Chapter 5 - The Ledger of Blood and Stolen Inventions
While Jason was losing his mind in his glass penthouse, I was sitting in Daniel Brooks’ law offices on the forty-fifth floor of the Prudential Plaza.
The room was quiet, save for the soft humming of the air conditioning and the rhythmic clicking of keyboards from Daniel's elite paralegal team in the adjacent conference room.
On the table in front of me sat a simple, weathered black notebook. Its edges were singed by fire, its leather cover cracked with age.
It was my father’s personal research ledger.
Beside me sat Mateo, the former night janitor. He was sixty-eight years old now, his hair completely silver, wearing his best Sunday suit. His eyes were moist as he looked at me, still remembering the night he had pulled me from the inferno.
"I kept it safe, Miss Iris," Mateo said softly in his thick accent. "That night, after the fire trucks came and they took you away in the ambulance, Mr. Mitchell told the cleaning crew to throw everything from your private desk into the industrial incinerator. But I knew. I knew your father. I knew how hard you worked. I took your father's book and the backup hard drive and hid them in my toolbox in the basement."
I reached out and placed my hand over his weathered, calloused fingers. "You saved my life twice, Mateo. Once from the fire, and once from being erased."
"We have everything we need, Iris," Daniel Brooks said, walking into the room carrying a fresh stack of legal documents. "We just received confirmation from the United States Patent and Trademark Office. Under the Leahy-Smith America Invents Act, when clear evidence of criminal fraud, identity theft, and patent usurpation is proven, the PTO has the authority to issue an emergency administrative stay and revert all original intellectual property rights to the true inventor."
"What does that mean for Mitchell Medical?" I asked.
"It means," Daniel said with a fierce, triumphant grin, "that Mitchell Medical Technologies does not own the Stent-X9. They do not own the neural catheter system. They do not own the micro-frequency ultrasound algorithms. You own them. Every single product they are manufacturing right now is technically infringing on your personal intellectual property."
"And the board of directors?"
"The board is in absolute chaos," Daniel explained. "Jason Mitchell owns thirty-four percent of the shares. The public owns twenty percent. But the institutional trust that holds the remaining forty-six percent—the Vance Legacy Endowment—was never legally dissolved. It was placed into a blind conservatorship when you were incapacitated. As of three o'clock today, with your medical clearance and proof of competency verified by three independent neurologists, that forty-six percent voting block has returned directly to you."
I stood up and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the Chicago skyline. The city lights twinkled in the darkness, beautiful and indifferent to the suffering of the people below.
For seven years, I had lived in a gilded prison. Jason had made me believe that I was nothing without him. He had told me every single day that I was an ugly, broken, deformed creature who would be ridiculed by society if I ever stepped out of the shadows. He had used my own physical trauma as a leash to keep me obedient.
He had forgotten one fundamental truth:
Scars do not mean you are broken.
Scars mean you survived the fire that was meant to destroy you.
"Daniel," I said quietly, my reflection in the glass showing a woman whose eyes were no longer filled with sorrow, but with cold, unyielding iron. "Call an emergency shareholder and board meeting for eight o'clock tomorrow morning at the corporate headquarters. Before we step foot back into Courtroom 4B, I want to take back the keys to my father's house."
"Consider it done," Daniel replied.
Just then, my phone buzzed on the table. It was a secure text message from an unknown number.
I picked it up and unlocked the screen.
It was a photograph of the street outside Daniel's office building. A black unmarked SUV was parked across the street, its headlights switched off, two men sitting inside with long-lens cameras and tactical gear.
Attached to the photo was a message from Daniel’s private executive security team:
Target has engaged contracted assets. Threat level: Critical. Our counter-surveillance team has them boxed in. Awaiting your command.
I looked at Daniel and showed him the screen.
May you like
Daniel didn't look surprised. He simply pulled out his own phone and dialed a direct line.
"Agent Miller?" Daniel spoke calmly into the receiver. "This is Daniel Brooks. Mr. Jason Mitchell has just initiated communication with the contracted asset we discussed. The wire is live. The federal sting is ready to execute."
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