Moje przemówienie pożegnalne zostało przerwane: „Nie mamy na to czasu”. Zamknąłem laptopa… Wtedy inwestorzy zapytali o mnie.

Parents held programs.

Kids fidgeted.

The air smelled like hair spray and dust.

Mrs. Gonzalez sat beside me with her devices in, her hands clasped around the edge of the seat.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“Of what?” I asked.

“That I’ll lose it again,” she said.

I swallowed.

Because I understood.

Not just about sound.

About trust.

About being given something precious and watching someone try to take it.

“You won’t,” I said. “Not if I can help it.”

The orchestra tuned.

The first notes rose.

And when Isabella’s violin cut through the air, Mrs. Gonzalez gasped.

It wasn’t loud.

It was clear.

She pressed her hand to her chest, eyes filling, and for a moment the legal threats and breach reports disappeared.

All that existed was a line of sound traveling from a child’s bow to her grandmother’s ears.

After the recital, Isabella approached us.

She hesitated, then held out her violin.

“Can you look at it?” she asked me.

I blinked.

“I’m not a luthier,” I said.

“No,” she replied, “but you understand sound.”

I took the violin carefully.

The wood was warm from her hands.

I tilted it, listening to the faint creak of the bridge.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

Isabella’s shoulders loosened.

“Grandma says you’re building a place where people matter,” she said.

“I’m trying,” I replied.

She nodded.

“Good,” she said simply. “Don’t stop.”

I didn’t know then that her words would become my anchor.

Because two weeks later, Audiovance escalated.

They didn’t just sue.

They attacked.

An article appeared online from a financial outlet with a headline that made my stomach twist.

The “Charity” That’s Draining Audiovance: Inside a Scientist’s Power Play.

The article implied I’d misled the consortium.

It suggested I’d used patients as props.

It hinted at misconduct without stating it directly.

It quoted anonymous sources.

It included a photo of me walking out of the courthouse, face set, as if I was plotting something.

The comments were worse.

Some people called me a hero.

Others called me a liar.

One person wrote: She’s just bitter.

I closed my laptop and sat in the quiet of my apartment.

The quiet felt different now.

Not empty.

Charged.

My phone buzzed with a call from Bennett.

I almost didn’t answer.

Then I did.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Bennett’s voice sounded strained.

“Vienn,” he said, “this is getting out of hand.”

I laughed once, a sharp sound.

“It got out of hand when you let Rainer dismantle my division,” I said.

“We didn’t authorize that,” Bennett insisted.

“Yes you did,” I replied. “You just didn’t say it out loud.”

Silence.

Then Bennett spoke quietly.

“The board is considering a settlement,” he said.

My heart thudded.

“What kind?” I asked.

Bennett exhaled.

“They want you to stop recruiting. They want you to license technology through Audiovance. They want to keep the clinics as a branding initiative.”

I closed my eyes.

“Branding,” I repeated.

“Yes,” Bennett said. “It would be cleaner.”

Cleaner.

Like erasing blood from a white shirt.

“Tell them no,” I said.

Bennett’s voice sharpened.

“Vienn, you’re destroying us.”

“No,” I said softly. “You’re destroying yourselves.”

He swallowed.

“You don’t understand what shareholders can do,” he said.

I opened my eyes.

“I understand exactly,” I replied. “That’s why I left.”

Bennett’s voice dropped.

“Rainer says you stole his modifications,” he said.

I went still.

“What?”

“He filed paperwork,” Bennett said. “He claims he owns a set of enhancements to the adaptive algorithm.”

My vision narrowed.

Lena’s warning echoed: he’d been trying to patent modifications.

Bennett continued.

“He’s threatening to sue you personally,” he said. “He’s trying to position himself as the inventor.”

The anger that rose in me this time wasn’t useless.

It was cold.

It was focused.

It was the kind of anger you can build a plan on.

“I’d like to see those filings,” I said.

Bennett hesitated.

“You can’t,” he said.

I smiled without warmth.

“Yes I can,” I replied. “Because I have something you should have understood months ago.”

“What?”

“Documentation,” I said. “Time-stamped research records. Clinic data. Emails. Drafts. Code history. The same kind of proof you ignored when you thought I’d stay quiet.”

Bennett’s breathing changed.

“You’ve been collecting,” he said.

“I’ve been protecting,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He didn’t respond.

I continued.

“If Rainer wants a fight over ownership,” I said, “he’s going to lose.”

Bennett’s voice sounded almost tired.

“Vienn,” he said, “please. We can’t keep bleeding like this.”

I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“Then stop,” I said. “Stop attacking communities. Stop treating patients like leverage. Stop letting men like Rainer rewrite history.”

Bennett whispered, “He’s not as contained as you think.”

That sentence made my skin prickle.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Bennett didn’t answer directly.

“Just be careful,” he said. “And… if you have proof, use it.”

Then he hung up.

I called Maya immediately.

Her voice was calm, but I could hear the gears turning.

“This just became bigger,” she said.

“I know,” I replied.

“Good,” she said. “Then we act like it.”

Discovery was brutal.

Audiovance demanded our files.

We demanded theirs.

Depositions were scheduled.

Emails were subpoenaed.

And somewhere in the flood of documents, we found it.

Not just the board agenda.

Not just Rainer’s optimization slides.

The emails Gustaf had shown me at the airport were the tip of the iceberg.

There were entire threads.

Reiner to Finance: Once Rodus is out of the country, we can reintegrate the division under my oversight and reassign clinic resources.

Reiner to Bennett: Her autonomy clause is a temporary concession. We can revisit after the funding stabilizes.

Reiner to Investor Relations: Community programs will be phased out; we’re shifting to higher margin hospital partnerships. Rodus will support this if managed correctly.

Managed correctly.

Like a dog on a leash.

Maya sat with the printed emails spread across our folding table.

“This is intent,” she said. “This is deception.”

Teresa read them, expression unreadable.

“They lied to the consortium,” she said.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

“They lied to me,” I whispered.

Lena’s voice was hard.

“They always lie,” she said. “The difference now is they left a trail.”

The deposition of Rainer was scheduled for a Friday.

He arrived in a suit that looked expensive and too tight across the shoulders.

He sat across from Maya and smiled like he was walking into a job interview.