Three in the morning. The red digits on my bedside clock glowed like angry eyes in the darkness, marking the hours I'd spent lying perfectly still beside my sleeping husband. Ryker's breathing was deep and even, his arm thrown carelessly across the space where I used to curl against his chest.
Now that space felt like a chasm.
I slipped from beneath the covers with practiced silence, my bare feet finding the cool hardwood without a creak. The bathroom door closed behind me with the softest click, and I sank onto the marble floor, my back against the locked door.
The international calling app connected on the second ring.
"Sloane?" Dr. Kessler's voice carried across the Atlantic, tinged with concern. In Zurich, it was nine in the morning—perfect timing for a conversation that could destroy my marriage or save my career. "What's wrong?"
"They forged my signature." The words tumbled out in a whisper. "The patent transfer—it's not real. But Patricia, they did something else. There's a spousal authorization form attached to the application."
Silence stretched across the connection. I could picture him in his pristine office overlooking Lake Zurich, his weathered hands steepled as he processed the implications.
"A spousal authorization," he repeated slowly. "That would explain why the patent office didn't flag the signature discrepancy. If they believed you'd given written consent for your husband to handle the transfer..."
"Can we fight it?"
"If you can prove the authorization is fraudulent, absolutely. Not only can we reverse the transfer, but academic fraud carries serious penalties. Criminal penalties." His voice hardened with the righteous anger I remembered from his Columbia lectures. "But Sloane, we need the original experimental data. The raw research files, the lab notebooks, the preliminary test results—everything that proves you were the sole inventor."
My stomach dropped like a stone. "They're not on my personal drives."
"Where are they?"
I closed my eyes, seeing the familiar blue-and-silver logo in my mind. "Ashford BioTech servers. The family lab in Austin. Everything's backed up there."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Can you access them remotely?"
"No." The word felt like admitting defeat. "I'd need to be physically present. But Patricia, they revoked my access two months ago. Ryker said it was a security upgrade, that they were updating the entire system."
Now I understood why.
Dr. Kessler's sigh carried the weight of thirty years in academia, thirty years of watching brilliant minds get crushed by politics and greed. "Then you need to get back in there. Whatever it takes."
I ended the call and sat in the darkness of my bathroom, marble cold against my spine, planning my next move. The woman who'd cooked dinner for her cheating husband last night felt like a stranger. In her place sat someone harder, someone who could smile while laying traps.
By the time I returned to bed, Ryker hadn't moved. But his breathing had changed—lighter, more conscious. He was awake.
Pretending to sleep, just like I was.
---
Morning light filtered through the kitchen windows as I arranged fresh berries on Ryker's Greek yogurt, the domestic ritual feeling like performance art. He sat at our marble breakfast bar, scrolling through emails on his phone, designer glasses perched on his nose.
The picture of a successful husband. If you didn't look too closely.
"I've been thinking," I said, keeping my voice light as I slid the bowl across to him. "Maybe I should go back to the lab."
Ryker's thumb froze over his phone screen. For just a moment, his carefully composed expression flickered.
"The lab?" He looked up, green eyes searching my face. "Sloane, you haven't worked there in two years. I thought you were happy focusing on your writing."
I laughed, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "Writing restaurant reviews and lifestyle pieces? Come on, Ryker. I'm a neuroscientist. I have a PhD from Columbia, not a degree in food blogging."
"You're brilliant at everything you do." His voice carried that familiar warmth, the honey-smooth tone that had once made me believe I was special. "But the lab... it's stressful. The pressure, the long hours. I don't want you burning out again."
Burning out. His euphemism for the nervous breakdown I'd had when my research funding was mysteriously pulled, when three years of work had been deemed "not commercially viable" by the Ashford board.
The same board his father chaired.
"I miss it," I said simply. "The research, the discovery. I feel like I've been sleepwalking for two years. My hands are getting rusty—I can barely remember the protocols I used to know by heart."
Ryker set down his spoon, yogurt forgotten. His expression had shifted into something I recognized—the calculating look he wore during business negotiations.
"If that's what you really want," he said slowly, "I could talk to security. Have them restore your access."
Too fast. Too eager.
The response I'd expected, but his tone sent ice through my veins. If Ryker had successfully transferred my patents, if Maren now legally owned my life's work, then he needed me to appear complicit. He needed witnesses who could say Dr. Sloane Ashford had voluntarily returned to research, had willingly collaborated on projects that were no longer hers.
"Would you?" I let hope creep into my voice, the breathless excitement of a woman grateful for her husband's support. "I know it's a lot to ask..."
"It's not asking too much." He reached across the counter, his fingers closing over mine. "I want you to be happy, Sloane. I want you to have everything you deserve."
The irony was suffocating.
"I'll make the calls today," he continued, already pulling out his phone. "Get you full access restored by tomorrow. You can start whenever you're ready."
I squeezed his hand, playing the role of the grateful wife. But inside, warning bells were screaming. This was too easy. Too convenient. Ryker was many things, but he wasn't careless.
If he was this eager to get me back into that lab, there was something there he wanted me to find. Or something he was certain I'd never discover.
Either way, I was walking into a trap.
But for the first time in months, I felt alive. The prey was finally ready to hunt.
