Marco slumped into a chair, looking like he could sleep for a week. I perched on the edge of my seat, legs crossed, hands tight in my lap.
Victor started his pitch, but he may as well have been reading from a script. “You’ll have access to everything you need. The latest equipment, unlimited budget, a team of your choosing. And discretion. It’s just a matter of finishing what you started.” He looked at me, like maybe he expected me to swoon. “You’ll be surrounded by people who want to see you succeed, Dr. Bentley.”
My mouth went dry. I thought of every grant application I’d ever written, every conference hall I’d ever stood in, every dumbinterview where someone told me I was “one of the good ones, you know, for a woman.” I thought of how much I’d wanted this. How for five years, nobody had given a shit about my work, or me, until Dante pushed it into the world by breaking all the rules.
I hated how much I wanted to prove them wrong.
A woman entered—blonde, slender, mid-forties, lab coat so white it hurt to look at. She gave Victor a stiff nod, then turned her entire attention to me. Her smile was big, practiced, just a couple mols past sincere.
“You must be Jade,” she said. “I’m Dr. Heller. I’ve admired your publications for years.”
I braced myself for a handshake, but she dodged it and sat opposite, hands folded. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to have you here.” She said it like she wanted to impress me, but it landed more like a threat.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to be polite but not pliable.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Victor tells me you’re a few months out from a functional demo. We’d love to accelerate that timeline. What do you need?”
I wanted to say: a world that didn’t want to buy and sell me. But instead, I rattled off a list of equipment, personnel, a couple of things I made up on the spot just to see if she’d blink. She didn’t. She wrote it all down, nodding, as if my every whim was already halfway paid for.
“What about animal models?” Heller asked. “We have a full vivarium.”
“We are not ready to test on animals,” I said. “Even if we accelerate the pipeline, the vectors are too messy—off-target rates through the roof, and the viral load’s unpredictable. You want something in six months, you’re going to get tumors and a ban from every IRB on the continent.”
Heller gave a little smile, all teeth and nothing behind the eyes. “We’re not constrained by IRBs here. The client has broader goals.” She glanced at Victor, who didn’t blink. “You’ve published on risk management. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
I stared at her, then at the glass wall behind her chair. My reflection hovered: tight braid, sharp blazer, belly showing beneath my blouse. I looked like a woman pretending she wanted to be here, and for a second I almost believed it.
“Let me be clear,” I said, voice flat. “If you cut corners, you will get a disaster. Maybe not tomorrow, but sooner than you think. That’s not science, it’s wishful thinking with a budget.”
Victor steepled his fingers, but didn’t argue. Heller, though, was relentless. She leaned in. “Every revolution has casualties, Dr. Bentley. Think of the patients who could walk again, the families reunited. You could end suffering for millions.” She sounded like she meant it. But there was something off—a hunger beneath the pitch, a gambler’s desperation.
“Leave us, Heller,” Victor said.
It wasn’t a request. Heller gathered her notes, snapped the binder closed, and stood. She didn’t look at me again. “If youneed anything, I’m always available. Victor has my number,” she said, then left—a whirl of antiseptic perfume and ambition.
I watched her go, trying to decide if I was meant to be flattered or afraid.
Victor leaned forward, his voice dropping into a register that was all murder and velvet.
“She’s right about the time frame, and you’re right about the risk,” he said. “But I think you’re missing something.” He reached into his jacket and slid a tablet across the table. “That demo you mentioned? Someone’s already tried it. They’re close, but not as close as you.”
I tapped the screen, fighting the urge to snap it in half. The file names were familiar—my old protocols, lifted line for line, but run on something way meaner than mice. For a second, the words blurred. My hands went cold.
“You’re using primates?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
He smiled. “The client wants to see human application within twelve months. The competition is willing to use anything that breathes. If you want any say in how this ends, you grab the steering wheel now.”
My heart pounded—part rage, part terror. I thought of the baby, of Dante and Marco, of the animals I’d tested on in the old days and how each one stayed with me for weeks after. I thought of the men who’d run those programs, the women who’d cleaned up and coped in silence.
Victor sat back, hands open, as if he’d just offered me a choice instead of a threat. “I told you, Dr. Bentley. We don’t want your life. We want your mind. So. Do you want to do this the hard way, or the smart way?”
Dante shifted beside me, body so taut I thought he’d leap over the table. But I raised a hand, small and measured. “What’s the end game? Your client patents a miracle cure and gets a ticker symbol? Or are we talking black-site medical tourism for psychopaths?”
He didn’t blink. “Why not both?”
I snorted, but it sounded too thin. “And if I say no?”
Victor shrugged, almost gentle. “You run. You hide. You watch it happen anyway, and someone else gets the credit. Somebody gets to the Morettis. Maybe it’s the FBI. Maybe it’s Caruso. Maybe it’s my client.”
