The Audit

Priya Sharma’s office smelled like paper and cold citrus. June set a leather portfolio on the conference table and unzipped it with a sharp, clean sound. The dress she had chosen that morning was navy. Practical. Armor without looking like armor.

Priya closed the door and sat across from her. No small talk. No coffee offer. Just a yellow legal pad, a silver pen, and eyes that missed nothing.

“You sent the article.” Priya tapped her tablet. “I read it twice. Tell me what I’m looking at.”

June pulled a thin stack of documents from the portfolio. Her hands did not shake. She had practiced that in the car.

“Cap table. Erik Lund owns seventy-one percent outright. I hold four percent non-voting advisory shares.” She slid the first page across the table. “The four percent was a gift. A courtesy. His word.”

Priya studied the document. “Non-voting. So you have no governance rights, no board seat, no ability to influence the company you helped build.”

“Correct.”

“And the company built the product you designed?”

June reached into the portfolio again and produced a folder fat with printed emails, timestamped commits, architecture diagrams, and a USB drive in a clear case.

“I wrote the original code. I built the core architecture. I have repository logs with my credentials. Emails where Erik asks me to fix the inference engine at two in the morning. Design docs with my annotations.” June’s voice stayed even, but a muscle in her jaw flicked. “I have receipts.”

Priya opened the folder and paged through. Her expression did not change. She paused at a schematic of a neural network layer and ran a finger along the margin notes.

“This is your handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“And these are dated prior to the company’s incorporation?”

“Eighteen months before.” June folded her hands on the table. “Before Lund Technologies existed. Before Erik ever took a dollar of outside money.”

Priya wrote something on her legal pad. Then she looked up.

“What do you want, June?”

The question landed like a stone in still water. June had rehearsed a diplomatic answer in the elevator. Something about fairness. Something about Zoe. Something a good wife might say.

She did not use it.

“Everything I’m worth.” June’s voice came out harder than she intended. “Including the IP I generated.”

Priya’s pen stopped. A small, approving silence.

“Good,” Priya murmured. “Then we have a foundation.”

She turned to a whiteboard behind her, uncapped a marker, and began writing in quick, aggressive strokes.

“Let’s talk about what the law says, and what the records say. We’ll need to establish that the IP was created before the marriage, or at minimum before the company was formed. We’ll need valuations. We’ll need to demonstrate that your advisory shares were not compensation for the IP. And we’ll need to show that the Forbes narrative is materially false.”

“It is materially false.” June’s voice was flat. “I was there. I built the product. I trained the early models. I named the company, for God’s sake. Lund Technologies. My husband’s name on the door, my code in the walls.”

Priya wrote: narrative false. Then she turned.

“Tell me about Marcus Webb.”

June blinked. “Marcus Webb led the Series B. He wrote my name on the term sheet. In blue ink. Erik said it was a courtesy. Marcus said it was a recognition.”

“Did he say that in writing?”

“No. He said it at the closing dinner. Erik changed the subject.”

Priya tapped the marker against her palm. “Marcus Webb is the lead VC at Apex Ventures. He has credibility. If he testifies that he wrote your name because you were instrumental, that changes the press narrative.”

“He might not testify. He has a fund to protect.”

“He might not have to testify.” Priya set down the marker. “A single on-record statement can shift the public story. And in a divorce and IP fight, public story is leverage.”

June looked at the USB drive on the table. The plastic case reflected the overhead lights.

“I called him once, after the Articles of Incorporation. I asked if he meant it.” June’s throat tightened. “He said, ‘I don’t write names on term sheets for no reason.’”

“Then call him again.” Priya’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “Today. Before Erik has a chance to spin the Series B narrative into a founder myth. The article is already out. You have a narrow window.”

June picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over Marcus Webb’s contact. Then she stood and walked to the window. The city stretched below, indifferent and bright.

She pressed dial.

The line rang twice.

“June Chen-Lund.” Marcus Webb’s voice was warm, but not surprised. “I wondered when you’d call.”

“You read the article.”

“I read the article.” He exhaled. “I’ve already gotten three calls from reporters asking if Erik Lund is a solo founder. I told them the truth. The product came from someone else’s hands.”

“And they printed that?”

“No. They printed what fit the headline.” His voice tightened. “June, I’m sorry. I should have pushed harder at the closing. I should have made the cap table reflect your work, not your marriage.”

June closed her eyes. “You wrote my name. That mattered.”

“It mattered to you. It didn’t matter to the company.” There was a pause. “But it might matter now. If you need a reference. If you need anyone to go on record about who built what. I’ll do it.”

June opened her eyes. The city blurred for a second, then snapped back into focus.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Marcus’s tone shifted. “Let me ask you something. When this is over, what’s your next chapter?”

“I haven’t thought that far.”

“Think about it.” Another pause, longer this time. “There are people who think you’re the best technical founder they’ve ever seen. People who would back a fund with your name on it. Not a courtesy. A statement.”

June’s breath caught. “Marcus, I’m not looking for a job.”

“I’m not offering a job.” His voice dropped, almost conspiratorial. “I’m offering a next chapter. Call me when you’re ready to talk about it.”

The line clicked.

June stood with the phone pressed to her ear, listening to the silence. Then she lowered it and turned back to Priya.

“He’ll go on record. He also mentioned something about a next chapter.”

Priya’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “That’s not small.”

“I don’t know what it means yet.”

“You will.” Priya wrote something else on her pad. “But first, we need to move. I want a forensic accountant on the cap table by Friday. I want all of your IP documentation categorized and timestamped. And I want custody preparation started immediately. Erik Lund is about to lose his narrative, and when he does, he will fight dirty.”

June started to answer, but her phone buzzed against her palm. A text.

From Yo Torres.

She opened it.

Yo Torres: Erik just told the all-hands the Series B is validation that the vision is winning. He thanked the small loyal team. Your name didn’t come up. I’m sorry. I recorded it.

June read it twice. The words did not blur. They sharpened.

She turned the phone so Priya could see.

“He’s erasing me again,” June whispered. “In real time.”

Priya’s expression hardened. “Not for long.”

June looked back at the phone. Her thumb hovered over the text. She could call Erik. Demand an explanation. Scream. Cry.

Instead, she forwarded the message to Priya’s email.

“This is the man I married,” June said quietly. “The father of my daughter. And he’s standing in front of his team telling them the vision is his.”

She set the phone face-up on the table. The screen dimmed, then went black.

“I want the IP. I want the shares. I want the cash.” June’s voice steadied. “And I want him to say my name.”

Priya leaned back in her chair. A small, cold smile crossed her lips.

“Then let’s make sure he has to.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was the silence of a door closing, a lock clicking, a strategy forming in the space between what was true and what the world believed.

June Chen-Lund looked at the leather portfolio, the folders, the USB drive with years of her work locked inside. Then she looked out the window at the city, where somewhere her husband was standing in a boardroom, accepting applause for a future she had built.

And she began to plan.

The phone buzzed again.

Not Yo. Not Marcus. Not Priya.

The calendar alert read: Dinner with Erik and the board. 7:00 p.m.

June’s thumb hovered over the notification.

She did not decline it.

Not yet.