digital screen of the phone as if it is a live, ticking explosive.
"Crystal clear, Dr. Aris," Victor manages to croak out. His voice is a hollow rasp.
"Excellent," Dr. Aris says cheerfully. "Have a productive evening, you two. Be sure to order the wagyu beef. It is fantastic."
The call disconnects with a sharp electronic beep.
Total silence descends on Table Number One.
Victor removes his wire-rimmed glasses. He pulls a crisp white silk pocket square from his jacket breast pocket. He aggressively polishes the perfectly clean glass lenses. His hands shake visibly. The brilliant, unflappable CEO who easily mocked Julian Thorne in the hallway is currently undergoing a massive, catastrophic system reboot.
He realizes he just got slapped in the face by the golden goose he desperately needs. He realizes he just threatened to walk away from the very person holding the key to his corporate survival.
He places the glasses back on his face. He tucks the silk square away. He looks at me. He opens his mouth to speak, but absolutely no words come out. He closes his mouth. He swallows hard. His Adam’s apple bobs sharply against his collar.
"I need a moment," Victor says abruptly.
He stands up from the leather seat. He grabs the edge of the mahogany table to steady his balance. He looks wildly around the small room, searching for an escape route.
"I need to wash my face," he announces to the empty air. "I need cold water. Excuse me."
He does not wait for my permission or my response. He turns around and practically sprints out of the private booth. He shoves his way through the heavy velvet curtains, leaving them swaying violently in his panicked wake.
I sit alone in the dim light.
I let out a long, helpless sigh. I rub my temples with my bandaged fingers. The men in my life are incredibly dramatic. Julian throws public tantrums in the lobby and harasses elderly janitors. Victor flees to the restroom to recover from basic, undeniable facts. I am trying to build a billion-dollar medical empire, and I feel like I am running a specialized daycare for fragile male egos.
I lean forward and reach for the crystal pitcher resting on the corner of the table. I need to pour myself a glass of ice water. I need to prepare for Victor’s eventual return. We have pages of legal documents to discuss, and he will likely require a very calm, very slow explanation of my terms.
"It is quite entertaining watching you dismantle these powerful executives one by one."
The deep, unfamiliar male voice speaks directly behind my left shoulder.
I freeze. My hand stops inches away from the crystal pitcher. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up instantly. The voice is incredibly smooth, carrying a dark, dangerous undertone that sends a sudden chill straight down my spine.
No one walked through the velvet curtains. I did not hear a single footstep on the thick carpet. Yet, a man is standing right behind my chair in a highly secure VIP dining room.
I keep my hand perfectly still over the table. My torn right shoulder throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache from the sheer force I used to slap Victor. I ignore the pain. I calculate my immediate options. Leo is stationed outside the main restaurant doors, too far away to intervene quickly. I am entirely alone in this secluded booth with an unknown entity.