Monday morning. Althea arrived at the Institute in her new Porsche-bought with the dividends from her trust fund that had been accumulating untouched for five years.
She parked in a general spot, avoiding the executive lot.
As she walked in, she heard the whispers.
"That's her. The admin assistant."
"Did you see the car? Must be sleeping with the boss."
"Bret Morrison's mistress. Classic."
Althea kept her head high. She walked into the lab.
Dr. Liam Yates, the lab director, blocked her path. He was a brilliant man, but arrogant, and he hated nepotism. He thought Althea was just Bret's flavor of the month.
"Here," Liam shoved a stack of files into her chest. "Sort these by date. And get me a coffee. Black."
Althea took the files. She didn't move to get the coffee.
"Dr. Yates," she said, flipping open the top file. "These are the clinical trial results for the beta-blocker."
"I know what they are. Can you read dates? Or is that too complex?"
Althea ignored the insult. Her eyes scanned the data tables. She frowned.
"You have a statistical anomaly in the third cohort," she said. "Look at the potassium levels. They're spiking in patients over 50. If you proceed to Phase 3, you're going to cause cardiac arrest in 15% of your subjects."
Liam froze. The lab went silent. Other researchers stopped their work.
"Excuse me?" Liam laughed, a nervous sound. "You're an assistant. You don't know what a potassium spike looks like."
"I know that 5.5 millimoles per liter is the threshold," Althea said, her voice cutting through the room. "And your data shows an average of 5.8. Did you adjust for the renal clearance rates?"
Liam snatched the file back. He stared at the numbers. His face went pale. Then red.
He looked at Althea. Really looked at her.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"I'm the person saving your career," Althea said. "Fix the clearance rate variable. And get your own coffee."
She walked past him to her desk.
Behind her, the whispers changed tone.
At the Harrington office, Easton was pacing. The image of Althea with Dr. Fuller was burned into his mind, a confusing, infuriating puzzle.
"Sir," his private investigator said, holding a folder. "I checked her accounts. Nothing. No credit card usage. No hotel check-ins."
"Then where is she?" Easton slammed his fist on the desk. "She has to be eating! She has to be sleeping somewhere!"
"There is one thing," the PI said. "A vehicle registration. A Porsche 911. Registered to a private holding company, B.M. Enterprises."
"B.M.?" Easton frowned. "Like Bret Morrison? So she's not just his date, she's his kept woman. He bought her a car." A wave of possessive fury washed over him. The thought of Althea, his Althea, with another man-especially a rival like Morrison-was intolerable. "That display at the gala... it must have been a performance coached by Morrison to humiliate me. She doesn't have a single real skill. She's probably living in that car when he gets tired of her."
But a knot of unease tightened in his stomach. A Porsche? It was a bold, expensive statement.
