"One forty-three," I repeated, staring at the thick black marker on the magnetic strip.
The hospital door swung open. Camila stepped into the room, a little breathless, as though she had hurried down the corridor.
"It is a quarterly test batch number," Camila announced, stopping at the foot of my bed.
"Priya, stop interrogating my staff without corporate counsel present," Victor ordered from my bedside.
Their voices overlapped perfectly. The timing was too precise, too practiced. I gripped the edge of my blanket, feeling the stiff leather of my hidden folder beneath the fabric.
"Why was my access card hidden inside your sample box?" I asked Camila, without acknowledging my husband.
Camila lifted her right arm. She pulled back her silk sleeve to reveal a faint purple bruise on her wrist. "If the system did not prioritize my seat, the chassis would have crushed me. Do you wish the car made a different choice, Isabella?"
I looked at her bruised skin, then down at my own arm, sealed in a thick cast and pinned against my ribs.
"I wish my husband did not manually program my seat to fail," I replied without wavering.
Camila dropped her arm. "I am a critical testing asset. The car saved the company."
"Hand over the backend login records for the past seven days," I demanded.
Camila shifted her weight. She did not look at me. Her eyes darted to Victor. He gave a fraction of a nod, a microscopic tilt of his chin.
"Releasing those logs requires formal board approval," Camila stated, crossing her arms.
Priya ignored them both. She jammed the gold card into the adapter on her tablet. Her fingers flew across the glass screen, bypassing the main interface to pull the cached data directly from the plastic chip.
"I do not need her permission," Priya muttered. "The card stores local directory paths."
Lines of code reflected in Priya’s glasses. "Scenario directory zero-zero-one through one-forty-three."
"Stop the scan," Victor demanded, stepping toward the rolling tray.
Priya angled her shoulder, blocking his reach. "These are not crash simulations. The file names are tagged as divorce asset division, shareholder incapacitation, vehicle collision, and public relations control."
"Ninety-six of these simulations end with you losing your voting rights," Priya added, looking at me. "And Victor retaining total corporate control."
My chest tightened. "Open the asset division folder."
Priya tapped the screen. A grid of thumbnails populated the display.
I recognized the architectural renderings at once. The Brickell Bay penthouse. The imported marble breakfast bar. The custom-built hidden wine cabinet.
"You gave me a six-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar budget," I said, staring directly at Camila. "Fourteen months ago. You claimed you needed an expedited layout for an anonymous VIP client."
Camila took a step back toward the door, her composure cracking.
"I spent three weeks drafting the dual closets in the master bedroom," I continued, the memory turning bitter on my tongue. "I measured the precise hanging length required for Victor’s tailored suits."
Victor crossed his arms, his posture rigid. "You are misinterpreting a real estate investment."
"I picked the mahogany wood grain for my husband and his mistress," I said, letting the words fill the sterile room. "You sat beside me on our living room couch, reviewing those exact blueprints. You praised my eye for your lifestyle."
I did not shed a tear. I grabbed my dead phone from the bedside table, realized the screen was shattered, and pointed at Priya.
"Take a picture of those blueprints and send it to my secure email," I instructed.
Priya snapped the photo. Then she opened the next directory.
"This cache goes deep," Priya said, her voice dropping. "There is a three-year-old file here. Sebring crash appeal. Noah Bennett."
I knew that name. Noah was the former professional racer who hit the retaining wall during a VelaDrive track test. Victor had publicly blamed driver error, ruining Noah’s career.
"The predictive braking patch locked the rear wheels prematurely," Priya read from the summary text. "Victor buried the telemetry data. He blamed Noah to save the launch."
"That is stolen company property," Victor warned, his voice turning dangerously quiet.
"I designed the new safety experience center for free to help rebuild your image after that crash," I told Victor. "I defended you to the press. I never even met Noah."
"Noah was a drunk who could not handle the torque," Victor spat. "The company survived because I made the hard choices."
"The card only proves login history," Priya interrupted, turning the tablet toward me. "The full protection list and the raw simulation data live on the VelaDrive cloud servers. We have a problem, Isabella. The system runs a ninety-six-hour auto-wipe protocol after any critical accident."
I checked the clock on the wall. "How much time is left?"
"Less than forty-eight hours," Priya confirmed. "The only way to stop the wipe is if you sign a criminal evidence preservation request right now. As a victim inside the vehicle, your signature forces a judicial hold."
"If you sign that, the accident becomes public," Victor said. He leaned against the metal bed frame, trapping me in his shadow. "The IPO gets suspended. Your fifteen percent equity becomes worthless overnight. You will bankrupt us both."
I met his gaze. "You priced my life into a simulation. You calculated the price of my death."
"I can restore the data for you privately," Victor offered, his tone softening into a twisted imitation of compromise. "Just lift this medical restriction and sign the joint PR statement. Eight years of marriage, Isa. Do not throw our future away over a software glitch."
"Explain the Brickell Bay penthouse," I demanded.
Victor closed his mouth. His jaw clamped shut. He refused to say a single word about the blueprints.
"Give me the tablet," I told Priya.
She handed me the device. The digital signature line pulsed at the bottom of the legal request.
"Isabella, do not do this," Victor warned. "You have no idea what you are triggering."
I dragged my left index finger across the glass, signing my full name.
"Submitted," Priya announced, pulling the tablet back.
Victor pulled his phone from his pocket. His thumb darted across the screen.
"Founder visitor access revoked," Victor stated, his eyes cold. "You are locked out of the VelaDrive network."
A loud beep erupted from Priya’s tablet. A red countdown swallowed her screen.
Forty-seven hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-nine seconds.
"What did you do?" I asked Victor.
"I am protecting my company," he replied.
The timer ticked down. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.
A yellow warning banner flashed above the numbers.
"Someone is fighting us for the logs," Priya shouted, tapping furiously to counter the command. "A remote admin is trying to execute an early data wipe."
I looked past the foot of my bed. Victor held his phone to his ear, the call connected.
Camila spun around, her shoes slipping on the floor, and sprinted full speed toward the hospital elevator.
