“Twelve million,” I repeated, louder this time.

A nearby reporter from the *Chicago Tribune* paused, turning her head toward us.

Adrian’s face paled. “Claire, keep your voice down.”

“You want me to sign away my rights to my own engineering designs,” I said, my voice carrying over the string quartet playing in the corner.

“It’s a fair partnership,” Adrian stammered, his eyes widening as he noticed the reporter stepping closer.

“It’s an attempt to save your company with my work,” I said clearly.

Several guests nearby stopped talking, their attention turning to our group.

Margaret Hale folded her arms, her gaze ice-cold as she stared at Adrian.

“I will not sign your waiver, Adrian,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “And I will not let you touch my designs.”

“Claire, you’re making a mistake,” Adrian said, his voice rising in panic. “The company will go under. We built that company together.”

“You took my name off the door the day I left,” I said. “We build nothing together anymore.”

The reporter, holding a small digital recorder, took another step forward.