The system logs showed my digital signature destroying my life's work, but I never touched the code. When I confronted my husband Julian, he exchanged a pitying glance with his mistress Chloe. Moments later, my parents handed police a signed consent form, locking me in a psychiatric ward under a fabricated schizophrenia diagnosis. Instead of screaming for my sanity, I surrendered my founder’s keys. I permanently destroyed every illusion of family and marriage for one final chance to attend our Nasdaq IPO in a wheelchair. As Julian publicly praised his devotion to his fragile wife, he handed me a pen to sign away the company. He never suspected my heartbeat had just activated a hidden backdoor in my pacemaker, holding the blockchain logs of his money laundering syndicate.