Startup Lies, Uterus Device Revolution

The crowd's roar hit me like a physical wave the moment the last syllable of my monumental lie left my lips. Acclaim erupted in the auditorium, a cacophony of clapping hands and enthusiastic shouts. Light flashed off jewelry, glasses, and countless grinning faces, a dizzying kaleidoscope that instantly triggered a fierce photophobia. When my eyes stubbornly refused to adjust, overwhelmed by the glare, I fled the stage. Thirty seconds before delivering the most crucial speech of my career, I'd wolfed down a sweetcorn sandwich. In the dim backstage shadows, my brain fog violently rejected it, splattering the floor in yellow-green globules.

"Ya killed it, bestie-saurus!" Miranda's voice cut through my nausea. "Best friend" was a generous term. She was, more accurately, a high-school classmate who'd stolen my idea at summer camp and later strong-armed me into co-founding our "unicorn" startup, leveraging her billionaire father's brand for marketing clout as the bait.

"Uggh! Give..uh.. Dicle..gis, Diclegis," I gasped between heaves, my hand clutching my rebellious stomach. “Outer pocket. Handbag.”

"It was perfect, babe," Miranda chirped, scooping up my bag. "You hooked those sugar daddies. They'll throw money wherever you point now." Her grip was careless, barely two fingers holding the strap. I watched helplessly as my prized Aviators and car keys clattered onto the grimy floor.

"Carefu—!" I snatched the bag back, fumbling frantically for the small bottle of salvation. I dry-swallowed the Diclegis, praying it would soothe my mutinous digestive tract before it staged another acidic revolt.

Miranda's eyes widened dramatically. "Are you preggers again?" Her expression mirrored the profound shock immortalized in Van Gogh's most intense portraits.

"It's the only thing that touches the nausea," I mumbled, wiping my mouth. “Guess I'm hooked.”

Her face instantly shifted all business. "We've got six months to get these babies out the door." Her voice hardened. “You know I can't carry this alone.”

The truth stung. Miranda's singular contribution was her network: a knack for charming elderly male CEOs from tech giants, men whose wallets opened readily at opportunities undermining women's welfare, particularly targeting fertile women or those vaguely contemplating future motherhood. Beyond conceiving the core product, the entire burden of design, prototyping, and clandestine human trials had fallen solely on me. External help was deemed too risky, exposing our unique invention prematurely. For months, I'd been single-handedly nurturing these "babies" – the revolutionary device and my three-month-old human infant.

"Aye, she's up," I said, my maternal radar pinging. I hurried towards the stroller where my daughter had been peacefully sleeping, tiny noise-canceling headphones shielding her until the violent sound of my retching had startled her awake, likely frightening away her last meal.

"Hey! Where you goin'? They're waiting for their one-on-ones, babe!" Miranda's voice chased me, waving frantically as she descended the backstage steps.

"I can't. She's sick. You handle it." The lie slipped out smoothly as I broke into a jog, pushing the stroller with its rusty wheels screeching a noisy farewell across the auditorium's acoustic panels.

It wasn't entirely untrue. One girl was sick. Me. I desperately needed respite, a sanctuary, a long, deep bath.

Later, submerged in warm water infused with lavender and tea tree oil, my skin drank comfortably. I massaged the persistent ache from my clavicles and hips, remnants of pregnancy and birth. Soap bubbles caught beneath my postpartum belly popped as I shifted. A pure, delighted cackle suddenly filled the steamy bathroom, sending my heart soaring.

"Is that so funny, haan?" I giggled back, deliberately creating more bubble traps to release.

There it was again – the most exquisite sound in existence. My baby girl, lying tummy-down in her playpen, engrossed in her sensory mat, was laughing at her silly mommy. Every time our eyes met around the sink basin – her makeshift peek-a-boo partner – her face lit up with unadulterated joy.

The moment I sat down to nurse, Miranda called. “I did it! We got the green light! Full production starts in three months flat. Thirty-five percent advance. Eeeek!”

"Three months? Are you insane?" Panic flared. "No one's trained! So much for your precious secrecy!" I instantly regretted the barb; my hormones were staging their chaotic rebellion.

"Babe, look at you – practically good as new. Thanks to your genius invention! Alejandra will handle the baby. She practically raised me. Trust me. It'll be fine." Her voice was breezy, dismissive.

A fire ignited in my gut, my temples pounding. On cue, my daughter clamped down hard on the nipple. A sharp cry ripped from my throat. "What would you know, you selfish thief!" I erupted, the words scalding. "You don't starve to lose the weight but still eat enough to make milk! You force yourself to pee constantly to avoid coughing disasters! You keep feeding even when their gums are like bloody rocks grinding on your flesh… and…!" Sobs overwhelmed me. I disconnected the call and hurled my phone across the room.

It was a brutal night. I tossed, searching for elusive comfort, while my daughter fussed restlessly in her crib, nourished by milk infused with my anger.

The next morning, I slithered into the office like a rat, navigating a minefield of traps. An unnatural silence hung in the air. It was never exactly bustling with only ten employees, but even the constant jingle of our receptionist's bangles was absent. The loud gurgle of my unsettled stomach was a strangely welcome sound against the eerie quiet. Reaching for my handbag, I groaned – I'd grabbed the diaper bag instead.

Miranda burst into my cabin, trailing four older men. I hastily smeared banana-chia-sweet potato puree from a fruit pouch across my mouth.

"Told you she'd need a minute, folks," Miranda announced smoothly, shepherding the men towards the large table in my cabin that doubled as our meeting room. "What an excellent speech yesterday, Ms. Shabana," boomed Tom Harding, CEO of FemPharma. I'd only ever seen him on video calls with Miranda's father. “Thanks to Miranda here for arranging such a prominent platform. We needed Doctors and Pharma execs worldwide to hear about this firsthand.”

Of course. Borrowing an obscene sum from Daddy to host this exclusive launch for our "up-and-coming unicorn" was classic Miranda. I wiped my sticky face with a soiled tissue fished from the diaper bag.

"Honestly, I was skeptical," chuckled Melon Sandalwood, CEO of Trackla (a company with zero logical connection to our product), "but you had me at those 'final thoughts'! Haha!" He wiggled his fingers emphatically.

"New mothers back at their desks within two days," I whispered the poisonous lie that formed those final thoughts. His presence suddenly made chilling sense: a vested interest in eliminating maternity leave, disguised as enthusiasm for a women's health product utterly unrelated to IT or electric cars.

My phone buzzed. Miranda snatched it off the table before I could react. "Ah, Alejandra," she declared, answering. "Ale, only call if she's choking or the house is on fire. Text anything else." She hung up. The phone chimed immediately. "She says baby was a bit fussy but conked right out with some teething gel," Miranda announced sotto voce. "See? Help helps. Sorry, forgot to ask." She placed the phone in my hand and moved to the large TV displaying our product – the purported game-changer for the modern workplace.

My earlier glimpse of Alejandra entering the building hadn't been a hallucination. How had I missed the sound of the notoriously noisy stroller being wheeled from the makeshift creche on the empty floor below before Miranda's grand entrance? "Your handbag's still in the stroller, by the way," Miranda bent to whisper conspiratorially, confirming my suspicion. “Don't forget your wallet later.”

"Contracolr… Contracoldu… ahem, *Contracauldron* is here," she announced, retrieving a prototype from behind the TV. She caught my involuntary eye roll. Unsurprising, the nauseating, tongue-twisting name was her brainchild. Since she secured the cash, she could have called it 'Uterus-Blasters' for all I cared.

"Shabana will demonstrate how it works. Within our office limits, naturally," Miranda said, passing me the harmonica-shaped device.

I swallowed hard. I'd used it on myself and volunteers countless times, but demonstrating it before these powerful men felt intensely invasive. "Contracauldron's function is straightforward," I began, forcing professionalism. “Post-delivery, there's a high hemorrhage risk if the uterus contracts poorly – uterine atony is the primary cause…”

"Shabana," Miranda interrupted smoothly, "they adored your auditorium pitch. No need for another science lecture, right gentlemen?" Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. We both knew they remained profoundly ignorant of postpartum physiology. I vividly recalled their late arrival yesterday, missing the entire scientific rationale.

"Alright. See these grills?" I pointed to the device's front face. "Precisely directed ultrasound waves pass through here, reaching the uterus when inserted about a quarter of the way into the… entry point." Heat crept up my neck. “The uterus – resembling a cauldron, hence 'cauldron' – contracts rapidly and efficiently. 'Contra' signifies this action. All postpartum lochia is expelled immediately. No painful manual massages. No weeks of bleeding.”

"Ah, brilliant!" Sandalwood exclaimed. "Massages after birth, and they *still* complain of pain!" He paused, suddenly aware of the awkward silence. “Oh! No offense intended. Wasn't aware of that detail.”

A sharp knock interrupted. A distinguished woman in a sharp silver pantsuit entered. Her thick silver hair beautifully complemented her olive skin. "Gentlemen, this is Dr. Fertily Woodhouse, Chief Medical Officer at the AMA," Miranda introduced, acknowledging their familiar nods. “She – we – have significant updates.”

"Congratulations to Miranda and Shabana," Dr. Woodhouse began warmly. "This ingenious product? Miranda's successfully run clinical trials on pregnant women needing emergency C-sections. Contracauldron reduced the need for surgery by over eighty-five percent." She raised her hands slightly in triumph.

"Additionally," Miranda jumped in, “vaginal births were significantly faster and virtually pain-free when Contracauldron frequencies were administered at the start of active labor.”

"So women won't need fentanyl or epidurals anymore?" Harding scowled, his pharma-CEO instincts sensing lost revenue.

"Leading to dramatically faster workforce recovery and substantial savings on staff turnover costs," I added, deliberately rubbing salt into his corporate wound. The thought of losing profits on women's pain pinched deeper than he'd admit.

"Excellent. Contracts signed, production imminent," Miranda stated.

"Hang on," Sandalwood interjected, raising a hand. "The financial projections… they've shifted since our last discussion."

"How so?" Miranda's voice was calm.

“Well… vastly more women available immediately… the family support packages…”

"We absolutely cannot budget family allowances for that volume. The cost would be astronomical," Harding interjected sharply, steepling his fingers.

"Correct. We factored in the cost of replacing maternity leave," Miranda countered coolly. "That means providing for a live-in nanny, chef, cleaner, security, plus an emergency fund deposit. It's all clearly outlined in the contracts."

"But no C-section recoveries? Easy births? It's too many women to cover!" Harding exploded, rising from his chair, arms flailing.

"This is a landmark advancement for women's health," Dr. Woodhouse stated firmly, reassuringly smiling as she lightly tapped our shoulders. "I've already submitted a proposal to the FDA to make Contracauldron federally available. Feedback from representatives has been overwhelmingly positive."

"They know we're production-ready. They've requested additional units immediately. We need to scale up fast," Miranda declared. "Which means… we now require a forty-five percent advance to cover the inevitable bureaucratic expenses now that the government is involved." Her smile was sharp.

A tense hush fell as Sandalwood and Harding huddled intensely with their aides, scrutinizing contract copies. Minutes stretched. Their faces finally emerged, etched with the strain of difficult concessions.

Harding took an audible breath. "Fine. FemPharma's three southern factories are yours starting next week."

"We'll have five ready by next week's end," Sandalwood added, his voice tight.

He stood and walked towards us, head slightly bowed, nodding as if confirming a private thought. "You've certainly… covered the women's health aspect here. Regarding maternity leave… perhaps we shouldn't be removing that entitlement."

"You read my mind!" Miranda exclaimed, snatching the Contracauldron from my hands and playfully tapping it under his chin. "Look at it! It's practically a harmonica. Shabana's not hemorrhaging, but her brain is still postpartum mush at three months!"

Mortification flooded me. My jaw dropped; heat surged to my cheeks. The room temperature seemed to spike, and a cold sweat broke out on my skin. As I groped for a chair, my legs wobbled dangerously – a cocktail of sheer embarrassment and rogue hormones.

"That does take considerable time to recover from," Harding observed, shaking his head at my apparent distress as he joined the circle.

"Indeed," Dr. Woodhouse confirmed. "Typically a year to eighteen months. Hence the European standard."

"I'm confident a modest pay cut from the top executives in your organizations could easily fund proper maternity leave," Miranda proposed, her gaze steady on their furrowed brows, "and still cost far less than comprehensive family support packages."

Miranda thanked the group, and they filed out slowly, starkly contrasting their brisk arrival. "Dr. Woodhouse, thank you immensely," Miranda said warmly, shaking her hand. "My father will ensure your Medicare matter is resolved promptly."

Money talks again. My brief flicker of hope that it was genuine female solidarity evaporated.

Silence descended heavily in the cabin. I prayed for my stomach's familiar rumble, but instead, silent sobs began to shudder through my chest and lungs.

Miranda crouched down to my level. Overwhelmed, I threw my arms around her, clinging in a fierce, grateful embrace.

"You did it all, Miranda," I choked out, tasting salty tears. "Secured the product, fought for maternity leave… got me help."

"Ah, you built it, bestie-saurus," she murmured, returning the hug. "I couldn't have done jack without Contracol.. Contracerd… ahh, hell… our 'uterus-blaster.'" She grinned.

"I was horrible last night… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I don't know what came over me," I wept openly.

"Get over yourself, babe. Water under the bridge. We did it. Our babies are out in the world. Our way. Time to celebrate!"

“But… your father’s loan…” I sniffled, wiping my nose properly with a clean napkin.

Miranda's expression softened. "That wasn't Dad's money. It was my savings. Years of child support payments. From the time he walked out on my mom and me… a week after I was born." Her voice was quiet but steady. "A single mom raised me too. I know the toll."

"What?" My mind reeled. "But… your parents are together!"

"That's my stepmom, babe. My real dad bolted because he couldn't handle my mom's postpartum state. He was disgusted. Said she took too long getting 'presentable' for his next big dinner with the board."

The pieces slammed together. "Then… why is he helping Dr. Fertily? If he's not involved?"

"Babe, babe," Miranda sighed, a hint of weary affection in her voice. "You're too pure for this shark tank. That's why you were such an easy mark for partnership." She gave my cheek a playful pinch, but the pain in her eyes was unmistakable. "It's leverage. He knows we have a goldmine. I need his connections. He needs a reputation rehab. Simple transaction."

A final worry surfaced. "Contracauldron… it's still under ShaMir Tech, right?"

"Absolutely, babe!" Miranda reassured me. "But seriously, let's ditch that godawful name… Umm… 'Utesqueezers'? Has a punchy ring, no?"

I facepalmed, then pulled her into another tight hug, thick with remorse and newfound respect. "You've carried so much, Miranda," I whispered, finally seeing the fierce determination behind her polished facade. "Let me name *our* babies this time. Please?" I managed a watery smile, hands folded in a silent plea for forgiveness and a fresh start.