Chapter 90 What He Left to Rot
Veyra pushed open the bedroom door.
Her legs were heavy. Her shoulders burned. Sweat had dried on her temples sometime during the walk from the gym.
She crossed to the small refrigerator near the desk and pulled out a bottle of water. The cap twisted off with a crack. She drank half of it in three long swallows.
The training had been brutal. Leon had added weighted lunges and medicine ball throws. Her lower back ached.
She set the bottle down and reached for the hem of her shirt. She needed a shower.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She glanced at the screen. Dr. Harrison and she picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Thorne.” His voice was warm. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all. I just finished training.”
“How are you feeling?”
She rolled her shoulder. The joint clicked. “Sore. But good.”
Dr. Harrison laughed. “You sound like a soldier.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Good.” He paused. “What have you been busy with lately? I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”
Veyra sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at her reflection in the dark television screen. Her ponytail was lopsided. There was a smudge of dust on her cheek from the gym floor.
“Reading books,” she said. “To nurture my unborn child.”
Dr. Harrison laughed again. “That’s a new one.”
“I’m also waiting for a phone call.” She stretched her legs out in front of her. “The admissions office was supposed to contact me about my materials.”
There was a pause on the line.
“They haven’t called yet?”
“No.”
Dr. Harrison’s voice lost some of its warmth. “That’s not right. They promised to reach out within the week.”
Veyra said nothing.
“I’ll make some inquiries,” he said. “They won’t forget again.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. This should have been handled already.”
She heard him tapping on a keyboard. Then he spoke again.
“Let’s move on to better news. The SN1818 collaboration.”
Veyra sat up straighter.
“Since we released the news,” Dr. Harrison said, “over a hundred enterprises have contacted us.”
She blinked. “A hundred?”
“One hundred and forty‑three, as of this morning. And more coming in every day.”
She pressed her palm against her forehead. The number was too large to picture.
“Pharmaceutical companies. Biotech firms. Investment groups. Everyone wants a piece of your serum.”
Veyra looked at her hands. The black gloves were still on her fingers. She had forgotten to take them off.
“I knew it would generate interest,” she said. “But a hundred?”
“The market for a portable cardiac arrest treatment is enormous. Every ambulance. Every hospital. Every clinic.” He paused. “You’ve built something rare, Mrs. Thorne.”
She felt a flush creep up her neck.
“I’ve already narrowed the field to five enterprises,” Dr. Harrison continued. “The best of the best. Financially stable. Ethically sound. With the resources to manufacture and distribute at scale.”
“That’s... that’s amazing.”
“I would like to meet with you to discuss the details. Go over each candidate. Their strengths, their weaknesses. Their offers.”
Veyra nodded. “Of course.”
“When are you free?”
She thought about her training schedule. Leon had planned morning and afternoon sessions for the rest of the week.
“Not during the day,” she said. “I train until late afternoon. Evenings work better.”
Dr. Harrison did not argue. He had learned not to argue about her training.
“Tomorrow evening, then. Bordeaux 101. Seven o’clock.”
Veyra’s stomach tightened.
Bordeaux 101. The same restaurant where lunch had cost eighteen thousand. The same restaurant where Wesley Wynn had fired the waitress. The same restaurant where she had almost embarrassed herself in front of Dr. Harrison.
She forced her voice to stay steady.
“Fine. Tomorrow at seven.”
She heard him smile even though she didn’t see it. “Excellent. I’ll make the reservation.”
She opened her mouth to ask about the cost. Then closed it. She would figure out the bill later. She always did.
“Before I let you go,” Dr. Harrison said, “two of the shortlisted candidates are particularly promising.”
Veyra waited.
“One is a Mr. Zach. He runs a medium‑sized company. Very reputable. Very interested in SN1818.”
She nodded. She had never heard of him.
“The other is a Mr. Sonny.”
Her blood went cold.
“Mr. Sonny,” she repeated.
“Yes. He runs a pharmaceutical company. Solid track record. Good manufacturing capacity. He’s been very aggressive in pursuing this partnership.”
Veyra stared at the wall.
Sonny. It could be anyone. But she knew. She knew in her bones.
“Mrs. Thorne? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” Her voice was tight. “I’m here.”
“Shall I proceed with scheduling meetings for both?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Proceed.”
Dr. Harrison said goodbye and hung up.
Veyra sat on the edge of the bed, the phone still pressed to her ear. The line was dead. She did not lower it.
Sonny.
Caspian.
Her ex‑husband. The man who had let her mother die. The man who had locked her in a basement. The man who had spent eighteen million dollars on his mistress while she ate cereal for dinner.
He wanted SN1818.
She set the phone down on the nightstand. The screen went dark.
She lay back on the bed.
The ceiling was white. A single crack ran from the light fixture to the corner of the room. She had never noticed it before.
Mr. Sonny.
She thought about the name. Turned it over in her head. Looked at it from every angle.
There was no doubt. It was him.
She closed her eyes.
The memory came before she could stop it.
Two years ago. The cramped apartment. The smell of stale coffee and cheap candles.
She had been so proud. So excited. She had held the small glass vial up to the light, watching the amber liquid catch the sun.
SN1818. Her formula. Her work. Her blood and sweat and sleepless nights.
She had wanted to show Caspian. But she was afraid. He had always dismissed her interests. Called her hobbies “cute” and “charming” and “not real work.”
So she had lied.
“A friend from college developed it,” she had said. “She asked me to get it analyzed. Can you help?”
Caspian had taken the vial. He had turned it over in his fingers. “What is it?”
“A cardiac treatment. For heart attacks. She thinks it could be huge.”
He had shrugged. “I’ll have my team look at it.”
She had waited.
One week. Two weeks.
She had asked him every night. “Did you send it to your team?”
“Soon,” he said. “I’ve been busy.”
Three weeks.
“The analysis is taking longer than expected.”
Four weeks.
She had stopped asking.
Half a month after she handed over the vial, she could not wait any longer. She called him while he was at work.
“Where is it?” she asked.
He had sighed. “It’s in my car.”
“Your car?”
“I haven’t had time to bring it to the lab. I’ll get to it.”
She had gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white.
She kept her voice calm. Controlled.
“What did your team say about the analysis results?”
Caspian had paused. Too long.
“It’s not suitable for market,” he said. “The formula has too many variables. Production costs would be too high. It’s not worth pursuing.”
She had said nothing.
He continued, “You should tell your friend to stay away from people who promise shortcuts. The medical industry isn’t kind to amateurs.”
Amateurs.
She had developed a drug that could save thousands of lives. She had done it alone, in a cramped apartment, with no funding and no help.
And he had called her an amateur.
Her eyes had burned. Her throat had closed.
She had swallowed the tears. She had not let him hear them.
“Fine,” she had said. “I’ll tell her.”
She had hung up.
That night, she had sat in the dark kitchen and cried into her hands. Not because the formula was rejected. Because he had not even looked at it.
The vial had sat in his car for weeks. Collecting dust. Baking in the sun. The heat could have degraded the compounds. All her work, ruined because he could not be bothered.
Veyra opened her eyes.
The ceiling crack stared back at her.
She thought about the phone call she had just ended. Dr. Harrison’s excitement. The hundred‑plus enterprises knocking on his door. The two promising candidates.
Mr. Sonny.
She smiled. It was not a happy smile.
He had not wanted SN1818 back then. He had let it rot in his car. He had called her an amateur. He had told her to stay away from people who promised shortcuts.
Now he wanted in.
Now he was being “very aggressive” in pursuing the partnership.
She sat up.
She pulled off the black gloves and set them on the nightstand. Her hands were still pink, but the blisters had healed. New skin had grown over the raw places.
Too late, Caspian.
She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
The water was hot. She stepped under the spray and let it wash away the sweat and the dust and the memory of his voice.
He had not wanted SN1818 then.
He could not have it now.