The glowing message from Varga Industries seemed to sear itself onto Ilona’s datapad, a cruel brand against the new mission statement. Bálint watched her face, the fierce, almost triumphant light in her eyes dimming to a hard, cold glint as she reread the words. Her knuckles whitened around the device. Borbála, sensing the shift in the air, let out a low rumble from her spot by a newly potted *Veszter Rubra*, a sound like distant thunder.
“He’s coming *tomorrow*,” Ilona stated, the words clipped and sharp, devoid of any genuine surprise. It was a declaration, not a question.
“To finish this,” Bálint echoed, the phrase sinking like lead. He looked at the fragile, repotted orchids, then back at Ilona. “What does he mean, ‘rotten root’?”
Ilona scoffed, a humorless sound. “He means my father. He always means my father.” She turned away from Bálint, pacing the narrow aisle between the plant tables, the soft crunch of her expensive shoes on the reclaimed moss a stark contrast to the urgency in her stride. “He’s always seen the company, *my* company, as an extension of his obsession with my father. A different pot won’t change the soil, in his mind.”
“But you’re changing the soil,” Bálint said, stepping closer. “You’re changing everything.”
She stopped, looking out at the rain-streaked glass of the greenhouse, her reflection distorted. “It might be too late. Zoltán isn’t one for second chances, Bálint. Especially not for me.”
***
The following afternoon, the air in the Veszter Estate was thick with an unnatural stillness. Even the automated security drones seemed to hover with an exaggerated caution. Bálint and Ilona stood amidst the repotted orchids, the humidity clinging to their clothes like a second skin. Borbála lay at Ilona’s feet, her massive head resting on her paws, one eye cracked open, fixed on the greenhouse entrance with an intensity that promised immediate, fluffy retribution for any misstep.
Mrs. Nagy had informed them of Zoltán’s arrival minutes prior. He hadn’t brought a retinue of lawyers, no corporate muscle, no media circus. He had arrived in a single, unostentatious battery-powered sedan, driven himself. He walked alone, a solitary figure across the manicured grounds, his expensive, dark suit a sharp silhouette against the muted greens of the estate.
When Zoltán Varga finally stepped through the greenhouse’s threshold, he did not immediately seek out Ilona. His gaze swept over the revitalized orchids, a slow, appraising journey. He paused at a row of *Veszter Cerulea*, their delicate blue petals unfurling in the careful light. A peculiar expression, a mix of sorrow and recognition, softened the usual hard angles of his face. He reached out, not to touch, but to hover a hand over a particularly vibrant bloom, his movement almost reverent.
His voice, when it came, was quiet, devoid of its usual mocking edge. “They’re recovering. You have a good hand with them.” He finally looked at Bálint, his eyes, usually sharp with calculation, now held a flicker of something Bálint couldn't quite place. “Just like your elder kin, wasn’t it? Imre Kiss.”
Bálint blinked, startled. “My… my ancestor?” He had never spoken of his family here, certainly not to Zoltán Varga. “How do you know Imre?”
Zoltán’s gaze drifted back to the orchids. “He was the Veszters’ original head gardener. Before your forebear, Ilona. My elder kin worked this very glasshouse. Nursed these hybrids from mere cuttings. He was the one who understood them, truly. Their *logic*.” He emphasized the word with a bitter twist.
Ilona stepped forward, her voice a low growl. “What are you talking about, Zoltán? Our lineage records show Elek Veszter established this collection from scratch.”
Zoltán finally turned to her, his expression hardening, all traces of sentiment gone. “Oh, Ilona. Still so blind, still so willing to believe the lies your father fed you.” He gave a small, mirthless chuckle. “Elek Veszter established nothing from scratch. He established it from *theft*. He fired Imre Kiss without cause, cast him out of his home, ruined his name, and then claimed all of his work, all of his *intellectual property*, as his own. The Veszter ‘orchid computation model’—the precise environmental parameters, the nutrient delivery, the light spectrum modulation—all of it. It was Imre Kiss’s brilliant design. And my elder kin, Ákos Varga, was Imre’s apprentice. He saw it all.”
Bálint felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. Old Imre, a legend in their small horticultural community, had always spoken of a grand project, a revolutionary biome design, that had been stolen from him in his youth. A project he had never been able to prove was his. A ghost story that had shaped Bálint's own dedication to the ethics of his craft. He looked at Zoltán, then at Ilona, the pieces of a generations-old puzzle clicking into place with horrifying clarity.
Ilona's face was a mask of disbelief, then fury. “That’s a lie! A fabricated story to justify your vindictive attacks!”
“Vindictive?” Zoltán’s voice rose, losing its composure for the first time. “You think this is just vindictive? You think I’m just trying to hurt you because your father cast *me* aside? This is about justice, Ilona! Justice for Imre Kiss, for my grandfather, and for every innovation your family stole and branded with their name!” He gestured broadly around the greenhouse. “This whole structure, the whole *empire* you built, it’s all on a foundation of stolen genius. Your predecessor didn’t invent the orchid system. He stole the legal filing, and he fired the man who *did* invent it so no one could challenge him.”
“And you believe this because… Ákos told you?” Ilona’s voice trembled, a crack in her icy resolve.
“No,” Zoltán said, a cruel smile touching his lips. “I believe it because I spent the last two decades meticulously unearthing every detail. Every primary filing application. Every discarded memo. Every dusty, forgotten contract. Your predecessor was good, Ilona, but not perfect. And I found it.”
He pulled a slim, antique-looking folder from his inside jacket pocket, its aged parchment crinkled at the edges, a faded wax seal visible. He held it up, not to Ilona, but to Bálint. “The primary Veszter registry filing for the computational method. Filed under ‘Imre Kiss and Sons Horticultural Innovations,’ then quietly re-filed under ‘Elek Veszter Holdings’ six months later after Imre Kiss was ‘let go.’ I acquired the relic, Bálint. I bought it from Imre Kiss’s estranged great-nephew, the only surviving relation who still held the proof.”
Bálint swallowed hard. Old Imre had died a quiet, bitter man, always hinting at the betrayal, but never having the means or proof to fight back. And now, here it was, in the hands of the man who sought to destroy Ilona.
Ilona stared at the parchment, her lips parting without a sound. “That’s… that’s impossible. My enterprise, Aethel, its core *is* that code. Its architecture is based on that foundational filing!”
“Precisely,” Zoltán said, his voice regaining its calm, chilling certainty. “And with this, I can legally invalidate Aethel’s entire software foundation. Every single line of code derived from that stolen filing. Every program. Every application. Aethel, Ilona, will cease to exist as a viable entity.” He paused, letting the words hang in the humid air, lethal and clear. “It will be a legal scorched earth. Elek's legacy, erased. Your career, a footnote in corporate history.”
He extended the parchment towards her, his hand steady. “So, here’s my ultimatum, Ilona. Sign Aethel over to me. Every last asset. In exchange, I will bury this paperwork, and let your enterprise die a slow, dignified death from market forces. Or I use this, and I will erase everything your bloodline, and by extension, you, ever built. I will make sure the name Veszter is synonymous with theft, and every investor, every client, every employee, will know the rotten root beneath your gleaming empire.”