No Longer Anyone’s Accessory Chapter 31
On the flight back to London. First class, window seat.
The flight attendant offered champagne. I waved it away and asked for a glass of water. My phone sat on airplane mode. No new messages. No new calls.
I shut my eyes. Behind them, images flickered past like a carousel.
The wedding day. Trevor at a Napa Valley estate, a glass of red wine in his hand, smiling. “I’m going to change the world with code. Your job is just to enjoy life.”
The end of the first year. The day he wired his entire paycheck into his mother’s account. “Babe, relax. My mom’s handling our money.”
The second year. Those nights I sat alone, crushed under the weight of the Bay Area’s insane mortgage and car payments, so worn out I could barely draw breath. He was sprawled on the sofa playing video games. Never once turned his head.
The third year. My dad in the ER. The sound of his voice on the phone as he slowly worked out the early-withdrawal penalty.
And the CVS checkout counter.
The card reader beeping.
“Declined.”
$2.75.
At 35,000 feet, I opened my eyes. Beyond the window stretched a vast, pure, deep blue. Clouds boiled beneath the plane.
I reached up and pressed a hand to my chest.
There had once been a very deep wound there.
Now, new skin had closed over it.
Tougher than before.
And freer.
We touched down at Heathrow. Dr. Ashcombe was standing at the entrance of the research center, waiting.
“Welcome back, Corinne. Everything settled?”
“All settled.”
“Good. Because there’s even more good news.”
He walked me into the conference room. Fresh documents were spread across the table.
“Takeda — Japan’s largest pharmaceutical company — just came to the table. Twenty million for the Asia-Pacific territory license.”
“Added to Europe and North America —”
“The total licensing value has crossed one hundred million.”
Dr. Ashcombe looked at me, his expression uncharacteristically grave.
“Corinne. In thirty years in this field, I’ve never once seen a single compound generate this much value in this small a window. You should be proud.”
I looked at the document.
My total personal share — past thirty million.
I picked up the pen and signed my name. The second time. Every stroke of the pen was like pressing a permanent seal down over an old life.
After signing, I went back to my own office. A photo frame stood on the desk. Inside was a picture of my mom and dad. Taken at their home in San Jose last year, after Dad got out of the hospital. Mom clinging to Dad. Me standing beside them, forcing a smile.
Looking back at that photo now, I finally understood what had been hidden beneath that strained smile.
A woman’s last mask of composure at the very brink of collapse.
I lifted the frame and gently wiped the dust from the glass. Set it back down in place.
I opened my laptop and started drafting the proposal for the next research project — XR-8.
Science wouldn’t stop.
Neither would I.
