The email lands in my inbox at 7:42 a.m., right between an automated reminder about my course evaluations and a desperate plea from a student who has “definitely been in class all semester, promise.”
Subject: WESTBRIDGE FOUNDATION MEGA-GRANT – AWARD DECISION.
For a second I just stare at the bolded line, my cursor hovering uselessly over it. My office is quiet in that specific way halls are before nine: distant copier hum, a muffled laugh from somewhere down the corridor, the radiator clicking like it’s considering catching fire again.
I’ve visualized this moment a hundred times. In most of them, I was wearing something more impressive than a wrinkled black turtleneck and coffee-stained trousers.
I click.
“Dear Dr. Torres,
We are pleased to inform you that the Westbridge Foundation has selected your proposal—”
The words blur. Selected. Award. Ten million dollars over five years, and every zero is a tiny apology from the universe for every time someone called me “kiddo” in a faculty meeting.
My lungs forget how to process oxygen. I scroll, scanning for the catch.
“…in recognition of your innovative approach to integrating behavioral modeling with real-time systems design.”
Of course my eyes snag on the next line.
“As you know, the Foundation strongly encouraged collaborative leadership for a project of this scale. In consultation with Dean Harrington and the review committee, we are delighted to confirm the appointment of a co–Principal Investigator, Dr. Liam Shaw, whose complementary expertise—”
The rest might as well be a string of ampersands and middle fingers.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I whisper.
The radiator pops like it agrees.
Co–Principal Investigator.
Liam. Shaw.
The campus’s golden retriever in human form. The man whose guest lectures overflow the largest auditorium on campus. The one who never sits through a faculty meeting without making at least three jokes, two donors swoon, and one senior professor feel both flattered and gently bulldozed.
I push back from my desk hard enough that my chair rolls into the bookshelf. A photo frame rattles—my parents, standing in front of the Westbridge sign the day I got hired, my mother’s hand a quiet vise on my arm. I steady it before it can tip.
I should re-read the email. I should savor the words “selected” and “award” and “distinguished.” Instead, I click print and march across the hall.
The departmental office smells like burnt coffee and toner. Behind the counter, Samantha is sorting campus mail with a speed that ought to qualify as a sport. She gives me a quick grin. “Morning, Dr. Torres. You’re in early, even for you.”
“Is he here?” I ask.
She doesn’t bother to ask who. Of course she doesn’t. “Dean Harrington’s got an eight o’clock. He said not to let anyone—”
“Great, I’ll be non-anyone.” I push past the counter.
“Mila—”
The dean’s door is half ajar. I don’t knock. Carefully curated political caution can file a complaint later.
Harrington looks up from his laptop, mid-sip of coffee, and nearly chokes when he sees my face. “Good morning? To what do I owe—”
“You assigned me a co-lead.” I wave the printed email like it’s an indictment.
He blinks, quickly schooling his features into what he probably thinks is soothing neutrality. His tie is already loosened; he’s been here a while. “Congratulations are also in order, Mila. The Foundation—”
