1 The year the company closed its Series B and Harrison became the golden boy of the tech sector, he gave me a coupon book. It was made of heavy cream cardstock, neatly bound in Italian leather. Inside were fifty tear-out slips, each stamped in gold foil: Good for Ten Minutes of Uninterrupted Time. "Money isn’t my most expensive asset anymore, Nora," he had said, sliding the box across our marble kitchen island with a patronizing little smile. "My time is. If you need me, you cash one in. When the ten minutes are up, we’re back on the clock." I thought it was a joke. A tasteless, self-important joke. But Harrison lived by it. Over the next five years, our marriage turned into a series of timed transactions. If I wanted to talk about our mortgage, that was one slip. If I wanted him to attend a holiday dinner with my family, that was three. When the ICU called at two in the morning to tell me my father had slipped into multi-organ failure, I didn't cry. I didn't have time. I sat at my vanity, my hands shaking so violently I tore the perforations, and counted out ten vouchers. One hundred minutes. Enough for him to drive across the city, stand beside the hospital bed, and hold my father's hand as he let go. Harrison never showed. My father spent his final conscious hours staring at the ICU doorway, his oxygen mask fogging with every shallow, agonizing breath. "Is Harrison stuck in traffic, sweetheart?" he whispered, his voice like dry leaves scraping pavement. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, forced my lips into a gentle curve, and nodded. "Yeah, Dad. The highway is backed up. He’s trying." I didn't have the heart to tell him that Harrison’s phone had gone straight to voicemail. After the memorial service, while sitting alone in the cold silence of our living room, I opened our shared Google Drive on my laptop to pull up an estate tax document. There, nested beneath an archived subfolder, was an unlocked calendar titled Primary Allocation. For five years, Harrison had maintained a second ledger. He had logged over nine thousand hours for his executive assistant, Kylie. Nine thousand hours. Moving her into her luxury apartment. Keeping her company on the phone until three in the morning when she had insomnia. Taking her to midnight indie film screenings. Flying across the country on weekend "fact-finding trips." And on the night my father took his last breath, Harrison had logged eight consecutive hours in her apartment. The entry read: Mochi’s labor. Stayed until the fourth kitten was born. Every second I had scrimped and hoarded like a beggar, terrified to squander his precious attention, Harrison had been giving away to another woman in limitless, lavish abundance. I sat in the dark, pulled the leather-bound book from my nightstand, and tore out every single voucher I had saved over the past five years—all 1,130 of them. I took a photo of the stack and texted it to his personal number, followed by a single line: Keep your time. I don't want another second of it. My phone rang within three seconds. "Nora, are you seriously doing this right now?" Harrison’s voice was clipped, saturated with exhaustion and irritation. "Your dad had an entire team of doctors and specialists. What was I supposed to do there? Stare at the monitors? My being there wouldn't have changed the clinical outcome." The sheer callousness of his words struck like a slap across the face. My fingers clenched around the phone until the casing creaked. Before I could speak, a high-pitched, breathless squeal echoed from the background. "Harrison! Look! Come here quick!" Kylie’s voice was bright, musical, brimming with intimacy. "The ginger one just had the tiniest little milk hiccup! Oh my god, it’s so precious. Listen!" Harrison’s tone shifted so instantly it made my stomach lurch. The razor-sharp edge vanished, replaced by an easy, doting warmth. "Really? Let me see..." The faint sound of their shared laughter filtered through the speaker, echoing inside my empty house like broken glass. A beat later, as if suddenly remembering I was still on the line, his voice flattened back into ice. "Look, Nora. If you’re going to throw a childish tantrum over these vouchers, I’m giving the rest of the week to Kylie. She actually appreciates my presence." The line went dead. I lowered the phone and remained frozen on the floor. On one side of the city, a stray cat delivering a litter was worth an all-nighter and his undivided devotion. On the other side, the man who had funded Harrison's first round of seed capital couldn't buy ten minutes of his son-in-law's time to die with dignity. A bitter, soundless laugh escaped my throat. I picked up the iron poker from the hearth, struck a match, and tossed the vouchers into the fireplace one by one. The flames devoured the cardstock, their gilded letters curling into black, brittle flakes. One. Two. Three. Five years of youth, five years of walking on eggshells, five years of making excuses for a man who had already checked out, turning to ash. My screen lit up with an Instagram notification. It was a post from Kylie’s public account. The photo showed a plush, designer nursery crate for cats, and beside it sat a detailed, hand-carved wooden figurine of a mother cat curling around four nursing kittens. Every whisker had been painstakingly chiseled. The caption read: Endless gratitude to the best boss in the world for pulling a ten-hour shift with me. He built the birthing box from scratch and spent the whole night carving this keepsake! Having you here makes Mochi and me feel so safe. ❤️ In the bottom right corner of the frame was a shot of Harrison’s hands—the hands that hadn't held mine in over a year—flecked with wood shavings, carefully sanding down the edges of the cedar figurine. The comments section was already buzzing with mutual colleagues. Mark, the VP of Operations: [Wait, Harrison cut our quarterly review by fifteen minutes last week to 'save bandwidth,' but he has time to do cat doula duties overnight?] Harrison’s personal account replied: [Kylie is five hundred miles from her family. Her pets are all she has.] Another mutual acquaintance asked: [How is Nora holding up? I heard her father was in critical condition...] Harrison replied: [Nora is much more resilient than Kylie. She knows how to handle things on her own.] Reading those words felt like swallowing wet cement. Years ago, when I was doubled over with severe gastritis during his company’s first product launch, he had canceled a multimillion-dollar pitch, stayed by my bedside all night simmering broth from scratch, and kissed my feverish forehead with tears in his eyes. Nora, he had sworn, from now on, my time belongs entirely to you. I’ll never make you face anything alone. Now, that one hundred percent of his time had become nine thousand hours for someone else. He didn't lack time. He just refused to spend it on me. My phone chimed with an incoming call from Boston. It was my aunt Elena, a tenured researcher at MIT. "Nora," her voice came through, soft and steady. "I know everything that's happened with your father. How are you holding up? Listen... the visiting fellowship in our bioengineering lab is still open. I can push your clearance through by next Monday if you want it." I looked at the fireplace. The last red ember of the vouchers flickered and went out. Five years. To be the "supportive partner behind the scenes" that Harrison said he needed, I had turned down a fully funded doctoral track at Johns Hopkins and resigned myself to meal prep, laundry, and maintaining an immaculate home. All it had bought me was an emotional slow bleed. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, swallowing down the tremor in my chest. "Aunt Elena. Don't hold it. I'll take it." The next evening, I returned to the house after signing the final cremation permits. The moment I pushed the front door open, the heavy scent of chamomile perfume drifted toward me. Kylie’s signature scent. The latch clicked behind me. Harrison walked in, his arm casually draped over Kylie’s shoulders. I paused in the entryway. This was the first time he had set foot in this house in nearly three weeks, and he had brought her with him. Kylie kicked off her Christian Louboutin pumps with effortless familiarity, slid her bare feet into Harrison’s oversized fleece slippers, and padded into the open-concept kitchen. She grabbed Harrison’s favorite ceramic mug from the rack, poured herself cold water from the dispenser, took a long sip, and handed it directly to Harrison. Without blinking, Harrison took the mug, lined his lips perfectly over her cherry-red lipstick smudge, and drank. The domestic choreography was seamless. Practiced. It was the rhythm of a couple that had existed long before I noticed. Kylie let out a soft giggle, leaning against the counter. "Is your tap water better than mine, Harrison?" My hands balled into tight fists, fingernails biting into the meat of my palms. Harrison caught sight of me standing by the foyer and cleared his throat. Kylie blinked, widening her eyes in exaggerated, innocent dismay. "Oh! Nora, you’re home! I’m so, so sorry. Harrison spent the last two days helping me with Mochi and completely lost track of the funeral schedule. Please don't be upset with him. My deepest condolences for your loss." I opened my mouth to speak, but Harrison immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. "Don't start, Nora," he said, his tone preemptively defensive. "I already had accounting wire fifteen thousand dollars to the funeral home’s account to cover all incidental expenses." He pulled a garment bag from over his arm and thrust it toward me. It was a midnight-blue cocktail dress from a luxury boutique I had mentioned admiring months ago. "Kylie accidentally offended David Hayes at the industry mixer last night," Harrison continued briskly. "Hayes is old-school and hates dealing with younger associates. Put this on and come with us to the private dinner tonight. Have a few drinks with Hayes, smooth things over, and this whole thing goes away." The sheer audacity made the room tilt. "Why on earth would I do that?" I stared at the man I had spent half a decade loving, feeling an overwhelming surge of disgust. "You came back here just to make me do damage control for your assistant?" "Nora sounds really angry, Harrison..." Kylie whimpered, clutching the hem of his tailored jacket from behind. "Maybe I should just go. I don't want to cause a fight..." "No," Harrison cut in sharply. "You have a severe alcohol intolerance. If you drink with Hayes, you'll end up in the emergency room." The words hung in the air like a slap. Seven years ago, when Harrison was trying to close his very first angel investor, I had downed three full glasses of ninety-proof bourbon to cover for him when he had the flu, resulting in acute hemorrhagic ulcers that hospitalized me for a week. Back then, he had held my hand in the hospital ward, weeping, swearing he would never let a drop of liquor touch my lips again. Now, he guarded this girl’s delicate constitution while treating my scarred stomach like a disposable tool. "I’m not going," I said flatly. Harrison didn't flinch. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out an antique silver pocket watch, and held it up between his index finger and thumb. My breath hitched. "Where did you get that?" It was my father’s pocket watch—the one his grandfather had passed down to him, the one he had worn every day until his hands grew too weak to wind it. "I picked it up from your dad’s bedside table before the hospital packed his personal effects," Harrison said coldly. "Come to the dinner, do this one favor, and it’s yours." "Give it to me, Harrison!" I lunged forward, but he raised his arm high out of my reach. "Tonight," he said. "Be ready by seven." The private dining room at the downtown steakhouse was thick with the reek of imported cigars and high-proof Scotch. "Well, well. Mrs. Cole," David Hayes drawled, leaning back against the leather booth with an oily, predatory smirk. "If you're here to apologize on behalf of your husband's little protégé, you know the drill in my room. Bottoms up." He shoved a heavy tumbler full of neat Macallan across the polished mahogany. I took the glass and tipped it back. The liquor hit the back of my throat like kerosene, sliding down into my stomach where it exploded in raw, searing agony. Across the table, Harrison sat beside Kylie, his head bowed as he carefully de-shelled king crab legs, dipped the meat in butter, and fed her bite by bite. The image burned itself into my retinas, hot and humiliating. Kylie chewed slowly, watching my grimace over the rim of her sparkling water. A subtle, satisfied smirk touched her lips. "Mr. Hayes," Kylie purred softly, "Nora just lost her father this week. She must be carrying so much grief. They say alcohol dulls the sharpest pain. Maybe Nora should have another three rounds with you—she can make amends for me and drink away her sorrow all at once." A sharp cramp twisted through my abdomen, so violent I had to clutch the edge of the table. "Harrison... my stomach is on fire. I can't do another one." Harrison frowned slightly, not even pausing his hands as he picked apart another crab leg. "Nora, stop being dramatic. Your ulcers haven't flared up in years. Don't make a scene in front of David." They haven't flared up in years. Because every time I was doubled over on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, vomiting blood and dry-heaving into the porcelain bowl, calling his phone only to hear him say I’m in a pitch meeting, take some antacids, I had simply stopped calling. I had endured the agony alone in the dark. Hayes poured another two glasses. I forced them down. By the time the amber liquid reached my gut, it felt as though someone had dragged a razor blade across my internal lining. My vision swam with black spots. The clinking of silverware, Kylie’s laughter, Hayes’s booming voice—all of it warped into a distant, muffled hum. Then my head hit the mahogany table, and everything went black. When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent glare of a hospital room stung my retinas. Harrison was sitting on the vinyl visitor’s chair beside the bed, scrolling through his phone. "You're awake?" he muttered without looking up. "The ER doctor said you have mild upper GI bleeding. Once this IV bag finishes, you're cleared for discharge. It’s nothing serious." I stared at him through a haze of dry, aching exhaustion. Years ago, when I had caught a mild seasonal flu and ran a 100-degree fever, he had stayed up all night applying cold compresses to my temples, berating the triage nurse if she adjusted the blood pressure cuff too tightly. Now, I was hospitalized for internal bleeding, and it was "nothing serious." A high-pitched chime rang from his phone—the specific custom ringtone he had assigned solely to Kylie. He got up immediately and stepped into the hallway to take it. When he returned three minutes later, he glanced at the IV bag overhead. It was barely one-third empty. With a slight frown of impatience, he reached up and pushed the roller clamp all the way to the top. The saline and medication surged down the clear plastic tubing in a continuous, unbroken stream. The vein on the back of my left hand instantly ballooned, a piercing, icy burn radiating up my forearm. I gasped and tried to yank my hand back, but Harrison pinned my wrist down firmly. "Just deal with it for twenty minutes, Nora," he said, his voice laced with that familiar, patronizing hurry. "Kylie’s alone at her place and hearing noises outside. She's terrified. If we speed this up, you can go home and rest, and I can go check on her." He popped open two blister packs of oral sucralfate, dropped the pills into a paper cup of tepid water, and shoved it against my lips. "Take a double dose. It coats the stomach faster so you don't complain later." She was scared, so he cranked my IV to a dangerous flow rate and forced double the medication down my throat—all while claiming it was for my own good. The chalky bitterness dissolved on my tongue. The throbbing in my hand turned numb. "Harrison." He looked down, his jaw tight with poorly concealed annoyance. "What now?" "Put the pocket watch on the nightstand," I whispered. "And leave." He blinked, surprised, but a split second later, an expression of immense relief washed over his features. "Fine," he said, setting the silver watch down next to the plastic water pitcher. "I won't deduct any vouchers for the time I spent in the ER with you tonight. Consider it on the house." I closed my eyes, my throat working silently. I didn't say a single word. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I reached up with trembling fingers, rolled the IV clamp back down to a safe, slow drip, and picked up my father's watch, pressing the cold metal to my chest. After the IV ran dry, I checked myself out and took an Uber directly to Oakridge Cemetery. Today was the morning of my father’s burial. I sat on the cold granite border of the plot, leaning my forehead against the polished stone, just as I had leaned against his shoulder when I was a little girl. "Dad," I murmured, my tears soaking into the dark granite. "I miss you so much." I traced his etched portrait with my thumb. "I spent five years waiting for a man who counted every minute he threw my way like a loan. But I'm done. From now on, every second I have left belongs to me." Footsteps crunched on the gravel path behind me. I turned. Harrison and Kylie were walking up the slope. "Kylie found out today was your father's interment," Harrison said, his tone carrying an edge of moral superiority. "She insisted I carve out an hour to pay our respects. You could learn a thing or two about basic decency from a girl half your age." Kylie walked forward, holding a bouquet of bright, garish red chrysanthemums. She dropped them carelessly against the base of the headstone. Then, she wrinkled her nose. "God, the epitaph is so dry and depressing." Before I could react, she snatched one of the crimson flowers, crushed the petals between her palms until the red juice ran down her fingers, and smeared a mocking, grotesque cartoon smiley face directly over my father's carved name. Beneath it, she scrawled in sloppy red pigment: Old dead guy, hope your next daughter isn't such a drag! The crimson juice dripped down the stone like fresh blood. A violent roar tore through my skull. "What the hell are you doing?! Wipe that off!" I lunged forward, ripping the crushed flowers out of her hands. Kylie let out a theatrical shriek and shoved me hard. My heels caught on the edge of the stone terrace. I fell backward, the side of my forehead slamming violently against the sharp, unyielding corner of the granite step. A wave of dizzying heat crashed over me. Warm, thick blood began trickling down my temple, into my eyebrow, into my eye. "Nora!" Harrison gasped, his face draining of color. "Harrison, it hurts so bad..." Kylie wailed, instantly lifting her slender wrist into his line of sight. On the back of her hand were three faint, superficial red scratches where my fingernails had brushed her. Not a single drop of blood. Harrison looked at her wrist, his eyes flooding with intense panic and pity. Then he spun around, glaring down at me with pure venom. "Nora Shaw! She was making a joke to lighten the mood so your father's spirit wouldn't be burdened by your gloom! Do you have to act like a violent, hysterical psycho over a harmless gesture?" Kylie sniffled, squeezing out large, shimmering tears. "Harrison, I swear I didn't mean anything bad... my hand is stinging so much..." "Apologize to Kylie right now!" Harrison bellowed. The blood ran down my cheek, warm and metallic. I stared up at him through a crimson haze. "She desecrated my father's grave," I whispered, my voice shaking with pure hatred. "And you want me to apologize to her?" Harrison’s patience snapped completely. "Nora, are you ever going to stop playing the professional victim? Does the whole world have to cater to your fragile ego? Your father spent half his life raising a vindictive, unreasonable brat—what an absolute waste of his time." The words pierced through my chest, twisting like a serrated blade, cutting through every lingering trace of affection until there was nothing left but hollow, freezing numbness. Harrison seemed unsettled by how quietly I took it. A flicker of unease crossed his eyes. But he quickly recovered, sneering as he wrapped an arm around Kylie’s waist. "Stay here and think about what you’ve done. You're hopeless." They turned and walked down the hill. I didn't scream. I didn't curse. I slowly pulled off my black cardigan, knelt in the damp grass, and used the fabric to scrub every trace of the crimson flower juice from my father’s name until the granite was pristine. By the time I finished, dusk had fallen over the hills. The cemetery gates were locked, and the suburban access road was deserted. The streetlights flickered dimly against the encroaching fog. "Hey there, sweetheart. Walking all by yourself in the dark?" A man stepped out from the shadows near the tree line, reeking of stale beer and unwashed clothes. His eyes roved over my bloodstained face and disheveled clothes with leering curiosity. "Look at you, all bruised up. Need a real man to give you a ride?" Panic seized my throat. I backed away, rapidly clicking the side button of my iPhone five times to trigger my emergency SOS protocol, which automatically dialed Harrison. The phone rang four long, agonizing times before it clicked. "What is it now?" Harrison snapped. "Harrison, please..." I kept my voice low, trembling. Ahead, about a hundred yards down the winding descent, I could see the distinctive LED taillights of his black Maybach idling near the junction. "I'm at the lower gate road. There's an aggressive drunk blocking my path. Please turn around and pick me up... I'll give you every voucher I have left. Please." A dry, mocking chuckle came through the earpiece. "Nora, I am sick to death of your pathetic little jealousy stunts. My time is worth five thousand dollars an hour. I don't have the bandwidth to play along with your transparent lies." "I'm not lying! Harrison, I swear to God—" "Harrison, my wrist is swelling up..." Kylie’s voice whimpered softly in the background. Click. The line went dead. A hundred yards ahead, the Maybach’s brake lights flared once, the twin exhaust pipes roared, and the luxury sedan accelerated smoothly into the dark, vanishing down the highway. The drunk realized I had no one coming for me. A filthy grin spread across his face. "Bitch, trying to call the cops on me?" He lunged forward, grabbing my hair. Survival instinct kicked in. I grabbed a jagged chunk of broken curb stone from the roadside and smashed it into the side of his jaw. The man howled in pain, staggered back, and then exploded in absolute rage. He swung a massive, heavy fist directly into my temple. The world erupted in high-pitched static. The taste of copper flooded my mouth as my knees gave out and I crashed onto the asphalt. Before I could draw breath, his heavy steel-toed work boot slammed violently into my lower abdomen. "You crazy bitch, you think you can hit me?!" The agony was instantaneous and incomprehensible. My stomach and pelvis felt as though they were being torn apart by industrial claws. I curled into a tight, desperate ball on the pavement, gasping for air that wouldn't come. Then, a gush of thick, scalding liquid poured down the inside of my thighs, soaking through my denim jeans. My mind went dead white. I had always suffered from severe luteal phase defect and irregular cycles. My period was two weeks late, but after years of being told by fertility specialists that natural conception was near impossible for me, I had simply assumed it was the stress of my father's illness. I looked down at the dark, spreading stain pooling on the asphalt beneath my hips. My chest caved in as if crushed by a semi-truck. My baby... My vision blurred, the edges of the dark sky closing in like a black curtain. Just as my consciousness began to slip away, bright red and blue strobes shattered the darkness, followed by the screech of tires. "Police! Step away from her! Hands where I can see them!" Two patrol officers tackled the man to the ground. A female officer knelt beside me, her eyes widening in horror as she saw the pool of blood beneath my body. "Dispatch, we need an advanced life support bus at the Oakridge north access! Female, severe blunt abdominal trauma, massive obstetric hemorrhage!" When I woke up under the sterile LED panels of the emergency department, a female OB-GYN was looking down at me, her expression grave. "Ms. Shaw. You were eight weeks pregnant. The blunt force trauma caused complete placental abruption and fetal demise. We need to perform an emergency dilation and curettage immediately to stop the internal bleeding." I couldn't breathe. I hadn't just lost my father. I had lost the only piece of my own family I had left. Beside the bed, a nurse held an emergency contact form, holding a portable phone to her ear. "Mr. Cole? This is County General Hospital trauma intake. Your wife was the victim of a violent assault. She has suffered a traumatic miscarriage and is currently hemorrhaging—" Through the speaker, Kylie’s tearful voice cut in: "Harrison, what if this leaves a permanent scar on my hand? It looks so ugly..." Harrison’s voice was endlessly gentle, soothing: "Don't cry, baby. I'm driving us straight to the private dermatological center in the neighboring city to get the European medical-grade silicone gel." A three-hour drive each way. Six hours of driving for a cat scratch. The busiest man in the city had all the time in the world for that. Then, Harrison’s voice turned toward the nurse, dripping with icy contempt. "Are you aware that my wife has documented secondary infertility? If you're going to help her stage these elaborate melodramas to get my attention, I will have my legal team file a formal grievance with the state medical licensing board." He hung up. I lay on the gurney, staring up at the white ceiling tiles. He knew. He knew every fertility treatment, every painful hormone injection, every night I spent weeping over negative pregnancy tests. And when a miracle had finally happened, his first reaction wasn't shock or terror. It was the absolute, unshakable conviction that I was a liar. A single, scalding tear slid from the corner of my eye into my hairline. I reached out my hand toward the nurse. "Give me the pen. I'll sign the surgical consent myself." The morning after the surgery, pale and barely able to walk, I took a cab to my late father’s university laboratory to pack up his original research manuscripts. When I opened his office filing cabinet, the master patent dossier was missing. I logged into the university's intellectual property registry with my father’s admin credentials. On the screen, the core patent for the targeted delivery bio-carrier—the culmination of my father's entire thirty-year academic career—had been reassigned. The primary assignee was Kylie Price. The corporate authorization was stamped with Harrison’s corporate seal. And the execution date was the exact morning my father had been placed on life support. My fingers trembled as I dialed Harrison’s direct line. He picked up on the second ring. "What?" "Why is my father’s core patent registered under Kylie Price’s name?" I asked, my voice entirely flat, stripped of all inflection. Harrison was silent for a beat, then sighed with patronizing exasperation. "I thought you were calling about something serious." "Why?" "Your father is dead, Nora," Harrison said, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a toddler. "If that patent stayed in his estate, it would just sit on a shelf gathering dust. Kylie is young, ambitious, and needs a marquee credential to establish herself in the biotech division. It paves the way for her career." "That was my father’s life's work!" "Nora, you need to look at the big picture," he said smoothly. "If you hand over the remaining calibration data and source algorithms from his lab drive, I’ll add your father’s name as a secondary honorary contributor. That is the biggest concession I can make. Don't be greedy." He stole my dying father’s legacy to build a pedestal for his mistress, and had the gall to call me greedy. A sound escaped my throat—a laugh that dissolved into silent, burning tears. "Okay," I said quietly. "I understand." I hung up. I went home, packed a single suitcase with my clothes and my father's hand-written research journals. On the dining room table, I laid out the hospital discharge summary for the emergency curettage, the pathology report confirming fetal demise, and the key to the front door. Then, I took a cab to the airport and boarded the red-eye flight to Boston. As the plane lifted through the low-hanging cloud deck over the city lights, a memory flashed unbidden into my mind. Years ago, sitting on a beat-up sofa in our drafty first apartment, I had asked him how much he loved me. He had smiled, tapping the face of his watch. Let time speak, Nora. Time shows the truth far better than human eyes ever can. Five years. Time hadn't said a word. But it had answered everything. Three days later. The corporate headquarters of Cole Bio-Innovations held a lavish ribbon-cutting ceremony for its flagship automated manufacturing line. Harrison stood at the podium in a bespoke charcoal suit, Kylie beside him in an ivory designer dress, radiant and glowing under the camera flashes. "Mr. Cole’s visionary leadership has brought this company to new heights," the host announced into the microphone. "And Ms. Price, as the young lead patent holder, represents the next generation of American biotech brilliance..." Harrison smiled, placing his hand over Kylie’s as they simultaneously pressed the giant glass activation console. The heavy hydraulic presses surged. The LED status monitors flickered to life. And then, with a deafening, metallic screech, the entire mechanical track seized. Every terminal screen in the five-thousand-square-foot facility flashed crimson. High-decibel emergency alarms tore through the auditorium.
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