chapter4

Monday morning, an email from the department sat in my inbox.

I clicked it open—a public notice about undergraduate scholarship evaluation results.

The girl I mentored was named Sophia, her father died last year, her mother worked two cleaning jobs to put her through school.

She had straight A's, and in her spare time helped me with basic analysis in the lab.

I'd recommended her for the "Cavill Family Young Scholar Award," that sum enough to cover her last two years of tuition.

Scrolling down the public list, Sophia's name was followed by red "Not Approved."

In the list of funded students, I didn't recognize the first name.

Then I saw the change in the scholarship name.

"Cavill Family Young Scholar Award" had become "Chloe Miller Young Scholar Award."

I stared at the screen, finger stopped on the trackpad.

The room was very quiet, I could hear my own heartbeat.

Twelve years ago, I was twenty-five, had just saved enough money to return to university.

After paying tuition, my account had only two hundred dollars left. I ate the cheapest pasta for three straight weeks.

Then the department chair found me, saying a newly established family fund had selected me as their first award recipient.

"The Cavill Family Young Scholar Award," she'd said with a smile, "they see your potential, Ella."

That money kept me alive. Let me afford textbooks, pay rent, let me focus on studying instead of working a fourth job.

At the award ceremony, old Mr. Cavill—Ryan's father—shook my hand and said, "Keep working hard, young person. You're worth this investment."

Now the fund was renamed the Chloe Miller Award.

And Chloe was twenty-six this year, father a law firm partner, mother a gallery owner.

She drove a BMW to school, carried bags more expensive than my monthly salary.

I picked up my phone and called Ryan. It rang seven times before he answered, background noise of pages turning.

"What is it? I'm busy." His voice was rushed.

"Why was Sophia's scholarship application rejected?" I asked. "And why was the fund renamed?"

A few seconds of silence. I heard him typing, then an impatient exhale.

"The foundation evaluates fund usage direction every year. Chloe's image better fits our family's expectations for young leaders." He spoke quickly, like reciting prepared talking points. "That poor student has good grades, but comprehensive potential assessment isn't enough. This was a collective decision."

"I was the first award recipient." I said. "You know what that money meant to me."

"That was twelve years ago, Ella." His voice grew more impatient. "Times change, the foundation's direction needs updating too. You can't always live in the past."

Chloe's soft voice came through the background: "Ryan, is this wording for the recommendation letter okay?"

"Just a moment, dear." He said to her, tone immediately softening. Then the phone was covered, muffled conversation came through, I heard him say "I'll personally call Harvard."

Harvard postdoc recommendation letter.

Three months ago I'd asked him to write a recommendation letter for a teaching position at this school. He'd said "you're not ready yet, accumulate a few more years."

I hung up and set the phone on the table.

The screen darkened, reflecting my own face.

So this is what it feels like when your heart goes completely cold.

Not anger, not sadness, but being chilled from inside out, like being hollowed out and filled with ice water.

That night I started dry heaving. At first I thought it was too much stress, but it continued for a week. Mornings were so bad I couldn't eat anything.

Mara sent a message asking about supply preparation progress, I said everything was fine.

She quickly replied, "Your voice sounds off. What happened?"

I didn't respond. The next day I went to the clinic for tests myself.

The doctor was a middle-aged woman, spoke gently. She looked at the lab results, then at me.

"You're pregnant, about eight weeks. Due date next spring."

I sat in the examination room chair, hands on my knees.

My knees were shaking, I pressed down hard to stop them.

"Are you alright?" the doctor asked.

I nodded and took the lab report. That paper was very light, but I looked at the numbers and letters on it for a long time.

Walking out of the clinic it was three p.m., the sunlight glaring.

I sat on a bench in the parking lot, hand unconsciously moving to my abdomen.

Flat, couldn't feel anything.

But inside was a life, eight weeks old.

My phone vibrated, a message from Mara: "Ella, if you need to postpone the trip, we can adjust. Your health is most important."

I looked up at the café across the street. Through the glass window, Ryan and Chloe sat at a window seat. Chloe was laughing, reaching out to straighten Ryan's collar. Ryan held her hand, lowered his head and said something, both laughed even harder.

I looked down at my phone, screen showing the encrypted folder interface.

Inside were screenshots of emails between Ryan and Chloe, records of him modifying my data permissions, Chloe's reports pretending to be my achievements, and that renamed scholarship announcement.

Then I looked at the lab report. Eight weeks pregnant.

The sunlight made me a bit dizzy. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.

When I opened them again, I'd made a decision.

A clean place. A place without lies, without plagiarism, without betrayal.

A place where my child could start life clean and pure.

I replied to Mara: "No need to postpone. I'll depart on schedule."

Then I put away my phone, carefully folded the lab report, and placed it in the innermost compartment of my wallet.

My hand touched my abdomen again, very gently this time.

"Wait a little longer," I said quietly, voice only I could hear. "Mommy's taking you to a clean place. There's only ice and snow there, and honesty."

In the distance at the café, Ryan and Chloe stood up to leave. He had his arm around her waist, she leaned on his shoulder.

I watched them disappear around the corner, then stood up and walked in the opposite direction.

The wind blew, a bit cool. I pulled my coat tighter, hand always on my abdomen.

It was very quiet there. But I knew everything had already changed.