Chapter 7: The Truth Behind the Theft
I didn’t answer Evan immediately.
Not because I didn’t know what to say.
Because suddenly, every answer I could give felt too small.
How do you respond when someone who once sat beside you, someone who knew your dreams better than anyone, tells you that the work you spent years creating might not belong to you anymore?
How do you speak to the person who helped build the cage you were trapped inside?
I gripped the phone tighter.
“Evan.””
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
Cold.
Controlled.
“Yes?””
“Why are you calling me?””
A quiet breath.
“I think you know why.””
“No.””
I stood up from my chair.
“I want to hear you say it.””
Silence.
Then he laughed softly.
Not a nervous laugh.
Not an apologetic one.
A tired laugh.
Like I was making this difficult.
“You always did that.””
“Did what?””
“Made things more complicated than they needed to be.””
My stomach tightened.
I had heard those words before.
From my father.
From my mother.
From people who wanted me to stop asking questions.
“What exactly are you trying to tell me, Evan?””
“I’m trying to prevent you from making a mistake.””
“A mistake?””
“Yes.””
I looked at the laptop screen.
The file history.
His name.
The evidence.
“Like trusting you?””
Another silence.
This one was different.
He knew.
“Who told you?””
I almost laughed.
There it was.
Not denial.
Not confusion.
The first thing he asked was who exposed him.
“Does it matter?””
“It matters because you don’t understand what you’re looking at.””
“Then explain.””
Evan sighed.
“Sylvie, you’re emotional right now.””
My eyes narrowed.
“You’re using the same excuse everyone else uses.””
“What?””
“You’re telling me I’m emotional so you don’t have to answer.””
His voice became sharper.
“I’m trying to help you.””
“No.””
I walked toward the window.
“You’re trying to protect yourself.””
“That’s not true.””
“Then tell me why your name is on my research files.””
Nothing.
Not one word.
The silence was louder than any confession.
“Evan?””
He finally spoke.
“You need to understand the situation.””
“What situation?””
“Your work wasn’t ready.””
I froze.
“What?””
“You’re angry because you think I stole something from you.””
“Didn’t you?””
“No.””
His confidence bothered me.
“I refined it.””
I stared out at the city.
“Refined it.””
“Yes.””
“You changed my calculations.””
“I corrected them.””
“You weakened my model.””
“I made it realistic.””
I felt something inside me go still.
Because that was worse than I expected.
He didn’t think he did something wrong.
He believed he was entitled to improve my work.
“You changed my research without telling me.””
“You weren’t listening.””
“What?””
“You were too attached to your original idea.””
My hand tightened around the phone.
“I created that idea.””
“And I helped make it valuable.””
There it was.
The truth.
Not an apology.
Not regret.
A belief.
He thought he deserved it.
“How long have you believed that?””
“Believe what?””
“That my work belonged to you.””
Evan didn’t answer.
Then he said:
“I believed we built it together.””
I closed my eyes.
Because a small part of me remembered.
The late nights.
The discussions.
The ideas we shared.
Evan had contributed.
That was true.
But contribution was not ownership.
“You helped me.””
“Yes.””
“You did not create my research.””
“I helped develop it.””
“You edited it.””
“Exactly.””
“No.””
My voice became stronger.
“You edited something I created.””
He became quiet.
I knew I had said the thing he didn’t want to hear.
“You know what’s interesting?”” I continued.
“What?””
“I spent years thinking I failed because my work wasn’t good enough.””
“Sylvie—”
“No.””
I interrupted.
“I thought I wasn’t smart enough.””
My voice cracked slightly.
“I thought maybe everyone was right. Maybe I was chasing something impossible.””
I looked at the file.
“But someone was changing the results.””
Evan said nothing.
“And you knew.””
“I didn’t know what would happen.””
My heart stopped.
“What does that mean?””
Another pause.
Too long.
“Evan.””
He exhaled.
“I didn’t expect them to reject you.””
The words hit me.
Not because they surprised me.
Because they confirmed it.
“You expected something.””
“Sylvie…”
“What did you do?””
Silence.
Then:
“I submitted the revised version.””
“To who?””
“Investors.””
My hands went cold.
“You submitted my work.””
“Our work.””
“You submitted my work.””
His voice hardened.
“You always wanted recognition.””
“Yes.””
“And now you have it.””
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“What?””
“Wexford Lane found you.””
“Because of my grandmother.””
“No.””
His answer came instantly.
“Because of the research.””
“Research you changed.””
“Sylvie, listen to me.””
I didn’t.
Because suddenly I remembered every time Evan encouraged me to doubt myself.
Every time he told me to make it simpler.
Every time he said I was too ambitious.
He wasn’t helping me succeed.
He was making me smaller.
“I trusted you.””
His voice softened.
“I know.””
“No, you don’t.””
I swallowed.
“You don’t know what that cost.””
For the first time, he sounded uncertain.
“Sylvie…”
“I let you see my work before anyone else.””
“I know.””
“I told you my ideas before they were finished.””
“I know.””
“I defended you when people questioned your involvement.””
Silence.
Then I said:
“And you rewarded me by taking it.””
Evan’s voice dropped.
“You don’t understand the pressure I was under.””
I almost laughed.
“No.””
I looked at the ceiling.
“I understand exactly.””
“You had opportunities.””
“I had opportunities?””
“Yes.””
“You mean because I worked?””
“That’s not what I meant.””
“It is.””
I looked back at the phone.
“You saw something valuable and decided the person who created it didn’t deserve control.””
“That’s not fair.””
“No?””
“No.””
His voice became frustrated.
“You don’t know what it’s like to have one chance.””
I froze.
Because that sentence sounded familiar.
Too familiar.
“Evan.””
“What?””
“Why are you really calling?””
He didn’t answer.
And suddenly I knew.
This wasn’t about explaining.
It wasn’t about apologizing.
He was afraid.
“Wexford found something.””
My silence confirmed it.
He continued.
“They contacted you because they found the original files.””
“Yes.””
“You need to be careful.””
“Why?””
“Because if they prove the original version came first, everything changes.””
I stared.
Everything changes.
“Meaning?””
“My patent.””
There it was.
The word.
The thing he was protecting.
Not me.
Not our friendship.
His patent.
“You filed a patent.””
“I had to.””
“For my research.””
“For our research.””
I ended the call.
I couldn’t listen anymore.
My hands were shaking.
Not from sadness.
From anger.
Not the explosive kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind that arrives when you finally stop making excuses for someone.
I immediately called Daniel.
He answered quickly.
“Did you speak to him?””
“Yes.””
“And?””
I sat down.
“He admitted enough.””
Daniel was quiet.
“What did he say?””
“He said he refined my work.””
A pause.
Then Daniel sighed.
“That’s what we suspected.””
“Can he get away with it?””
“Not if we can prove the timeline.””
I looked at the files.
“What do you need?””
“Everything.””
“Everything?””
“Your original notes. Drafts. Messages. Any communication showing development history.””
I nodded.
“Okay.””
“Sylvie.””
“What?””
“This is going to get complicated.””
I looked around my apartment.
At all the years of work.
All the nights.
All the moments I thought I was failing.
“I know.””
“And your family may become involved.””
I frowned.
“My family?””
Daniel hesitated.
“Yes.””
“Why?””
A pause.
Then:
“Because Evan wasn’t the only person who had access to information about your research.””
My heart slowed.
“What are you saying?””
“We found another connection.””
“Who?””
Daniel was silent.
Then he said:
“The person who helped Evan access your files.””
I waited.
And when he finally said the name, my entire body went cold.
Because it wasn’t a stranger.
It wasn’t a professor.
It wasn’t someone from the university.
It was someone whose birthday party my parents had chosen over my graduation.
May you like
My sister.
Marisa Prescott.
