He had spent decades calling it family money.
But it had been hers.
Her work.
Her invention.
Her risk.
Her judgment.
Her reward.
And then I noticed a name listed beneath hers.
S.
R.
Prescott.
I frowned.
“Who is S.R.?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“We assumed a relative.”
I looked at the date.
The patent was filed twenty-nine years ago.
The year I was born.
S.R.
Sylvie Rose.
Impossible.
I flipped pages.
There.
A supplementary designation.
Beneficiary designation for derivative intellectual property: Sylvie Rose Prescott.
My blood ran cold.
“Why would my name be on something filed when I was a baby?”
Ingrid said nothing.
I called Nathaniel.
He arrived two hours later.
When he saw the patent, he sat very still.
“You knew.”
It wasn’t a question.
He removed his glasses.
“Sylvie.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Why is my name on this?”
He closed the conference room door.
