The man falters, recalculating. His lips move. His face drains of color. “Oh. Oh shit.”
From across the lab, a younger woman snickers. She’s wearing the same coat as the rest of them, but she carries herself differently—less rigid, less obedient. “Told you she’d be pissed,” she mutters. “I was just waiting for the explosion.”
I clap my hands together, smiling brightly. “Ding ding ding. We have a winner.”
Then I see the trial data. My amusement dies instantly.
They’ve tested it. Not just theory—human trials. And the numbers are wrong. Very wrong. My pulse spikes as I flip through the pages, each one confirming my worst fear.
This isn’t about getting Zephyra right.
It’s about what happens when they get it wrong.
Asher chuckles and steps closer, and I immediately regret making this a performance. He leans against the counter beside me, too close, and his presence presses into my space. “You sound personally offended, Kitten.”
I slap my hand on the table. “Personally offended? Maybe because this was my creation. My formula. My Zephyra. And instead of asking for my help, you stole it and butchered it like a bunch of unsupervised children.”
Silence again.
Glasses Guy has the decency to look ashamed.
Asher looks pleased. “You always belonged here, Violet.”
I whip around. “Oh, well thank you so much for including me. I feel incredibly valued.”
“You should.”
I turn back to the workstation before I commit a felony, gripping the edge hard enough to ache. My brain is already correcting their mistakes, mapping fixes, and seeing solutions. I hate that part of myself for it.
Because Zephyra isn’t just a drug.
It’s my responsibility.
That truth settles heavy in my chest. No matter how much I resent being here, no matter how much I hate him, I can’t leave this unfixed.
People could get hurt.
If Zephyra exists, then I have to be the one to fix it. Because if I don’t, no one will. And I’ll never forgive myself.
I slam the papers down. “You were going to phase me out. Take my work and cut me loose.”
“I don’t need you, Violet,” Asher says calmly. “I needed Zephyra. There’s a difference.”
The words hit hard. Not just because they hurt—but because of how easily he says them.
The mask snaps back into place. Cold. Untouchable.
I shove him.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me in, our bodies colliding.
“Barely stitched up and still acting tough?” I sneer. “What are you going to do, Asher? You’re too weak to handle me.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve crossed a line.
He goes still.
Dangerously still.
