CareForward Conference — Panel room B1

Topic: Data Integrity in Clinical Trails: Ethics, Accountability, and the Chain of Custody

The panelists rotated through their talking points like they were reading off the same script—just in slightly different tones.

The rep from the Office of Human Research Protections was sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. Dark hair yanked into a ponytail so tight it looked punitive. Her lipstick made her mouth look like a line drawn in permanent marker. She didn’t need the power suit to look like she’d bite first and ask questions later. But she wore one anyway.

The CRO rep rattled off acronyms and liability clauses like gospel. I wondered if he realized the edge of his hairpiece was lifting. I could see it from my seat in the back.

The boutique pharma attorney was the most polished—well-spoken, practiced, almost charming. Reminded me a little of Liam, if you stripped away the razor eyes and ability to dismantle someone with a single look. But the effortlessness, the gleam of well-compensated detachment? Very on-brand for Legal.

I didn’t twitch. Didn’t cross a leg or flex a hand. Sat pen-poised, like I was waiting for them to say something worthwhile.

The notepad was still blank.

Miles lounged in the seat next to me, all long limbs and deliberate disinterest. Legs stretched, ankles crossed, one arm slung over the back of my chair like he owned the row. He alternated between scrolling through his phone like he had somewhere better to be, and flipping through the panel pamphlet like it might suddenly grow teeth.

Why was he even here, anyway?

“Chain of custody in clinical data management is non-negotiable,” the OHRP rep was saying. “Improper storage, tampered timestamps, missing logs—these aren’t just oversights. They’re ethical breaches. And the fallout affects real people.”

Warm breath skimmed my ear, voice pitched low enough for only me to hear: “That seems rather pointed, don’t you think?”

My grip tightened around the pen. I pressed the tip a little harder against the notebook, pretending to ignore him.

“Let’s open the floor,” the moderator said. “Questions?”

A man in the third row stood near the isle—late twenties, sandy blond hair, blazer stiff. Kid was too fresh to navigate the gray. His badge read Synthera.

“What if someone was in possession of privileged documentation they, for whatever reason, shouldn’t have?” he asked, voice too smooth for someone sweating through his collar. Perfect industry type. He’d learn to fit right in. “And if it’s from a competitor, what’s the obligation there? Especially if it didn’t come through official channels.”

Right. It was all well and good to talk about what you shouldn’t do.

But hypothetically…

Because shit happens.

I watched a few people exchange glances. Even the moderator blinked—brows lifted, surprise barely masked.

Kid had balls, asking a question like that in this room. To this panel. Maybe I’d buy him a drink later—for the bravery. Or the stupidity. Hard to tell.

The legal rep spoke first—voice low, rough, like trudging through gravel.

“First, let’s be very clear: if the information was obtained improperly, you’re in legally murky water. Even possessing confidential competitor data can open you to liability, regardless of intent. If it was leaked, intercepted, or accessed outside of official disclosure channels, your best move is to escalate it to in-house counsel immediately, and do not engage further.”

Not exactly what Liam had told me, but close.

Wash your hands. Pretend you didn’t see it. Leave it the fuck alone. Let whoever was dumb enough to be caught holding the bag burn. Just make sure it wasn’t you.

This guy wasn’t a backroom litigator. That much was obvious. Probably preferred his law in stark black or white. Easier to keep your hands clean that way. Probably slept better than I did.

The OHRP rep leaned in next.

“That said, if the content presents a clear and ongoing risk—to trial participants, to regulatory integrity—there may be an ethical obligation to disclose it somewhere. But it should be done carefully, through proper authorities. Back-channeling or leveraging it competitively could not only invalidate the claim, but expose you to investigation.”

A low hum vibrated beside me.

“How do you think she takes her coffee?” Miles murmured. A flash of teeth, voice dipped close to my ear, “I’m betting black. Maybe I’ll find out. Pick her regulatory brain.”

I rolled my eyes, jaw tight.

“Bet she’s a boring fuck though.”

My pen nearly snapped. “Do you ever shut up?” I hissed.

“Only if you make me.”

That grin widened—wolfish. I wanted to slap it clean off his face.

“No reason to be jealous, sweetheart. You can have your turn too… if you ask nicely.”

The CRO rep cleared his throat.

“There’s a difference between whistleblowing and corporate espionage. If you find yourself in possession of a live grenade, you don’t toss it under someone else’s desk to watch them scramble. You call someone who knows how to disarm it.”

Miles tilted his head like he’d heard the joke before. His smirk said he found it hilarious. He crossed one leg over his knee. The arm slung over the back of my chair brushed high against my shoulder blades.

I seriously considered stabbing him with my pen.

He’d probably be into it.

The moment the mic dropped on the final question, I stood. Shoved the pen behind my bun—messy in the way that said I either didn’t give a shit, or overslept thanks to jet lag.

Probably both.

I needed air. Or distance. Or maybe just to stop feeling like I was digging through rot and pretending I didn’t smell like shit.

The hallway was cold. Quiet, except for the low drone of HVAC. The skin prickled on my arms. I stood near a window overlooking downtown, lights winking on across the skyline—tiny, blinking lies dressed up as beauty.

His voice came from behind me—low, familiar.

Fucking infuriating.

“Still clinging to your moral high ground, Maddox?”

I didn’t turn. Didn’t dignify him with eye contact.

“You heard the same panel I did.”

“Mm.” His footsteps stopped just behind me, so close the space between us went humid, his warmth curling around my spine like smoke. An almost-touch that felt more intimate than contact.

“I heard the part where they said you’re legally liable just for reading it.”

My jaw ticked, teeth clenched.

“I didn’t steal it.”

Shaky ground. But I stood on it like it was rock solid.

“No.” He let the word fall, casual as a shrug. “You just opened it. Read it. And after you knew it wasn’t ours… didn’t report it.”

He slid into my peripheral, his stare landing like a hand at my nape—hot, deliberate, and too damn close. Savoring every second I seethed in the jagged heat that throbbed between my thighs.

He hummed low in his chest like he saw every bit of it.

“A fine example of compliance and ethics, sweetheart.”

I clutched my notebook tighter, whetted the tremor into something sharper.

“You left it out, Wren. All night. Red dash flaring like bait.”

His gaze dragged over me, tracking like a man appraising a weapon he knew would misfire.

“And you took it, didn’t you?”

That confirmed it.

I turned—a slow pivot on my heels.

“You wanted me to find it.”

He shrugged, leaning back against the wall like this was just the opening gambit.

“Figured if you were gonna play watchdog, I might as well see how sharp your teeth are.”

It wasn’t denial. It was a challenge. And if he was hoping for a bite, he still might get one.

That’s the spirit.

“You were so desperate for ammunition to fuck me over,” he murmured—voice soft now, almost soothing—“you ended up fucking yourself in the process.”

It hit like a slap. The sting was immediate, sharper for the velvet he’d wrapped it in. I hated the way my pulse kicked at his voice.

We both knew I’d already gotten on my knees for him once—wet, gagging on his cock, swallowing my pride with his cum. He was probably betting I’d do it again. Just to prove I could.

His gaze flicked back to mine, and held. Steel-eyed. Steady. The kind of look men wore when they held all the cards.

“You’re already in the boat with me, sweetheart. May as well row.”

I thought I’d caught him slipping. Wanted something to hold over his head. Proof that Miles Wren was exactly what I suspected: manipulative. Dangerous. Too charming to be real.

A man always posturing. Always calculating to ensure he’d come out on top. And in my search for damning evidence? I’d dirtied myself right along with him.

“If this tanks my career—” I began, voice taut.

“Hey.” He cut in fast, and the smile vanished like a light blinking out.

What replaced it wasn’t rage. It was quieter. Scarier. A flicker of ruinous intent slipping through before he masked it again. And I felt the shift like a concussive blast.

It was enough to shut me up.

“You’re the one that sniffed out that red dash like a fucking truffle.”

I swallowed hard, throat tight.

His tone was a silk-cloaked dagger. A blade unsheathed, just to prove he carried one too:

“Be careful who you threaten, Maddox.”

The silence that followed wasn’t still. It breathed, like it’d stolen the ability from me. Thick enough to cut, dense with consequences. I nearly choked.

“What’s your endgame, Wren?”

My voice was too soft. Pathetic.

His smile was razor-thin.

“Why does anyone keep a loaded gun within arm’s reach?”

“You planning to use it?”

He shrugged. “Depends who’s in the crosshairs. That’s the fun of it—waiting to see who flinches first.”

Is that where I was—in his crosshairs?

I bit back the chill crawling down my spine.

“That’s a dodge.”

His gaze stayed level. Icy. “Then consider it a warning.”

I stepped in—closer than I should’ve. Despite the look of him. Despite every instinct screaming to run.

“That file isn’t ours. So who’d you bleed to get it?”

God, I hated that I was still eye level with his collar—like I needed another reminder he held the high ground.

“It found its way onto my desk,” he said, smooth as glass. “Funny how that works.”

“Funny,” I echoed. “Or illegal?”

He tilted his head, expression unreadable, voice like velvet drawn slow across a knife’s edge. “Depends on who’s holding it when the questions start. You read it, not me.”

The way he said it was like an open palm closing around my throat, and squeezing just enough to make its presence known.

He shifted liability as easily as he drew breath, and I felt it land squarely on me. It wouldn’t matter how I found it. Only that I’d seen it, and that I hadn’t walked away.

“You think Wren’s going to shield you…? He’ll watch you bleed out and call it a strategic pivot.”

I swallowed my panic. Shoved past it.

“If you’re going to drag me down to your level,” I said, voice tight, “I at least deserve to know what you’re aiming for.”

His stare made a meal of me. I felt the heat spread across every inch of skin it touched. Not hungry—calculating. Like he was cataloguing every crack as the floor gave way. Like the question amused him, but only mildly. He’d already gamed out every angle and my outrage was just background noise.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Steady.

“Do you think I’d show my hand before I finished stacking the deck?”

It landed like a slow, deep bruise.

He didn’t gloat. Didn’t grin. He just stood there, perfectly composed, while my stomach turned to lead, and the scene played out in flashes:

I saw myself walking out of the building with a cardboard box of personal effects. Testifying under oath while a roomful of suits dissected my choices. My name scorched off of every short list that mattered.

He didn’t have to spell it out.

Every career-ending scenario unfolded itself in my mind while he just stood there, immaculate and unbothered. A man so composed he could wield stillness like a weapon. Like he’d already priced my collapse and moved on to his next venture.

I’d always known he was clever. Ruthless. Charming in a way that made people lean closer when they should’ve run. Weapons-grade dangerous—the kind of man you thanked while he buried the knife and twisted.

But this? This was something else. Not instinct, not chaos.

Strategy.

Calculated misdirection, executed with surgical precision. Every action and reaction accounted for. He hadn’t just manipulated me—he’d architected the entire fucking narrative. And—fuck me—I’d walked right into it, still two moves behind.

A flicker of something sharp and sour bloomed in my chest. Not admiration, but something dangerously close. Laced with dread. Twisted with reluctant awe. For the first time, I saw him clearly:

He wasn’t amoral. Wasn’t reckless. Just absolutely fluent in the spaces where rules bent rather than broke.

“You’re dangerous,” I said—quiet. More to myself than to him.

He adjusted his cuff, rolled his sleeve an inch, checked his watch like he was bored.

Then, without looking up—“I’m effective.”

The hallway seemed to breathe again once he was gone. I stayed there, rooted. Staring after him. Mind racing with the kind of calculations I’d always sworn I’d never entertain. I couldn’t decide what unsettled me more:

That he was willing to play these games.

Or that part of me wanted to learn how.

***

I needed a drink. Something bitter. Cold enough to slow the spiral.

I found the lounge without meaning to. Marble floors, polished brass. Everything reeked of high-budget restraint. The kind of place where the ice was hand-chipped, and the leather seats had never known polyester slacks.

Two whiskeys deep, and the edge still bled through the burn.

Gold inlays screamed opulence with no taste. And the business execs? They flashed polished veneers like the gleam of their teeth might outshine their lies.

I would’ve rather been sitting under the piss-yellow light in my kitchen. At least that lighting didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t.

I lifted the glass to my lips and let the liquor sit on my tongue. Just to remind myself I was still real.

It wasn’t working. I was still wired. Still raw.

I thought I knew what I wanted. Answers—about the file we shouldn’t have. About the man who’d pulled me in, leaned too close, and promised mentorship and career acceleration… then dropped me in a room full of mirrors and told me to find my reflection.

Now I wasn’t sure what I wanted. A drink? An out? A do-over?

A fucking lifeline.

I scanned the room on autopilot.

The lounge was full tonight—but not loud. Industry types knew how to keep their voices low when it mattered. Especially after hours of sitting through panels and workshops pretending they gave a shit.

Pretending they actually learned something.

Now they sipped twelve-year scotch like it came with moral absolution. NDAs in their back pockets, slurring hypotheticals under the guise of friendly shop talk.

God, this industry loved hypotheticals. Could build an empire on them. Most thought Big Pharma already had.

I leaned on the polished wood, condensation tracing slow fingers down the side of my glass of rye. Eyes scanning.

I wasn’t looking for him.

Bullshit.

My lanyard scratched against my skin, worn like a leash. Like ownership. Like I’d sold my soul to the highest bidder.

Speaking of…

Corner booth. Pale blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar, just enough to say he didn’t give a shit. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. And surrounding him? Four unfamiliar faces—Synthera branded in heavy black script, dangling from their necks like dog tags.

Not watchdog. Not regulatory. Not journalists.

Competition.

I blinked.

One I recognized—the kid from the panel. I’d meant to buy him a drink. Slick and smiling like he was proud to toe the line. Too proud to be in a booth with Miles Wren. He ate the young and idealistic for breakfast—and picked his teeth with their bones until lunch. Poor bastard had no idea.

The other two were probably just as clueless that Wren’s swagger came at a cost.

The blonde though? Oh, she knew. And she was the mark.

Far too much like him—a blade swathed in velvet. Just soft enough to have you think maybe it wouldn’t cut. Sharp bob. Sharper smile. She laughed a bit too hard at something Miles said, and the way he smiled back…

It was slow. Lethal. The kind of smile that curved like a question mark at the corners, like he was already undressing her in his head and wondering what she’d sound like when she broke. Like he knew he’d have her wrapped around his finger, and probably something else too, by the end of the night.

He leaned in. That smile on. The one meant to make you feel like the only person in the room.

I’d seen it before. Felt what it was like to stand beneath it.

The first time he’d approached me in Legal. Back when I was staying late, coming in early, not because I had to, but because I thought work ethic equaled value. Back when I was chasing promotions like they meant something. Maybe they did, once.

He leaned in too close. Voice like silk. Said he’d been watching me squander my potential under Liam. It was a shame I’d hit a dead end so soon. Offered me a way out. A place under his wing, with room to grow.

Pretty sure his wing was not what you wanted to be under…

I should have known better.

Fuck, I did know better.

And now it was too late—I was up to my eyeballs in shit.

The blonde touched his arm, manicured fingertips skating over tanned, taut muscle. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t blink when she leaned in, drifting toward the arm he’d hooked over the bench like she already belonged under it.

Subtle, Miles. Very subtle.

My jaw clenched, grip tightening around the glass.

Careful. He might see and mistake it for jealousy.

…Oh wait.

I wasn’t jealous.

The first step to envy was wanting something someone else had. And I didn’t want Miles.

Delusion’s never been your color, babe.

I didn’t want him. Not the way he let her think she could have him. Even if it was only for tonight.

Keeping Miles honest was a fool’s errand. I’d known that before I even stepped foot on the plane. So I probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find him charming them. Gathering intel. Selling pieces of himself like a professional flirt in a tailored suit.

Still.

Watching him work made me wonder—

Was that how he’d gotten that file?

A few smiles. A few drinks. A few secrets traded under the table.

Under the sheets. Grinning in that well-fucked way I was sure he did after he’d made them come hard enough to see stars.

Bet he’d fuck you stupid too—if you...