Chapter 3

I stared at the name on the screen, and blood roared in my ears.

Every element of that system, from the ergonomic load data to the folding joint structure, I had drawn by hand. The key parameters existed only in my private design archive and on Daniel's encrypted computer.

When I burst into the backstage lounge, Daniel was standing behind Claire, adjusting the strap of her gown.

"What happened to the credits?" I pushed the door open, my voice trembling with anger. "How dare you strip my name off my own design?"

Daniel frowned and shut the door. "Keep your voice down. The place is full of press and buyers.

"If this product carries your name, it's just a solid piece of work by an ordinary designer. Under Claire's name, it becomes the industry debut of an investment group heiress, and the company's valuation doubles overnight. Give up one credit, save two hundred jobs. Why do you always make everything about your own grievances?"

"My grievances?" I nearly laughed in disbelief. "This is intellectual property. Five years of my professional reputation. Not a party favor you hand out to impress an investor."

I turned and headed for the presentation hall.

Onstage, Claire held the microphone, smoothly narrating what she called her design inspiration. She had even memorized the failed drafts I had deleted from early iterations. She had clearly gotten hold of the complete files long ago.

I walked straight up to the stage and took the backup microphone from the host.

"She's lying. She didn't design this rehabilitation system. I did."

The audience erupted. Camera flashes swung toward me in unison.

Claire took a step back, putting on a startled expression. Daniel charged the stage with security guards and snatched the microphone from my hand.

He turned to the crowd, his face heavy with sorrow. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm deeply sorry. Irene once served as our Chief Design Officer, but a recent internal audit uncovered serious professional misconduct, and she has been emotionally unstable. The company had hoped to handle this privately. We didn't expect her to force her way into the launch."

I stared at him in disbelief.

The product images on the main screen were replaced by two electronic documents.

One was labeled as my design draft, timestamped last week. The other was labeled as Claire's original proposal, dated a full six weeks earlier.

Then several wire transfers into my personal bank account appeared on screen.

Daniel held the microphone, his voice thick with disappointment. "Our investigation confirmed that Irene systematically suppressed younger designers, stole Claire's concepts, and used her position to solicit kickbacks from suppliers. Out of consideration for her past contributions, we chose not to involve the police.

"We never expected her to come here today and try to make herself the victim."

Boos rippled through the audience.

Those accounts were indeed in my name, but they held project fees Daniel had asked me to collect on his behalf and pay to outside modeling contractors. He had already altered the file metadata and repackaged legitimate payments to look like kickbacks.

He wasn't improvising to cover for Claire.

I suddenly remembered: two weeks ago, Daniel had asked me to hand over the backup key to my private design archive, claiming a server upgrade. And the finance director had asked me to reconfirm a supplier's payment account. I had laughed at the time, thinking Daniel was finally taking management seriously. Every one of those seemingly routine requests had been preparation to frame me as a plagiarist.

He had planned all along to erase me from the company, the industry, and the marriage in one stroke.

Reporters crowded the foot of the stage, their questions sharper than the last.

"Do you admit to stealing a colleague's work?"

"Will the company report her to the Professional Design Association?"

"Is this retaliation over a marital dispute?"

Two security guards seized my arms and dragged me off the stage. My shoes came off in the struggle, and my bare feet scraped raw on the rough carpet, but Daniel stood in the spotlight the entire time, watching with cold indifference.

Outside the hotel side exit, a light rain was falling. I stood barefoot on the freezing pavement while cameras kept flashing through the glass. News alerts were already pushing headlines about a "co-founder's meltdown at product launch." Several long-term hospital procurement contacts sent inquiries, then the messages vanished before I could answer. In ten minutes, Daniel had turned my professional reputation into a public execution.

As I was pushed out the side door, my phone buzzed frantically.

The call was from the private renal care center where my father was being treated.

The nurse spoke rapidly. "Ms. Hart, your father just went into severe cardiac arrhythmia. He's been transferred to the partner hospital's emergency department. The ER will continue all necessary resuscitation, but the company has just terminated payment authorization for his care. His doctor recommends continuous renal replacement therapy and intensive cardiac monitoring. Without a new authorization, once he is stable enough for transfer, he'll have to wait for an available bed at the county hospital.

"His condition can't wait. Please come immediately to confirm the treatment plan."