My Fiancé Gave My Research to His Mistress

Cayson's grip on my elbow was firm but not cruel. I pulled back. Not hard. Just enough to reclaim the space my arm occupied.

"I'm Dr. Amaris Howell," I said. My voice came out steady. "I've been on a classified humanitarian assignment for three years. I'm carrying clinical trial data that needs to be logged with the research department. If you check the personnel records—"

"A vagrant claiming to be a doctor with a bag of notebooks." The woman in the blazer spoke over me like I was static on a radio she could simply tune out. She looked at Cayson. "Remove her."

The word *vagrant* hung in the air.

I heard it land. Heard the way it reshaped me in front of the residents clustered near the doors. I saw one of them glance at my scuffed boots. Another's gaze traveled up to my loose jacket, my bare face, my canvas satchel held together with fraying straps.

I looked like someone who didn't belong here.

The woman smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

I shifted the satchel higher on my shoulder and stepped to the side, angling toward the entrance. If I could just get inside. If I could reach the research wing, find Dr. Thomas, show him the notebooks—

Cayson moved to block me.

I stepped the other way.

The woman's hand came out of nowhere.

The slap cracked across my face hard enough that my vision went white at the edges. My head snapped sideways. The taste of copper flooded my mouth.

I heard the sound before I understood it — a collective intake of breath from the people watching. Residents. Staff. Strangers.

I didn't have time to process it.

Her other hand hit my shoulder, shoving hard. My boots skidded on the pavement. I stumbled backward off the shallow entrance step, arms pinwheeling, and hit the ground.

The impact punched the air out of my lungs. My palm scraped against concrete. My knee cracked down next. Pain flared hot and immediate up my leg.

I stayed there for a second. Maybe two. The world tilted and then righted itself.

I tasted blood. My lip was split. I could feel it swelling already.

My satchel had fallen beside me. I grabbed it, pulled it against my chest. The notebooks inside shifted. I pressed my hand flat against the canvas to keep them still.

My phone was in my jacket pocket.

I pulled it out. My hands were shaking. The screen was cracked — I didn't remember when that happened — but it still worked. I scrolled to Dean's name. My thumb hovered over the call button.

I pressed it.

The line rang once. Twice.

His face appeared on the screen.

He was in his office. I recognized the window behind him, the framed diplomas on the wall. His jacket was on. His hair was neat. He looked composed. He looked like someone who had just come from a meeting and was about to go to another one.

"Dean," I said. My voice cracked. "Dean, I'm at the hospital. There's been a — someone's — I need you to—"

His gaze flicked past me. To the background of the frame. To Katalina, standing over me with her blazer perfect and her expression cold.

I watched his eyes move. Watched him take in the scene. The blood on my lip. The pavement under my knees. The woman who had just hit me.

He didn't ask if I was hurt.

He didn't ask what happened.

His face didn't change at all.

"Katalina," he said. His voice was quiet. Calm. The voice he used when he was delegating something he didn't want to handle personally. "Handle the nuisance."

The screen went black.

I stared at it.

The call had lasted eleven seconds.

I could hear my own breathing. Short and shallow. I could hear the murmur of voices from the crowd. I could hear Katalina's heels clicking closer.

I pressed my thumb against the scar on my wrist.

The patient had lived.

I had done everything right.

And it hadn't mattered at all.

Katalina crouched down in front of me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something expensive. Something I would never have bought for myself because I'd been saving every spare dollar for meteorite pendants and engagement rings and a future I thought we were building together.

"You should have stayed wherever you were," she said softly. "No one here is waiting for you."

She stood. Smoothed her blazer. Turned back toward the entrance.

I stayed on the pavement.

The notebooks were still in my satchel. My palm was still bleeding. My phone screen was still black.

And somewhere inside that building, Dean Russell was probably already back in his meeting.