A Scientist's Revenge: New Life

Ayla Warner POV:

Ashley shrieked, a high-pitched, piercing sound that tore through the sudden silence of the mansion. Her hands flew to her reddened cheeks, her eyes wide with theatrical horror.

Craig, finally roused from his impassive perch on the sofa, reacted instantly. His face turned a dangerous shade of crimson. He leaped to his feet, grabbing Ashley and pulling her protectively into his arms.

"You crazy bitch!" he roared, glaring at me with raw, murderous intent. "Guards! Get her! Lock her up! And this time, make sure she can't escape!"

He then scooped Ashley up, murmuring reassurances to her as she buried her face in his chest, sobbing hysterically. He carried her out of the mansion, presumably to the hospital again.

That night, alone in my re-imprisoned room, Craig appeared. The lock clicked open, and he stepped in, closing the door softly behind him. He looked strangely calm, his face devoid of the rage from earlier. His eyes, however, held a chilling intensity.

He sat on the edge of the bed, facing me. "Ayla," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle, almost coaxing. "We need to talk. Properly."

I said nothing, just watched him, my heart a stone.

"I need you to do something for me," he continued, his tone softening further. "I need you to transfer all your patents. Your research. Your entire life's work. To Ashley."

My eyes, which had been blank, now narrowed. I stared at him, my mind reeling. Was he truly asking this? After everything?

"And," he added, his voice still unnervingly soft, "I need you to publicly endorse her. To say that her work is revolutionary. That she advanced your research significantly. That she deserves all the credit."

I continued to stare, my gaze unwavering. My medical training, my scientific mind, suddenly clicked into gear. His face was pale, almost gray. There were deep lines etched around his eyes. A tremor ran through his hand as he clasped it.

"Craig," I said, my voice steady. "Have you had a recent check-up? A full physical?"

He stiffened, his gentle facade cracking. "What? Why are you asking that? Don't try to change the subject, Ayla." His voice was sharper now.

"Do you remember what my research was about, Craig?" I pressed, ignoring his irritation. "The core of it? The disease I've been trying to cure?"

His eyes hardened. "I remember you're trying to save the world. Now, stop stalling. We're discussing Ashley."

"No," I countered, a bitter laugh escaping me. "We're discussing your mother, Craig. And the disease that took her." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Early-onset Alzheimer's."

He winced, his face paling further. His hand, resting on his knee, began to tremble noticeably. "Ayla, I'm warning you. Don't go there."

"Are you afraid, Craig?" I asked, my voice laced with a cold irony. "Afraid of facing the truth? The truth about what my research could have done? What it still could do?"

He slammed his hand on the bed, a sudden explosion of anger. "Ashley deserves this! She's worked hard! She's brilliant! You, on the other hand, are a vindictive, jealous woman who tried to destroy her!"

"Brilliant?" I scoffed. "She couldn't differentiate a pipette from a test tube, Craig. She doesn't understand the first thing about genetic sequencing. She'll be exposed the moment she opens her mouth. Do you truly think she can pull this off?"

He rose, his tone dismissive. "I'll take care of it. I'll arrange everything. You just sign the papers and make your statement. It's for the best. For everyone."

I merely smiled, a chilling, mirthless twist of my lips. "I look forward to seeing the show, Craig. It will be quite the spectacle."

He frowned, a flicker of unease in his eyes. He pulled out a tablet and handed it to me. "The documents. Sign them. I'll be back in an hour to collect the transfer. And remember, Ayla," he said, his voice softening, "once this is done, once you've learned your lesson, we can go back to how things were. We can travel. You can restart your research somewhere else. Just you and me."

He even attempted a tender smile. "I miss you, Ayla. I really do."

His words were a bitter mockery. "You won't get the chance, Craig," I whispered, barely audible.

He didn't hear me. He was already turning, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, convinced he had won. He closed the door, and the lock clicked.

Days later, the news was everywhere. Ashley Riddle, draped in a bespoke gown, stood on a brightly lit stage, accepting accolades. "My groundbreaking research," she declared, her voice filled with feigned humility, "will revolutionize the treatment of early-onset Alzheimer's." Craig stood beside her, beaming, his venture capital having smoothed over every rough edge, every factual inaccuracy. She was hailed as a prodigy, a visionary. My name, my years of tireless work, were never once mentioned.

Then, the first crack appeared. A daring journalist, during the Q&A, held up a photo. "Ms. Riddle," he asked, his voice cutting through the celebratory chatter, "this photo shows Dr. Ayla Warner, in this very lab, presenting these exact findings two years ago. Can you explain the discrepancy?"

The screen behind Ashley, seconds later, flashed with the image. My face, tired but triumphant, beside my meticulously organized data.

Ashley gasped, her face draining of color. Her carefully constructed facade crumbled. She clutched at Craig, her eyes wide with terror. "Craig! Make him stop! It's fake! It's all fake!"

Craig immediately rushed forward, his face contorted with fury. "This is slander! False reporting! My lawyers will be in touch!" He bellowed, trying to drown out the murmurs of the crowd. "Ashley Riddle's research is her own! It is entirely original!"

His powerful voice, his sheer intimidation, worked. The image vanished. The journalist was quickly escorted out. The media, ever compliant to power, spun the narrative back in Ashley's favor, vilifying me as a jealous, unstable ex-wife.

That night, at the lavish after-party, Craig celebrated Ashley's "triumph." He was drinking heavily, reveling in her manufactured glory, deflecting every envious glance, every whispered doubt. He even drank a glass of champagne that Ashley, with a sly glance in my direction, claimed was "for her."

Suddenly, Craig clutched his stomach. His face paled. He swayed, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then, with a choked gasp, he collapsed onto the pristine marble floor.

Chaos erupted. Ashley shrieked. Medics rushed forward.

Craig woke to hushed voices. His mother's trembling voice. "Doctor, is it… is it really that bad?"

"Mrs. Davis," the doctor replied, his voice grave. "I'm afraid the tests confirmed our suspicions. It's late-stage pancreatic cancer. Aggressive. And the genetic markers… they indicate a strong predisposition to early-onset Alzheimer's, just like your late husband. I'm so sorry."

"Pancreatic cancer? And Alzheimer's markers?" Craig' s mother sobbed. "Is there nothing? No new treatments?"

"There was a promising target therapy being developed by Dr. Ayla Warner," the doctor said, his voice tinged with regret. "But her research seems to have… vanished. The data was destroyed. It's a tragedy."

Craig's mother gasped. "Ayla! We have to find Ayla! She can save him!"

Craig's heart pounded in his chest, a sickening drumbeat of dread. He felt for his phone, tucked into the pocket of his pajamas. It vibrated. A new message.

It was MY phone. The one he had confiscated. The one he had in his pocket.