Chapter 6 - The Digital Confession
The heavy oak doors of the study slammed shut, locking behind them. Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. Dr. Gregory Vance sat rigidly in the leather armchair opposite Ethan’s desk, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning. Two security guards stood like statues by the door, while Rose leaned against the bookshelf, flipping open the black leather binder.
“Let’s look at the numbers, Gregory,” Rose said calmly, pulling out a series of printed PDF logs. “Phase II trials for the BioGenesis metabolic regeneration serum. Subject designation: Whitmore, N. Dosage administered over the last fourteen months: 0.4 milligrams per kilogram, masked as standard long-acting insulin.”
Vance swallowed hard, attempting to regain his professional composure. He adjusted his cuffs, forcing a thin, nervous smile. “These documents are fabricated. Even if they weren't, everything I did was authorized under the experimental medical waiver signed by the board of directors—and countersigned by your corporate representatives, Ethan.”
“My corporate representatives don't sign away my son’s life,” Ethan said, his voice a low, lethal whisper. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “And the board of directors doesn't own this estate. You thought you could hide behind corporate red tape, use my grief over Natalie against me, and turn my boy into your personal lab rat while milking BioGenesis stock options.”
“If this goes public, your own company’s stock will plummet alongside BioGenesis,” Vance snapped, the mask finally cracking completely as desperation took over. “The scandal will wipe out half your portfolio. Are you willing to destroy your empire just to prove a point about a medical trial that was designed to cure your son’s diabetes?”
“Cure?” Rose scoffed, stepping forward and slamming a medical report down onto the desk in front of him. “You weren't curing him, Gregory. Your synthetic peptides were inducing intermittent pancreatic necrosis to test tissue regeneration rates under stress. If Noah had gone another month under your care, his pancreas would have suffered irreversible scarring.”
Vance stared at the report, realizing he had nowhere left to run. His fingers twitched nervously toward his leather medical case resting on the floor beside his chair.
“Don't even think about it,” one of the security guards rumbled, stepping half a step closer.
Ethan reached over and picked up the encrypted tablet Howard had brought earlier. He tapped the screen, and a high-definition video recording began playing loudly in the quiet study.
The audio filled the room: Dr. Vance’s voice, clear and unmistakable, speaking to a BioGenesis executive over an unencrypted satellite line three weeks ago.
“The boy is holding up better than expected. Whitmore is completely oblivious; he thinks I’m just a glorified pediatrician. Once we get the final tissue biopsy data next month, we can lock down the patent and push the IPO through before the end of the fiscal year. If his health dips, we just blame natural diabetic variance. Who’s going to question a billionaire’s private physician?”
The audio stopped.
The silence in the study was absolute.
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Ethan slowly stood up from his chair. He didn't yell. He didn't throw anything. He simply walked around the desk, stopping two inches away from Vance.
“The police are already in the driveway,” Ethan said quietly. “Along with federal investigators from the SEC and the FDA’s medical fraud division. Your career, your patents, and your freedom are over.”
