No Longer Anyone’s Accessory Chapter 25
My third day back in London.
The patent licensing deal closed.
A German pharmaceutical giant took the exclusive European territory license for XR-7 for forty million. A major U.S. pharma company took the North American license for thirty-five million. The Asia-Pacific negotiations were still moving forward, valued at somewhere around twenty million. Across all three markets, the total patent value pushed close to one hundred million.
My personal cut — plus the assorted milestone bonuses — came to thirty million dollars.
The signing ceremony took place in the main conference room of the London Research Center. Dr. Ashcombe, the company CEO, the legal director, the partner representatives — more than a dozen people lined both sides of the long table. I sat dead center.
“Dr. Whitfield. Please sign here.”
When the nib of the pen came down, my hand was rock steady.
I signed. Applause swept the conference room. Dr. Ashcombe rose to his feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen. XR-7 is a milestone for this company. And the person who turned all of it into reality is sitting right here.”
He looked at me.
“Dr. Corinne Whitfield. A brilliant scientist. And, as of today — a vitally important partner to this company.”
The applause swelled. Imogen, over in the corner, flashed me two thumbs up.
After the signing, the CEO drew me aside for a ten-minute talk.
“Dr. Whitfield, I’d like to formally invite you to join the London Research Center on a permanent basis. Chief Scientist, running your own independent team. The package comes with a base salary of four hundred thousand a year, performance bonuses, and a substantial equity incentive.”
He slid a contract across to me.
The worth of that contract, stacked on top of the patent royalties, was enough to dwarf the whole of Silicon Valley.
“Give me a week to think it over.”
“Of course.”
Back at the hotel, I stepped out of my heels and crossed the carpet barefoot. I cracked open the most expensive bottle of champagne in the minibar. Didn’t bother with a glass. Drank it straight from the bottle. The bubbles rushed up into my nose, a little sharp.
My phone rang. A video call from Nadia. I picked up.
“You signed?”
“I signed.”
“How much?”
I told her the number.
Nadia’s face froze solid for three full seconds. Then she let out a shriek.
“Corinne Whitfield!”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Thirty million! Thirty million dollars! Do you have any idea what that means!”
“I do.”
“Does that walking garbage heap Trevor know?!”
“He doesn’t need to. The divorce judgment is final. This money has nothing to do with him. Legally, zero.”
Nadia laughed. And as she laughed, her eyes went red.
“Corinne. Remember that day on the park bench, eating that bagel?”
“I remember.”
“You had two dollars and seventy-five cents left in your account.”
“That’s right.”
“From $2.75 to thirty million. How long did that take?”
“Sixty-three days.”
“Wrong.”
Nadia shook her head.
“You held on for three years. You laid the groundwork for three years. Those sixty-three days — that was just the harvest finally coming in.”
I said nothing. I carried the champagne bottle over to the window. The London nightscape spread out in front of me. Off in the distance, the London Eye turned slowly.
Three years ago, I was a woman who couldn’t even come up with $120,000 for her father’s surgery. Today, I’d signed a thirty-million-dollar contract.
What sat in the space between?
A man’s betrayal. A mother-in-law’s greed. A debit card holding less than three dollars. And a woman’s resolve, teeth clenched, refusing to give up a single inch of ground.
