Chapter 7

Juniper

The lobby of Vangough Tower had never felt like a battlefield before.

Today, it did.

Cameras.

Live feeds.

Financial reporters.

Medical analysts.

Influencers pretending to understand biotech litigation.

The press conference hadn’t even officially started, and the air already tasted like blood.

Xavier adjusted the cuff of his charcoal suit beside me.

“You don’t have to answer every question,” he murmured.

“I won’t,” I replied calmly.

Across the room, my father stood with the board members. Controlled. Observing. Not interfering.

Good.

This was my war.

The elevator doors opened.

And Tristan Vale stepped out like he owned the building.

Black suit.

Perfect posture.

That arrogant half-smile he wore when he thought he was about to win.

Beside him—

Victor Hale.

For four years, I hadn’t seen him in person.

He looked older. Thinner. Eyes sharper.

Not nervous.

Prepared.

So this wasn’t desperation.

This was planning.

Tristan’s gaze found mine instantly.

There it was.

That flicker.

Not confidence.

Not quite.

Something else.

Calculation.

He walked toward me slowly, as if this were a gala instead of corporate warfare.

“Juniper,” he greeted smoothly. “You look… healthy.”

I smiled.

“You look financed.”

His jaw ticked almost imperceptibly.

Victor stepped forward instead.

“Chairwoman Vangough,” he said, voice polished. “I hope you’re ready for transparency.”

“I live for it,” I replied.

The room shifted.

Reporters sensed tension.

Cameras zoomed.

Xavier leaned closer to me.

“They’re livestreaming independently. This isn’t just internal press.”

Of course it wasn’t.

Tristan wouldn’t come unarmed.

The moderator approached the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending. Today’s conference concerns recent intellectual property disputes between Vangough Holdings and Tristan Corps.”

Murmurs.

The moderator gestured.

“Chairwoman Vangough, you may begin.”

I stepped forward.

Microphones surrounded me.

Flashes erupted.

I didn’t blink.

“For the past twenty-four hours,” I began evenly, “questions have been raised regarding the origin and ownership of the neural stabilization implant used in a landmark cardiac procedure four years ago.”

Silence settled.

“The implant was designed, developed, and executed under my supervision.”

Victor shifted slightly.

“Recent claims suggest marital co-development.”

A ripple of whispers.

I let them have it.

Then—

The large screen behind me flickered on.

Tristan’s doing.

The operating room.

Four years ago.

My hands inside a human chest.

The implant glinting under surgical lights.

Gasps filled the room.

I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t need to.

“I see we’re skipping formal discovery,” I said calmly.

Victor stepped forward.

“Transparency benefits everyone.”

The footage paused mid-procedure.

Victor’s voice carried.

“Doctor Vangough, would you like to explain why this device was recorded as joint experimental research during your marriage to my client’s business partner?”

Business partner.

Interesting phrasing.

“I would love to,” I said.

The footage resumed.

Audio included.

My voice from four years ago echoed through the hall.

“Override manual stabilization. Engaging prototype.”

Victor’s younger voice followed:

“Noted for dual-entity research record.”

Dual entity.

Ah.

That was the line.

That was the hook.

Tristan folded his hands calmly.

“During the marriage,” he said smoothly, “my company provided funding channels for various exploratory research initiatives. Including this one.”

A lie.

But a clean one.

Reporters turned to me.

I stepped closer to the microphone.

“Tristan Corps never funded this implant.”

Victor tilted his head.

“Bank transfers suggest otherwise.”

The screen changed again.

Transaction logs.

Shell accounts.

Intermediary biotech grants.

And there it was.

A funding trail that ended—quietly—at a subsidiary once linked to Tristan Corps.

My pulse slowed.

This wasn’t random.

This was layered.

Fabricated well.

“I see,” I murmured.

Tristan stepped beside Victor now.

Confident.

“For years,” he continued, “I supported innovation. My only mistake was trusting someone who decided to erase that partnership once the success became profitable.”

Gasps again.

He was reframing.

Making himself the quiet investor betrayed by his genius wife.

Elegant.

Dangerous.

The moderator turned to me.

“Chairwoman, how do you respond?”

I looked at the screen again.

Then at Victor.

Then at Tristan.

“You’re right,” I said softly.

The room froze.

Xavier’s head snapped toward me.

Tristan blinked.

Victor’s composure tightened.

“You did provide funding.”

Whispers exploded.

Tristan’s smile widened.

“And I’m grateful.”

That stopped him.

“What?” he asked quietly.

I turned toward the screen.

“But not for the implant.”

The transaction logs zoomed in.

Highlighted lines appeared.

“These transfers,” I continued calmly, “were directed toward Vangough General’s legal compliance restructuring after a malpractice settlement.”

The room shifted.

“They were routed through a subsidiary later acquired by Tristan Corps. Which means—”

I turned back toward him.

“You funded a hospital fine. Not medical innovation.”

Victor’s jaw hardened.

Reporters began typing frantically.

“The implant,” I continued, “was privately financed through the Vangough Innovation Trust.”

A new set of documents flashed behind me.

Clean.

Direct.

Undeniable.

“The only person listed on development rights,” I said clearly, “is me.”

Tristan’s confidence faltered.

But only for a second.

Victor stepped forward sharply.

“Except,” he said, voice cutting through noise, “for the joint experimental classification filed under dual-entity record.”

Ah.

There it was.

The technicality.

“You signed it,” Victor continued.

“Yes,” I replied.

Silence.

“You were under marital contract at the time.”

“Yes.”

“And therefore—”

“And therefore,” I cut in smoothly, “you recorded a procedural observation. Not ownership.”

Victor’s composure cracked for half a second.

“You were not listed as co-developer.”

I let that hang.

“You were listed as compliance observer.”

Gasps again.

The title mattered.

Victor’s eyes darkened.

“You’re manipulating terminology.”

“No,” I said calmly. “You are.”

The moderator interjected quickly.

“Doctor Hale, are you currently employed by Tristan Corps?”

Victor hesitated.

There it was.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“…Three weeks.”

Whispers surged.

So recent.

So strategic.

I stepped forward.

“Interesting timing,” I murmured.

Tristan’s jaw clenched.

“You revoked patent access without negotiation,” he snapped suddenly. “You destabilized supply chains. You triggered market panic.”

“And you attempted to weaponize archived medical footage,” I replied coolly.

The room vibrated with tension.

Then—

Victor smiled faintly.

“You’re forgetting something, Chairwoman.”

The screen flickered again.

Not the surgery.

Not the funding logs.

Something else.

The video angle shifted.

Different camera.

Private feed.

One not included in official archives.

My stomach tightened.

This was new.

The image sharpened.

After the surgery.

Operating room mostly cleared.

Only two figures remained.

Me.

And Victor.

Audio crackled.

Victor’s voice from four years ago:

“You understand that if this succeeds, it changes valuation structures entirely.”

My voice replied:

“It changes patient survival rates.”

Victor stepped closer in the recording.

“And funding leverage.”

The screen froze on that moment.

The room erupted.

Tristan exhaled slowly.

There it is.

He wasn’t after co-development.

He was after intent.

Framing the implant as a valuation maneuver.

Turning humanitarian breakthrough into corporate strategy.

“Context matters,” I said evenly.

Victor tilted his head.

“Does it?”

The moderator looked overwhelmed.

Reporters shouted questions.

“Was this procedure profit-motivated?”

“Did Vangough manipulate early reporting?”

“Is there undisclosed partnership equity?”

Noise built like a tidal wave.

Xavier stepped forward protectively.

But I raised a hand.

Silence gradually returned.

“You want context?” I said clearly.

“Fine.”

I turned toward the screen.

“Play the rest.”

Victor stiffened.

The footage resumed.

Four years ago.

Victor leaning in closer.

“You realize,” he said in the recording, “if this works, you could outpace every competitor in Europe.”

My younger voice replied—

“And you realize if it fails, the patient dies.”

Silence.

Victor’s voice again:

“I’m talking about financial leverage.”

And then—

My voice.

Cold.

Controlled.

“I’m talking about keeping a seventeen-year-old alive.”

The room went utterly still.

The footage ended.

No music.

No dramatic edit.

Just truth.

I stepped back toward the microphone.

“That was not leverage,” I said quietly. “That was medicine.”

Reporters slowly lowered their phones.

The narrative shifted.

But Tristan wasn’t done.

He leaned toward his own microphone.

“You’re very good at performance, Juniper.”

“And you’re very good at projection.”

He smiled thinly.

“You think this ends here?”

“I think it ends in court.”

Victor stepped forward again.

“It won’t,” he said softly.

That tone.

That confidence.

Not bluffing.

My instincts sharpened.

“What does that mean?” the moderator asked.

Victor reached into his briefcase.

Pulled out a thin folder.

Held it up.

“There is one more document,” he said calmly. “Filed this morning.”

My chest tightened slightly.

“What document?” a reporter asked.

Victor looked directly at me.

“A secondary implant patent.”

The world seemed to tilt half a degree.

“That’s impossible,” I said.

Victor smiled faintly.

“Filed under joint conceptual development.”

My pulse slowed dangerously.

“No,” I whispered.

Tristan’s voice came soft and lethal beside him.

“You weren’t the only one innovating during that marriage.”

The screen behind them flickered again.

Patent filing confirmation.

Timestamped.

Four years ago.

Two days after my surgery.

Inventor listing:

Juniper Vangough.

Tristan Vale.

And Victor Hale as witness.

The room exploded.

Noise swallowed the air.

My ears rang.

Because I knew exactly what that patent was.

The early stabilization variant.

The one I discarded.

The one I never approved.

The one that—

I never signed.

I stepped toward the screen slowly.

“That’s forged,” I said.

Victor met my gaze calmly.

“Prove it.”

Silence fell again.

Because now—

This wasn’t about funding.

Or classification.

Or narrative.

This was about authorship.

And if that patent held—

Tristan didn’t need my current implant.

He had a legal foothold into my entire research branch.

I turned toward him slowly.

“You forged my signature.”

He smiled.

“Did I?”

My hands curled slightly at my sides.

Because suddenly—

I wasn’t certain.

Four years ago.

Post-surgery.

Exhausted.

Drugged on pain medication.

Paperwork stacked.

Did I sign something I shouldn’t have?

The doubt flickered.

Small.

But dangerous.

Victor’s voice cut through softly.

“We’ll see you in court, Chairwoman.”

The moderator tried to regain control.

But the damage was done.

Tristan adjusted his cufflinks.

Satisfied.

Confident again.

He leaned slightly closer to me as cameras flashed wildly.

“You always did underestimate what I was capable of,” he murmured.

I met his gaze steadily.

“No,” I replied quietly.

“I underestimated what you were willing to become.”

He smiled.

And walked away.

Victor followed.

Reporters swarmed them.

Questions flying.

I stood still.

Xavier stepped close.

“June.”

I didn’t respond.

Because my phone vibrated in my hand.

Unknown number.

One message.

One line.

You’re looking in the wrong place.

My pulse slowed.

Another message followed.

Check the original implant casing.

I stared at the screen.

Then at the patent filing still glowing behind the crowd.

Original implant casing.

No one had access to that.

Except—

My breath stopped.

Except the patient.

And that patient—

Wasn’t anonymous.

Seventeen years old.

European transplant.

And currently—

Listed as legally emancipated.

With a new surname.

Vale.

My head snapped toward the exit where Tristan had disappeared.

Because suddenly—

This wasn’t about forged signatures.

Or compliance observers.

Or marital loopholes.

This was about something far worse.

He didn’t just file a patent.

He planted something inside my patient.

And I had no idea what.

The doors closed behind him.

And for the first time since this war began—

I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel.

Not doubt.

Not fear.

But realization.

This game—

Was never about ownership.

It was about control.

And I had just discovered—

I might not control the most important piece on the board.