"I told you a long time ago—Les Gilbert is too proud, too self-absorbed. You were never going to hold him, and you couldn't afford to burn yourself trying."
Professor Hale's voice was heavy with frustration. "Do you have any idea how disappointed I was when you gave up your spot at the Core Research Lab last year? People would kill for that chance. And you threw it away for a man, just like that."
"Professor, I was wrong." My voice cracked.
"It's not too late to fix it." She slid a folder across the desk. "This year's National Core Research Lab selection has opened again. I've already submitted your name. This time, don't sacrifice yourself for anyone. You were never meant to stand behind someone else—you belong at the top."
I looked down at the words National Core Research Lab on the cover, and my eyes burned.
A second chance at something already lost was more precious than anything.
"Professor, I won't let you down again." I gripped the folder, my voice steady.
"One more thing," Professor Hale said, as though something had just come back to her. Her expression turned serious. "The overall lead for this year's selection is Dustin Vance."
My heart jolted.
Dustin Vance. In the research world, that name was practically a god's.
Barely past thirty, already academy-level, running a National Key Research Lab, leading multiple state-level major projects, publishing in the highest-tier international journals. Everyone knew him as young, low-key, and impossibly brilliant.
He was the idol of every young scholar in the country, someone you could admire from a distance but never expect to get close to.
I hadn't imagined he'd be personally overseeing this round of selection.
"Professor Vance almost never gets involved in the selection himself. This time, for whatever reason, he asked to see a few specific candidates' materials—and you're one of them." Professor Hale's voice tightened with barely contained excitement. "Madge, prepare well. This is the best chance you'll ever get."
I nodded hard, my heart hammering.
To be noticed by Dustin Vance was an honor I wouldn't have dared to dream of.
I stepped out of the office, took a deep breath, and deleted the last photo of Les from my phone.
Three years. Done.
From now on, I live for research and for myself. No one else.
Les vanished completely for two weeks.
I found out later, through a colleague, that he'd taken extended leave to go traveling with Michelle.
Every day her feed was a highlight reel: ocean sunrises, amusement parks, five-star restaurants, limited-edition gifts.
Every caption in the same style: "Thank you, Les, for making all my wishes come true."
Each photo was a knife that would have cut straight into the old me.
But now, looking at them, all I felt was calm. Almost amused.
I threw myself into preparing for the selection—practically lived in the lab, buried in literature, crunching data, pulling results together, sleeping three or four hours a night.
When you're that deep in the work, love and all its noise really aren't worth mentioning.
At some point I went back to the burned-out apartment to salvage what I could.
The place was wrecked. Blackened walls, warped furniture.
My foot caught on something hard in the debris. I looked down. A plain-band ring, scorched dull and dark.
I'd saved up for a long time to have it made. Designed it myself, had it custom-ordered.
The night of the fire was our three-year anniversary.
I'd planned to bake a cake at home, hide the ring inside, and propose to Les from across the distance—just the two of us on a video call.
I'd even rehearsed the line: "Les, let's get married. We'll do research together for the rest of our lives and grow old together."
What a joke.
I was choking in smoke and flames, clawing to stay alive—and he was across town, surrounded by flowers and applause, celebrating someone else's birthday.
I picked up the ring and closed my fist around it, squeezing until the metal edge bit into my palm.
