Cooperate nicely, he said.
When this research center was built, my father was the one who funded it.
Back then, Fabian had nothing—just a penniless professor with empty pockets and no prospects. My father worried I'd suffer if I married him, so he poured everything he had into propping Fabian up, building him into the man he is today.
But I never imagined he'd have a change of heart.
That he'd hurt me without any bottom line—all for some nobody of a graduate student.
Before I could even react, Fabian signaled the security guards behind him to escort me out.
I locked eyes with him, forcing a cold smile onto my face.
"You'll regret this."
Fabian lifted his gaze, indifferent. "Take her away."
As I passed Doris, she flashed me a taunting smile.
"Professor Pruitt, you're getting up there in years. Why don't you just stay home and rest?"
She tilted her head, all false sweetness. "As for the Research Center—don't worry. I'll take good care of Professor Morton for you."
But Fabian—
Don't forget. I'm not someone to be trifled with either.
The days that followed, I was suspended. I stayed home, watering plants, reading books.
My phone, however, wouldn't stop buzzing.
Doris, sending me videos. Deliberately. Tauntingly.
In one, Fabian stood with his back to the camera, cooking in her kitchen.
Her voice dripped with satisfaction: "Look, Professor Pruitt—he even keeps his razor at my place now. He told me being with you was exhausting. Said I'm the one who truly understands him..."
Then came the photos. One after another. Intimate. Unmistakable.
I scrolled through them, and my heart sank to the bottom.
So this was the truth. Fabian's heart had never been with me.
The papers. The essay collections. All those little moments I thought we shared.
Doris's gloating voice kept playing:
"Remember your anniversary last year? He told you he was working late. But actually, I texted him saying the library lost power and I was scared of the dark. So he came to me instead."
"And last night when he said he was working overtime? He was sleeping at my apartment."
"If you know what's good for you, you'll sign the divorce papers now."
"Don't drag this out. The only one who'll be humiliated in the end is you."
I set down my phone.
Then I dialed a number I hadn't called in a very long time.
Seven days later.
Doris had submitted my paper under her name—and won a national award. The ceremony was in full swing.
Just as she stepped onto the stage to accept her trophy, a swarm of reporters burst through the doors.
Microphones thrust toward her face.
"Someone has reported you for academic fraud. They claim this paper was plagiarized. Care to comment?"
"We've heard you're a student of Professor Fabian Morton at Southport University. Sources say you got into the Pruitt Research Center through the back door. Is that true?"
"No!" Doris tried to push the microphones away.
She was panicking, though she fought to keep her composure. "I wrote this paper myself. It has nothing to do with anyone else."
"But someone has provided the original manuscript." A female reporter in glasses held up photocopied documents, her tone sharp and relentless. "It bears Professor Sara Pruitt's signature and editing marks—dated three months before your submission."
She stepped closer. "We also have chat logs showing you asked Professor Morton to give you first authorship. How do you explain that?"
The color drained from Doris's face.
Her eyes darted frantically toward Fabian.
He looked just as stunned. The ambush had caught him completely off guard. He shot to his feet, his expression thunderous, barking orders at the staff to shut down the interview.
"I don't know anything! I've been framed!"
Doris was crying now, her composure shattered.
