I didn't turn around immediately because fear needed time to choose its shape. The screen glowed too brightly, exposing more than I was ready to confront. Every instinct screamed that work had stopped being abstract.
"Why are you still here?" Liam asked from behind me.
I closed the access logs slowly. My hands felt unsteady, which annoyed me more than the fear itself. Vulnerability always arrived uninvited at the worst possible moments.
"We need to talk right now," I said.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. That proximity once felt like collaboration but now felt like exposure. I gestured toward the chair without looking at him directly.
"I pulled system activity from last night's breach," I continued. "There were access attempts outside our approved windows and timeframes."
"That's not unusual during development phases," he said carefully.
"It's unusual when credentials belong to no one authorized." I finally turned to face him. "And when architecture diagrams are touched without documentation."
Silence stretched between us, taut and vibrating with accusation.
He exhaled slowly and leaned against the desk. "Are you accusing me of something specific here?"
"I'm stating facts, which you taught me matters most."
His jaw tightened visibly in the harsh light. "I would never compromise this project we're building together."
"I want to believe that more than anything," I said.
We went through the logs together, line by line. Someone had mapped our transaction flow logic. They had accessed the predictive routing framework. Pieces of our internal architecture had been mirrored. It was incomplete, but enough to replicate the idea.
"This isn't random," Liam said finally. "Someone knows what to look for."
"And someone thinks PayFlow is worth stealing," I said. "Which means we're visible to competitors now."
Visibility had always been the goal. Now it felt like a threat.
We implemented emergency containment protocols immediately. Locking down repositories, rotating credentials, isolating sensitive modules. The work was frantic and precise. Adrenaline pushed us past exhaustion. For hours, nothing existed beyond code and consequence.
Somewhere between urgency and silence, something fractured between us.
"You should have told me sooner about this," he said.
"I found out tonight, I didn't withhold anything intentionally."
"You questioned me first instead of the breach."
I turned to face him then, anger finally breaking through restraint. "Because trust matters more than systems ever will."
"That cuts both ways in partnerships," he said.
The words landed harder than he intended them to. I stepped back, creating distance I suddenly needed desperately.
"You still see me as risk rather than partner."
He ran a hand through his hair hard. "I see the situation as fragile right now."
"So do I, but fragility doesn't justify constant suspicion."
We stopped talking after that exchange. We retreated into separate tasks, collaboration reduced to necessity. The office felt smaller, walls closing in under unspoken accusations.
My father called later that evening.
"You should come home, there are rumors spreading."
"Rumors about what?" I asked.
"About you and this company you're building."
My chest tightened at his tone. "From where?"
He hesitated before answering. "From people who believe you're overreaching."
I laughed bitterly at that familiar refrain. "That belief has always existed."
"Be careful, not everyone wants you succeeding."
I ended the call without reassurance.
At home, Maria waited in the living room. Her posture stayed relaxed, expression unreadable. She looked pleased in a way that made my skin prickle.
"You look stressed, startups can be brutal."
"What do you want?" I asked.
She smiled slowly. "Just sisterly concern."
I didn't respond to that lie.
Sleep refused to come that night at all. My mind replayed access logs, conversations, glances I might have misread. Trust felt like currency I could no longer afford spending.
Liam arrived early the next day, visibly tense.
"We have a problem," he said.
"What problem?" I asked.
"A recruiter contacted me about consulting work."
"And why does that matter?" I pressed.
"They referenced concepts we haven't published anywhere." His voice dropped. "Architecture language only we would use."
The room went cold instantly.
"That means the leak is already moving," I said. "And someone is testing interest."
"It also means someone close is talking."
Anger flared sharp and fast. "Don't look at me like that."
"I'm not accusing you," he said quickly.
"So am I, but understanding requires honesty."
The rest of the day unraveled under pressure. External interest surged suddenly, too fast, too specific. Emails arrived asking pointed questions. PayFlow was being circled by competitors.
By evening, I felt completely hollowed out inside.
We stayed late again, exhaustion peeling back layers. When tension finally broke, it didn't explode. It collapsed inward instead.
"I can't lose this," Liam said quietly. "I have nothing else."
The admission startled me more than anger could.
"You're not losing it," I said. "We protect it together."
He looked at me then, really looked. Something raw and unguarded broke through his control. For a moment, distance between us disappeared. Shared fear mixed with something close to comfort.
We didn't touch each other. We didn't need to.
When I left that night, my phone buzzed again.
An anonymous message appeared, stripped of pleasantries entirely.
We know what you're building. We know who you trust. Decide carefully what happens next.
I stood frozen on the pavement outside. City noise roared around me as weight settled fully.
Someone was watching us very closely now.
I walked toward the tube station quickly. My phone buzzed again, another message arriving immediately.
The attachment opened automatically on my screen. Security footage from our office. Timestamped from tonight. Liam and I visible at our desks. The angle showed everything we'd been working on.
My blood ran cold as I scrolled.
More footage. From last week. From yesterday morning. From every single day we'd been there.
Someone had cameras inside our office this entire time.
The final message appeared as I reached the station.
Check your partnership agreement. Read clause seventeen carefully. You signed something you didn't understand.
My hands shook as I pulled up the document. I scrolled to clause seventeen with my heart hammering.
The words blurred then sharpened into focus.
Intellectual property rights revert to primary investor upon breach. Primary investor defined as majority stakeholder in affiliated entities.
My stomach dropped as I saw the signature. The witness signature below the primary investor line.
Professor John Dean.
And below his name, in smaller print, the affiliated entity.
Owen Capital Holdings.
My father's company.
I looked up from my phone slowly. Across the platform, partially hidden behind a newspaper stand, I saw someone watching me.
Maria stepped into the light, phone in hand. She smiled and raised it slightly. Taking a photo of my face right now. Capturing this exact moment of realization.
Then she turned and walked away into the crowd.
My phone buzzed one final time.
Welcome to the family business, little sister.