The stage became an operating theater. Anya vaulted the low stairs, her outdated dress no impediment. "Someone call 911!" she commanded, her voice cutting through the panic with the sharp authority of a scalpel. "Tell them suspected massive stroke, get me a time of collapse!"
She knelt beside Alistair, her fingers immediately finding the carotid artery. Pulse was thready, weak.
"Stay away from him!" Bentley lunged forward, his face a mask of fury and grief. "This is your fault!"
Two security guards intercepted him, holding him back as he struggled. "You did this!" he screamed at Anya.
Anya ignored him. She was checking Alistair's pupillary response with the light from a waiter's phone. "He needs a thrombolytic, now. What's his medical history? Is he on blood thinners?"
No one answered. They just stared, frozen.
Belle rushed to Bentley's side, clinging to him. "She's trying to finish the job," she whispered, loud enough for those nearby to hear.
The paramedics arrived, a whirlwind of professional calm. Anya gave them a swift, precise report, a string of medical jargon they understood perfectly. As they loaded Alistair onto a gurney, Bentley finally broke free from security.
He got in Anya's face, his voice a low, venomous hiss. "This is over. The moment he's stable, I'm coming for you. I'll have your medical license revoked. I'll blacklist you from every research facility in the country. You'll never work in this field again."
Anya looked at him. She felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. It was like looking at a specimen in a jar.
"You can't," she said, her voice quiet but carrying an impossible weight.
"Watch me," he snarled.
"You can't blacklist the patent holder, Bentley," she stated, her gaze unwavering. She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and held it up. Displayed there, clear as day, was the official filing from the United States Patent and Trademark Office. For a novel tau protein inhibitor. The very drug at the heart of their breakthrough.
Inventor: Dr. Anya Blair.
Assignee: A. Blair Medical Solutions, LLC.
Bentley stared at the screen. The color drained from his face for the second time that night, leaving a mottled, sickly grey. It was the color of absolute ruin.
"We're leaving," Anya said to no one in particular.
She turned and walked away from the wreckage of the party, her pulse still holding steady at seventy-two.
