Page 9 of Omega's Formula

The morning stretches out in that peculiar way coffee shop mornings do: a steady stream of regulars with their usual orders, the hiss of the espresso machine, the smell of ground beans.My hands move through the motions automatically: cups, shots, steam, milk, pour, lid, slide across the counter with a smile. The ritual of it usually calms me down but today my mind won’t stop churning.

It’s been four years since I got that cease and desist letter.

I can still see it clearly: the lawyer’s careful, clinical language that somehow managed to threaten and dismiss me in the same breath. The absolute devastation of reading those words and realizing, with a dawning horror that made me physically sick, what had happened.

I remember calling their legal department afterward. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. I kept thinking there had to be some mistake, some misunderstanding, something that could be fixed if I just explained. The lawyer on the other end had been bored, clinical, like he dealt with desperate people like me every day and couldn’t be bothered to pretend he cared.

Alistair had sold the research—my research, the work I’d been doing in the lab that I’d set up with my mother’s inheritance—as his own. The patent was filed under his name. The deal was done. And I had to stop developing my own product immediately or face legal action.

I’d been so fucking stupid.

We’d set up the lab together, me and Alistair. Both of us fresh out of our PhD programs, both of us hungry to make something that mattered. We’d met at a conference, bonded over too many drinks and shared dreams about changing the world. He’d been charming, of course, and he understood the business side of things. He talked about patents and intellectual property and licensing agreements like he actually knew what he was doing.

I’d nodded along, trusting him, grateful that someone else was handling the parts that made my eyes glaze over. We werepartners. We were building something together. Why would I question him?

I was the lab rat. I was the one who lived in that cramped space, who ran experiments until my eyes burned, who stayed up nights chasing down results and fell asleep on the old couch in the corner.

Alistair was better with people, better with the money side. When he mentioned we should patent the research, I’d agreed without thinking twice about it. Of course I hadn’t read the paperwork he put in front of me. It was twenty pages of legal jargon, and I trusted him.

Then one day I came home and he was gone.

All his stuff, cleared out. The closet half-empty, his toothbrush missing from the bathroom, the little things that had marked his presence in my life just... vanished. I remember standing in our apartment at the time feeling this strange, hollow confusion. Where was he? Why hadn’t he said anything?

What had happened?

The cease and desist answered that question pretty brutally.

I’d spent the last of my money fighting the case and all I achieved for it was losing every cent I owned.

The research that Alistair stole—that Erik Nilsson stole too, because he was the one profited most—turned into something big. It became a new medication, something that helped people with chronic autoimmune conditions. I’d had an interest because of Ellie, of course. The drugs I’d begun developing hadn’t been right for her, but they were saving thousands of others. I’d begun reading about it in the papers maybe a year after the cease and desist. They called it a wonder drug and then Erik Nilsson’s name started appearing everywhere. I’d seen his face in the papers, in the news articles about the medication. That sharp jaw and those impossibly blue eyes. I have never hated anyone as much as I hated him and Alistair.

If it weren’t for them, I’d have more than enough money to look after Ellie. Her life wouldn’t be at risk. There is no way that the medical trial committee would have turned her down, not if I could afford to pay for it and more.

Hazel sets a fresh espresso in front of me, and I realize I’ve been standing there holding an empty cup for god knows how long. She doesn’t comment on it, just gives me a smile as passes, and I’m grateful for her silence even as it makes my throat tight.

By the time I have to leave for the meeting, I feel hollowed out like someone’s taken my insides and replaced them with static and white noise. Hazel waves me off with an encouraging smile that almost breaks me. “You go have your meeting, honey. You deserve something good.”

I wish.

I’m home within minutes. I avoid Mrs Kay as I come in and am absurdly grateful for that. As supportive as she’s been, I don’t think I can cope with someone being nice to me right now. I just want to get this over with.

I change out of my work clothes, coffee-stained and smelling like espresso, and stand in front of my closet.

I’ve got one suit. It’s navy, bought for Mom’s funeral years ago, but when I pull the suit out now and hold it up, there’s a rip in the knee of the pants. The rip is a good three inches long, the fabric frayed at the edges. I have no idea when it happened. I haven’t worn it in years. Maybe it was moths, maybe it was just age or maybe it’s the universe continuing its ongoing campaign to fuck me over.

I take the pants off their hanger and stare at the tear for a long moment. For a brief second, I consider asking Mrs Kay for a needle and thread. Maybe I can patch it up in time and make myself presentable.

Then I think: fuck it.

What difference would it make? Why is it important to me to look smart? It’s better that I show up in my usual jeans and t-shirt, looking exactly like what I am: someone who makes coffee for a living and can barely afford his rent.

I could understand if Nilsson didn’t know what happened. Hell, I fell for Alistair’s spiel myself. I wouldn’t blame Nilsson for that. It’s almost certain that he bought my research from Alistair in good faith.

But Nilsson can’t say he doesn’t know now. My lawsuit spelled out exactly what happened in excruciating detail giving the timeline of the research and the evidence of my work. I spent months putting the case together, making sure all the evidence was there.

Nilsson didn’t care. He just sicced his attack lawyers on me until I couldn’t afford to fight anymore.

I stand in front of the mirror for a moment, taking in the sight of myself. I look tired. Angry. Scared, if I’m being honest.