Dad said it like he was announcing a toast.
But the conference room felt more like a courtroom.
Glass walls. Polished table. The factory floor visible below—the same plant I had helped modernize. The same one running on the process controls I wrote and the formula I perfected at 2 a.m. while everyone else slept.
Mom sat beside him, smiling too brightly.
Brent lounged in Dad’s chair, already claiming it.
And at the far end of the table, a buyer’s attorney I didn’t recognize arranged documents with quiet precision.
Dad didn’t hesitate.
“We’re transferring the billions to Brent,” he said flatly. “As of today, you’re terminated.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misunderstood.
“Terminated?” I repeated. “From the company built around my product?”
Brent smirked. “You’re good in a lab. Leadership? Not your thing.”
I looked at Dad. “So you sold my formula?”
Mom laughed like I’d told a bad joke. “We sold the company.”
The sentence sat wrong in the air.
“You can’t sell what isn’t yours,” I said evenly.
Dad’s jaw tightened. “Everything developed here belongs to us. You were on payroll.”
My heartbeat thudded in my ears.
“The patents were filed in my name,” I reminded him. “You insisted. ‘Cleaner tax structure,’ remember?”
Mom waved dismissively. “Technicalities. The buyer doesn’t care.”
That’s when I noticed the attorney’s pen stop.
He wasn’t watching me like family.
He was evaluating damage.
I stood.
“And you are?” I asked him.
He glanced at my parents, then at Brent, like he’d just realized something crucial had been omitted.
“Gordon Hale,” he said calmly. “Counsel for the acquiring party.”
Dad leaned back, smug. “Tell her it’s finalized.”
Gordon didn’t smile.
“Before I confirm that,” he said carefully, “I need clarification.”
He opened a folder and slid a stamped document across the table.
“This acquisition is contingent upon full transfer of intellectual property,” he continued. “Your daughter is listed as sole inventor and sole assignee on the core patent family.”
Brent’s grin faltered.
Mom straightened. “She works for us.”
Gordon’s voice remained level.
“Two weeks ago, a formal rejection of assignment was filed. The inventor declined to transfer ownership.”
Dad’s color drained.
“That’s impossible.”
I looked at the document.
Then at Gordon.
“So you didn’t buy the formula.”
He rose slowly, buttoning his jacket.
“Correct,” he said.
Silence swallowed the room.
“And without the formula,” he added, eyes locking on my father, “the valuation collapses.”
Brent shifted in his seat.
Mom’s hands gripped the edge of the table.
Gordon’s next words landed like a gavel.
“This deal is not merely incomplete.”
He paused.
“It is in breach.”
