Read Chapter 30: The Competition

The email header flashed on Jazz's phone screen: *FLATTECH INNOVATION AWARDS — FINALIST NOTIFICATION*. She swiped it open while Tom hovered over her shoulder, coffee steam curling past his chin.

"Hybrid Voice Solutions," she read aloud. "Shortlisted for Best Emerging Product. Against—" She scrolled, breath catching. "NovaSpeech AI."

Tom set his mug down slowly. "Priya's old company."

"And Eleanor's noon deadline is in four hours." Jazz pocketed her phone. "This is either the universe's cruelest joke or its most convenient distraction."

The awards ceremony was that evening. The incubator had already RSVP'd on their behalf weeks ago, back when they'd first applied, before the patent claim, before Miles's ultimatum, before Jazz had kissed her co-founder and agreed to pretend she hadn't.

"We need to be there," Tom said. "If we win, it's leverage. Validation of our IP before the hearing."

"If we lose, it's a very public reminder that NovaSpeech filed first."

"Then we'd better not lose."

---

The venue was a converted warehouse in Shoreditch, industrial-chic with exposed brick and Edison bulbs casting amber pools over clusters of startup founders. Jazz smoothed her blazer—the good one, saved for investor meetings that never happened—and scanned the room.

Tom appeared beside her with two champagne flutes. "I counted nine people from the incubator. Marcus is by the bar."

"Anyone else we know?"

His jaw tightened. "Not yet."

The opening speeches blurred past—sustainability in fintech, something about blockchain and supply chains. Jazz's palms slicked with sweat each time an award category approached. When the host finally announced "Emerging Product," she gripped Tom's sleeve without thinking.

"And the winner is... Hybrid Voice Solutions, from Flatmates & Founders!"

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Tom grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the stage, weaving through applause and backslaps she barely registered. Up the steps. The trophy was heavier than she expected, brushed steel with a glass wave cresting through its centre.

"Speech," Tom hissed.

Right. Words. Jazz faced the room, the lights hot on her face. "We started this company sitting opposite each other in a flat that's too small for two people, with a shared desk and a very shaky Wi-Fi connection." Laughter rippled. "We argued about everything—product direction, branding, whether we could expense oat milk. But we never argued about the work. Because we both believed this technology could change how people talk to machines."

She found Tom's eyes. "So this is for everyone who's ever bet on themselves when no one else would. We're just getting started."

The applause followed them offstage. Tom grabbed her elbow in the wings, eyes bright. "That was—"

"Don't." She held up a hand. "If you say something romantic right now, I'll drop this trophy on your foot."

"I was going to say competent."

"Liar."

They both laughed, tension cracking open just enough to breathe. Then someone behind them cleared their throat.

Priya stood in the corridor's dim light, clutching an award program like a shield. She wore a navy dress Jazz had never seen, hair pulled back differently, and she looked—younger, somehow. Unfinished.

"Congratulations," Priya said. Flat. Formal.

"You're here for NovaSpeech." Jazz heard the accusation in her own voice.

"I'm the product lead now." Priya glanced toward the main hall. "They're presenting in the enterprise category."

Tom shifted beside Jazz. "You didn't mention that when we spoke."

"You didn't mention you were still in the running." Priya's jaw worked. "I'm surprised you made it. Given the—complications."

"Given that your new employer is trying to steal our patent?" Jazz stepped forward. "Given that you quit on us with no explanation and now pretend you don't know us?"

Priya's composure cracked, something raw surfacing behind her eyes. "You don't know anything about why I left."

"Then tell us."

A voice echoed from down the corridor. "Priya! We're on in five."

Her boss. Daniel's partner, Jazz realized—Vikram Shah, sleek in a charcoal suit, striding toward them with a predatory smile. "Ah, the competitors. Enjoy the win while it lasts." He gripped Priya's elbow. "Coming?"

Priya hesitated. Her gaze flicked to Jazz, then Tom, then the program in her hands. She dropped it.

The folder landed open at their feet. Jazz bent to retrieve it as Priya was led away, a spreadsheet tucked inside—Jazz's spreadsheet, the cost analysis from their seed round, covered in red annotations.

"Wait," Jazz called. Priya didn't turn.

They watched her retreat until Vikram's voice faded into the ceremony noise. Jazz looked down at the spreadsheet again. The annotations were detailed, technical, the kind only someone with deep product knowledge could make.

"Priya stole our documents," Tom said quietly.

"No." Jazz traced a red mark beside a production estimate. "Look at these notes. She's flagging where we underpriced. She's trying to protect us."

After the ceremony, they found Priya alone by the loading dock, smoking a cigarette she'd clearly reclaimed from a former habit. She spotted them and stubbed it out with a defeated sigh.

"No scenes," she said. "I'm begging you."

"Were you coerced?" Jazz asked. Direct. No room to dodge.

Priya laughed, but it came out hollow. "Coerced is a strong word."

"What word would you use?"

Silence stretched. A van rumbled past, music thumping. Priya looked at the ground. "Vikram found out about my mother's medical bills. The ones my UK insurance doesn't cover fully. He made an offer that went through the company instead of my salary—a 'special agreement,' he called it." Her voice turned bitter. "But the agreement had a non-compete clause that made my leaving your startup look like a resignation. And an exit bonus tied to me providing 'transitional documentation.'"

"Documents you stole from us," Tom said.

"I thought I was buying my mother two more years." Priya finally met his eyes. "I didn't know they'd use everything I gave them to build the patent claim against you. Not until it was too late."

"Then help us." Jazz stepped closer. "Testify. Tell the hearing what Vikram did."

"I can't." Priya's voice cracked. "If I breach the agreement, they'll claw back the money. My mother's treatments stop. Do you understand what that means?"

The loading dock door banged behind them. Vikram's silhouette appeared.

"Priya. Now."

She moved past them without another word, but as she brushed by Jazz, something small and metallic pressed into her palm—an encrypted USB key.

"Delete that email from our server," Priya whispered. "The one with the attachments. I never should have sent it."

Then she was gone, swallowed by the venue's noise.

Tom watched the door swing shut. "What did she give you?"

Jazz closed her fist around the USB. "Evidence. Maybe." She looked down at the spreadsheet in her other hand, at Priya's protective annotations, at the woman who had burned herself to warm someone else. "But we have four hours until Eleanor's deadline, a hearing in thirty, and now Priya's family caught in the crossfire."

She pocketed the USB. "We need to know what's on this before we decide what to do. Because if Priya can't testify, we need a different way to prove Vikram's threat against her was the reason she left."

"And if Vikram learns we have that?"

Jazz started walking. "Then the game changes faster than he's ready for."