My Partner Gave My Invention to His Mistress

The white dress felt perfect on me as I stepped into the gala venue. Three years of late nights, endless cups of coffee, and lines of code that stretched into infinity had led to this moment—our Series-A funding celebration. The dress was my small rebellion against the hoodies and jeans that had become my uniform. Tonight, I wanted to feel like the founder I'd worked so hard to become.

"Gemma!" Benicio's voice cut through the ambient chatter. My lead engineer approached with his trademark enthusiasm, followed by Saint, our security architect. "The investors are asking about the neural network's learning curve. They're blown away by the numbers."

"Tell them it's just the beginning," I said, smoothing down my dress nervously. "Once we implement the next phase of the algorithm—"

"Excuse me." A voice sliced through our conversation. Whitney Salazar stood there in a blood-red dress that hugged every curve, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "I was looking for Patrick. Have you seen him?"

I hadn't. And something in her eyes told me she knew exactly where he was.

"Last I saw, he was by the stage," Saint offered helpfully.

Whitney's smile widened. "Thank you so much. You're such a sweetheart." She turned to me, her eyes flickering over my white dress with barely concealed disdain. "Love your dress, Gemma. So... classic."

Before I could respond, she pivoted sharply, her arm swinging in an exaggerated gesture. The glass of red wine in her hand arced through the air in slow motion. Time seemed to stop as the dark liquid splashed across my chest, blooming like a crimson flower across the pristine white fabric.

"Oh my God!" Whitney's hand flew to her mouth in mock horror. "I'm so clumsy! Let me help you!"

Her fingers brushed against my dress, somehow managing to spread the stain further. The cold wetness seeped through to my skin as conversations around us halted, all eyes turning toward the spectacle.

"I'll be fine," I managed, backing away from her touch. "Just need to clean up."

I turned and fled toward the restrooms, feeling the weight of stares burning into my back. The white dress that had felt so perfect now hung heavy with humiliation.

In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, I dabbed uselessly at the stain with damp paper towels. The wine had already set into the fabric. My reflection looked back at me, eyes wide with shock and something else—a dawning understanding that this wasn't an accident.

The sound system in the bathroom crackled to life, and Patrick's voice filled the space.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce the brilliant mind behind NeuralNext's revolutionary architecture—Whitney Salazar!"

My hands froze mid-motion. Through the speaker, I heard applause and Whitney's practiced laugh.

"Thank you all so much," her voice purred. "When Patrick first approached me about this project, I knew we were on the verge of something game-changing."

My stomach twisted as she continued, claiming credit for algorithms I'd spent sleepless nights perfecting.

"And now," Patrick's voice resumed, "I want to thank Whitney for her visionary leadership. Her insight has been invaluable to our success."

Not once did he mention my name.

I returned to the gala floor wearing a borrowed blazer that hung awkwardly from my shoulders. The white dress was tucked discreetly into a plastic bag at my feet.

"Patrick," I said, approaching him near the bar. "We need to talk."

He turned, his expression a careful mask of concern. "Gemma, you disappeared. Are you feeling better?"

"That wasn't an accident," I said quietly. "And she's taking credit for my work."

Patrick's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're being hysterical. Whitney is just speaking to the investors in terms they understand."

"In terms they understand?" My voice rose despite my efforts to control it. "She's telling them she built the neural architecture!"

"Lower your voice," Patrick hissed. "You're being too emotional for this crowd."

"They love Whitney's presentation skills," he continued, his tone softening into something patronizing. "She's polished, professional. Investors respond to that."

"And I'm just the awkward coder who can't string a sentence together?" I asked incredulously.

"You're the brain, Gemma." Patrick placed a hand on my shoulder, his touch feeling suddenly foreign. "Whitney's just the face. We need both."

I pulled away from him, suddenly needing air.

Hours later, sleep eluded me. The conversation with Patrick played on repeat in my mind. *You're being too emotional.* *Whitney's just the face.*

At 3 AM, I gave up and powered on my laptop. Might as well check on tomorrow's deployment.

Something was wrong.

A notification blinked on my screen—unusual activity on the server. Someone was dumping encrypted data to an external IP address.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, tracing the connection. The data was being sent to a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands.

I dug deeper, cross-referencing the registration information. The pseudonym used to register the company matched Whitney's mother's maiden name.

This wasn't about credit or presentations anymore.

This was theft.