No Longer Anyone’s Accessory Chapter 34
Five years later.
Germany. Frankfurt.
The International Biopharma R&D Summit.
As the lead inventor and market driver behind XR-7, I’d been invited to deliver the opening keynote.
The moment my speech ended, the audience — over a thousand top researchers, drug regulatory officials, and pharma executives from around the globe — rose to their feet as one.
The applause ran a full minute.
I stepped down off the stage. Imogen handed me a bottle of sparkling water.
“Corinne. That was absolutely incredible.”
“Thanks, Imogen.”
“Oh. Someone wants to come say hi.”
She tipped her chin toward a corner of the VIP section. My PhD advisor from Stanford — Professor Kessler. His hair had gone fully white, but he was still sharp and brimming with energy.
He rose when he saw me coming.
“Corinne.”
“Professor Kessler.”
“Five years ago, I wired you $120,000 to help your dad get his surgery. I knew even then — this kid was something special.”
“Professor —”
“But I couldn’t have pictured this, back then. What you’ve done — it’s made people start believing in something again.”
“Believing in what?”
“Believing that for a woman who refuses to give up on herself — there’s no one in this world, truly no one, who can actually bring her down.”
I looked at him. There was a light in his eyes — the same warmth that had been there on the phone five years ago when he said, “Don’t worry, the money’s on its way right now.”
“Professor. That $120,000 was the single best angel investment anyone has ever made in me.”
He smiled.
“I have to say, the return on that investment has indeed been rather good.”
At the evening banquet, a Wall Street pharma investment analyst came up to me. “Dr. Whitfield, over this long road with XR-7, what was your hardest moment?”
I cradled my wine glass and thought for a moment.
“Two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
“I’m sorry — what did you say?”
“One day, I had exactly two dollars and seventy-five cents left in my bank account. I used it to buy a cold, hard bagel and a cup of the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted. And then I made a decision.”
“What decision?”
“To stop living for someone who was never worth it.”
The person who’d asked stood there, stunned, silent for several seconds.
After the banquet wound down, I walked alone through the streets of Frankfurt. The early-winter air was cold and sharp and crisp.
My phone pinged with a message.
From Corbin Sloane, attorney.
“Ms. Whitfield. Trevor Wexler’s total debt obligation was fully and completely satisfied as of today. The compensation payment, plus accrued interest, came to nearly three million. It took five years, through forced wage garnishment and the liquidation of what few assets he had left. Just letting you know.”
I looked at the message.
Three million. Five years. One account — settled. Every account, settled completely.
I slid my phone back into my coat pocket and breathed out a plume of white mist. I looked up at the Frankfurt night sky. There were no stars. But the sky was very high and very wide.
I turned and walked through the revolving doors of the hotel behind me.
The lobby mirror caught my full reflection. Black cashmere coat, low ponytail, a stride that was unhurried.
Not too fast. Not too slow.
Just right.
[The End]
