“Fuck.”
“Florence has been shopping around Kline’s techs and compounds for the past few weeks. According to Hector, the microbial coating was off the table until very recently.”
“Florence may know that Rue gave us the books,” Minami said. “Could it be a punishment of sorts?”
“It’s possible.” Eli ran a hand through his hair. “And they did have a . . . confrontation. It might have convinced Florence to go ahead and sell. But who the fuck buys a patent that’s not even registered yet? Why does NovaTech even want it?”
“They’re a packaging solutions company,” Sul said.
“Getting rid of the competition, then.”
Hark patted him on the back. “Gold star.”
Eli shook his head. This day. This fucking day. It had started so well. Humbling, how bad it had become all of a sudden. “NovaTech is going to buy Rue’s work of years, and then they’ll trash it so they can keep on selling their packaging. All because Florence lied to Rue with a contract that was never legally binding.”
“Good recap. Infinitely shitty of Florence, but legal. Seems to be her sweet spot,” Hark said. “She’s not going to raise enough funds to buy back the loan, not even if she finds a buyer for every single piece of tech at Kline’s disposal. But the deadline’s coming up, and it’ll be fun to lie low and watch her put up the saddest lemonade stand—”
“We’re not going to do that,” Eli said.
Hark blinked. “Not going to . . . ?”
“We’re not going to lie low. We’re not going to let her sell Rue’s patent. Once it’s sold, it’s gone. Even if we later get control of Kline, we won’t be able to reverse the deal.”
Sul stared at him thoughtfully. Minami and Hark, though, just exuded a combination of puzzled and pitying. “I don’t think it’s within our power to stop her,” she said gently.
Eli stood to pace. “What if we lay out our cards? Tell Florence we have the books. We know she’s in breach. We could try to negotiate with her—offer her more time if she doesn’t sell Rue’s patent, for example.”
“Hang on a minute.” Hark bolted to his feet, too. “Are you having a massive stroke you forgot to tell us about?”
Eli just stared at him.
“Because it sounds like you’re saying that we should give up our strategic advantage, an advantage that could put Kline in our hands in a matter of weeks, to stop the sale of Rue Siebert’s patent. Rue’s a very nice lady, no doubt, but also someone we’ve known for about five fucking minutes, and I’m glad that sleeping with her is working out well for you—”
“Hark,” Minami admonished.
“—but I’m not sure that just because you are gone for her, she’s someone we should consider when making decisions that will affect plans that were years in the making.”
“We’re not doing it because I’m gone for her,” Eli gritted out. “We’re doing it because it’s right.”
“How is this our goddamn business?” Hark took a step closer. Eli did the same. “We owe Rue Siebert nothing. You owe Rue Siebert nothing. You can’t tell me that you’re willing to jeopardize something that sent us to hell and back, for her. Does she even give a shit about you?”
“It’s not the damn point. What Florence is about to do to her is exactly what she did to us a decade ago.”
“And so what? For fuck’s—if you want Rue so bad, marry her. Make her have your babies. Buy her a house with thirty rooms and a private lab where she can fiddle around and develop twenty more techs. But you can’t buy her love with our dreams.” Hark had been loud, but his voice dropped back to a menacing tone. “You can’t have both, Eli. You either get Kline, or Rue’s patent. Which one is it?”
36
THE MOST TRAGIC STORY
RUE
Perhaps it should have been irritating, the way Tisha’s questions to Nyota piled on top of each other, the sharp replies, the sisterly bickering. Instead, I found the familiarity of it reassuring, anchoring in a way nothing else had managed to be since this morning’s call.
“I’m just saying that I don’t understand how a contract that has been signed by both parties can be not valid—”
“And I am just saying that since I acknowledge my lack of expertise on the matter and don’t come telling you that pipettes should be shoved up your ass, you could face the reality that you did not go to law school and extend me the same courtesy—”
“Ooooh, but of course, if you’re such a legal hotshot, why did you only now realize that Florence’s contract wasn’t binding?”
“Because, and this is going to shock you, I am a professional bankruptcy lawyer whose primary source of income comes from charging rich people obscene amounts of money for very small amounts of my time, and not from looking over my shitty sister’s shitty childhood friend’s shitty contract. I will allow a few seconds for your mind to be blown.”
“Listen here, you shitty—”
“I had forgotten all about the contract and made room in my brain for, I don’t know, stuff I need to know to win court trials or something—until Rue told me what Florence did to Harkness. That’s when I got suspicious—”
“Was it my fault?” I asked softly. My office plummeted into silence.
Both sisters turned to me—Tisha, worried, and Nyota, uncharacteristically willing to forsake the usual roasting in favor of some heartfelt sympathy. “No,” she said firmly through FaceTime. “Well, yes. But you were a young academic, which often translates to ‘appallingly uneducated in anything that has real-life implications.’ You probably still are, to be honest. Uneducated, that is. Not young. You’re both decrepit—”
“Why are you taking this so well?” Tisha interrupted her, frowning at me. “Not that I expected histrionics or tears, but this is an exceptional amount of resilience, even for you.”
I made myself shrug. Saying Because she did the same to Eli and Minami felt too depressing.
“If it’s any consolation, since Florence knew she didn’t have the right to give you ownership of the tech, you could still sue her for whatever the company makes on the sale,” Nyota said quietly.
But I didn’t care about money, at least as much as it was possible to not care after having grown up without it. Even as a child I’d known that the reason I was unhappy, hungry, lonely, was not the lack of money. Money was the middleman, the broker between my miserable life and decent food, clothes, opportunities. Opportunities that would let me leave home and become someone else.
My project, though, had meant something. I’d cradled it and nurtured it, believing that it could make a difference for someone out there. But the contract wasn’t valid, because I’d trusted the wrong person.
Stupid. Just stupid.
Was this how Eli had felt all those years ago? This soulcrushing combination of shame, resentment, and resignation? “Is there any way—any legal way—for me to make this right?”