Chapter Fourteen
At ten, another email arrived from Halvorsen Equine. SUBJECT: PROTOCOL OWNERSHIP AND ATTRIBUTION REVIEW I frowned and opened it. The attachment was twenty-seven pages long. By page three, I was standing. By page seven, I had called Nina.
“What is this?”
“I was about to call you.”
“They’ve identified every breeding protocol and selection framework I created before I became an employee.”
“Yes.”
“And every one I developed after.”
“Yes.”
“They want to license some of them.”
“Correct.”
I paced the office.
“They already use them.”
“That’s why this is interesting.”
I stopped.
“Explain.”
“Beckett ordered an intellectual-property review. The company’s position could have been that anything you developed in the scope of employment belongs to Halvorsen Equine.
Instead, they’re distinguishing methods based on evidence of your preexisting notebooks, external consulting work, and personal research.
They are offering to recognize five core frameworks as yours and license continued use. ”
“For money.”
“A lot of money.”
I looked at the number again. A six-figure annual license. Royalty on any third-party commercialization. Attribution in registry presentations and published materials.
“This is insane.”
“No. It’s expensive. Different legal category.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No.”
I hung up and called Beckett. He answered from what sounded like a vehicle.
“Hi.”
“Did you order an IP audit?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I read your consulting files.”
“You keep doing that.”
“They’re in the disclosure package.”
“I saw them.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead.
“Beckett, the company could claim half of this. Maybe more.”
“The company could claim things it didn’t fairly create.”
“That’s not how corporate counsel usually thinks.”
“Corporate counsel works for me.”
There was the billionaire. Except he wasn’t using the power against me.
“You can’t just rewrite history because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not. That’s why we hired outside counsel. They traced the documentation.”
“The license fee is absurd.”
“It’s benchmarked.”
“Against what?”
“Two equine reproductive protocols and one cattle genetics framework licensed in the last six years.”
Of course he had data.
“You had people research comps.”
“Yes.”
“For my horse-breeding notes.”
“For intellectual property our company has been profiting from.”
I sat down. My hands were shaking.
“Why didn’t you do this when I worked there?”
The line went silent. That was the real question.
“Because I didn’t see the line between what you did and what the company did,” he said.
“Because I was your wife.”
“Yes.”
The word hurt. He continued.
“I thought everything we built was ours. But in practice, ‘ours’ meant the company held the asset and you held the labor.”
I closed my eyes.
“That is exactly what it meant.”
He looked down.
“Now.”
“Now.”
No defense. I breathed through the ache.
“Nina is going to negotiate.”
“She should.”
“She might ask for more.”
“She should.”
“You are extremely irritating.”
“I’ve been told.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. I hated it.
“There’s one more thing,” he said.
“What?”
“The association award from three years ago.”
My body went still. Operation of the Year. The dinner he missed.
“What about it?”
“The plaque says Halvorsen Equine. The application materials list me as executive sponsor and you as program manager.”
“That’s how the company submitted it.”
“You wrote the application.”
“Yes.”
“I called the association. They’re issuing a corrected duplicate recognizing you as program founder.”
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
“Beckett.”
“I know a plaque doesn’t fix anything.”
“Then why?”
“Because your work shouldn’t stay inaccurately credited just because correcting it doesn’t fix our marriage.”
I turned toward the window so Tessa, walking past outside, wouldn’t see my face.
“You missed that dinner.”
His face tightened.
“I waited for you until they called my name.”
His breath caught.
“I know now.”
“No, you don’t.”
The old hurt rose, sharp and immediate.
“I stood in the bathroom beforehand and lied to myself that your flight might land early. Then I walked into a ballroom alone and told everyone you had food poisoning because I couldn’t bear to say you chose another dinner.”
Beckett said nothing. Tears slipped down my face.
“I accepted an award for a program I built while pretending my husband was sick because telling the truth would have made me look pathetic.”
His voice was rough when he answered.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want sorry right now.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to understand that if you had walked through the doors five minutes late, I would have forgiven everything. That’s how little I was asking for.”
Silence.
“I know,” he whispered.
“No.”
I wiped my face angrily.
“You know the fact. You don’t know what it felt like.”
“You’re right.”
That stopped me. He did not claim access to my pain.
“You’re right,” he repeated. “I can’t know.”
The anger went out of me as fast as it came. I sat down.
“I’m sorry I yelled.”
“Don’t apologize for that.”
“I don’t want every conversation to become punishment.”
“It isn’t punishment to tell me where I hurt you.”
I stared at the desk. Who was this man? No. That was unfair. He was still Beckett.
The same dry humor. The same habit of calculating fuel costs in his head. The same man who could identify a sick calf from fifty yards and forget where he left his reading glasses. He was simply paying attention in places he had stopped.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Truck. Outside Billings.”
My heart sank before I could stop it.
“Business?”
“Yes.”
Old reflex. Of course. Then he added, “Day trip. I’m driving back tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I have therapy tomorrow morning and I promised myself I wouldn’t move it for work.”
The disappointment transformed into something else.
“Drive safely.”
“I will.”
“And Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for the credit correction.”
He exhaled.
“You’re welcome.”
Poppy came to me without hesitation. I rested my forehead against hers and let that be enough.