Chapter 52 Rebuilding
ANNA'S POV
“They’re waiting for you in your office,” the nurse said softly.
I gave her a small nod without looking up, my attention still fixed on the transparent beaker in my hand. The liquid inside shimmered faintly under the lab lights, the color settling into the exact shade I had been aiming for. Satisfied for now, I placed it back into its holder before finally lifting my head. The nurse met my eyes briefly, then turned and walked out, the transparent doors sliding shut behind her.
I was currently in my lab, carefully working on recreating the same drug formula James stole from me years ago.
In the past, I didn’t have all this equipment. I worked with borrowed tools, outdated machines, and limited access. I had to secretly use Greenleaf’s equipment without their knowledge, sneaking into restricted labs and pretending I belonged there when I didn’t. I always volunteered for overtime, waiting until the building emptied out, until it was just me and the security guard who usually stayed outside the building half-asleep in his chair. That was when I did my real work.
Even then, I knew what I had created was revolutionary. But I also knew it wasn’t perfect. Not because the science was wrong, but because fear rushed me. I was always looking over my shoulder, listening for footsteps, watching the door instead of the data. One wrong move back then could have cost me everything.
Today was different.
There was no rush. No fear. No one to hide from. I had the best equipment money could buy, a full lab under my name, and time — something I never had before. I could afford to slow down, to test, retest, and refine until the formula was flawless. This wasn’t about proving anything anymore. It was about fixing.
I adjusted the microscope and leaned in, observing the reaction closely. The changes were subtle, but they mattered. James’ version suppressed symptoms temporarily, masking the chronic eczema stop just long enough to impress investors and silence patients. But the side effects always returned, sometimes worse. That was where he failed.
Rebuilding the formula wasn’t about starting from scratch.
It was about correcting a lie.
The original compound had been rushed, altered just enough to look different on paper but still unstable in practice. I could see the flaws immediately — the inflammatory rebound, the way the skin adapted too quickly, the long-term immune resistance no one wanted to talk about.
That was where I began.
First, I isolated the core active compound — the part that actually targeted the immune overreaction responsible for chronic eczema. The science itself was solid. It always has been. What James changed was the delivery and suppression mechanism, cutting corners to accelerate results for investors.
I refused to do that.
I adjusted the molecular binding rate, slowing it down so the skin could accept the treatment without triggering shock responses. Instead of forcing inflammation to shut down aggressively, the new version taught the immune cells to recalibrate themselves gradually.
That was the difference between treatment and cure.
Next came reformulating the stabilizers. Years ago i had used cheaper synthetic agents to preserve shelf life. They worked fast but at a cost. Over time, they thinned the skin barrier, making patients dependent instead of healed.
I replaced them with bio-adaptive carriers, compounds that responded to individual skin chemistry. Expensive. Time-consuming. Worth it.
Then I tested.
Again and again.
Lab simulations first — artificial skin models, immune response mapping, long-term exposure projections. Every variation that caused rebound symptoms or dependency was discarded immediately. I wasn’t building a product. I was building something permanent.
When the simulations stabilized, I moved to controlled trials.
Small doses. Slow escalation. Every reaction monitored.
No flares.
No withdrawal effects.
No suppression fatigue.
This was good progress.
At this rate, this new formula could be released in 2 or 3 days.
I never expected to have done this so quickly.
That was the difference between the me of now and the me of five years ago.
Back then I didn’t have the knowledge I have now, I didn’t have a PHD in what I did.
But seeing it now just seemed much easier than doing it almost blindly five years ago
Another step closer to hurting that bastard.
I straightened, removing my gloves and tossing them into the disposal bin.
James still thought there was hope for the both of us.
The thought alone made me scoff. I remembered the way he spoke to me at the ceremony, the confidence in his voice, the entitlement in his eyes. As if time had erased what he did. As if betrayal had an expiration date.
After all the pain and suffering I went through because of him, what annoyed me even more was the fact that he still thought the baby I told him about all those years ago was alive. Even after he pushed me out of his house that night and left me bleeding on the floor, after turning his back on me, he still believed our child — no, my child had survived.
The memory tightened something in my chest.
If not for the fact that the ceremony was an important day for my dad and I didn’t want to cause a scene, I would have lost my cool right there. Every time James mentioned that child I was on the edge of snapping. He had no idea how close he was to crossing a line he could never come back from.
He honestly didn’t know what was coming for him.
And I didn’t think he would be able to take it when I was done.
I cleaned my hands slowly, methodically, letting the water run longer than necessary. With everything that was about to happen, I was certain he would lose that managing director position. A position he got because of me. A title built on my work, my research, my sleepless nights.
And James would never accept losing it.
So he would come back. I knew him too well to doubt that. When investors started pulling out, when the board questioned his credibility, when his carefully built image began to crack, he would come looking for the one person who could fix it.
Me.
That was where my real game would begin.
I would smile. I would tell him I’d forgiven him. I would let him believe it. Let him relax. Let him talk. Each meeting, each conversation, every desperate plea disguised as charm — I would record it all. Every admission. Every slip of the tongue. Every time he referred to the formula as “ours” instead of his.
And when the time was right, when I finally stood in front of the top shareholders at his company, I wouldn’t need emotion or revenge-fueled accusations. I would have evidence. Clean, undeniable proof that the world’s “genius” had built his empire on stolen work.
I removed my lab coat and hung it neatly on the rack before glancing at the time.
They were waiting.