"That essay collection was fake. How could I possibly make another woman the protagonist?"

"Don't forget—publishing an essay collection for you every year was our wedding promise."

"Why would I suddenly change that?"

Fabian's gentle voice washed over me like a balm, settling my nerves.

I thought back over our ten years of marriage. He had always been attentive to my every need.

He remembered all my little habits.

I liked my coffee with two spoons of sugar and one of milk. Every morning, he'd prepare it and set it on my desk, always at the perfect temperature.

My hands and feet turned to ice in winter. Every night before bed, he'd heat water for me to soak my feet, massaging my ankles while I did—for nine years straight.

When I worked late in the lab, I'd step out to find him waiting with a thermos. Inside was always ginger tea with brown sugar, or the sweet white fungus soup I loved.

And now he was asking me to give my paper to a female student?

I wanted to believe it was just a misunderstanding.

"Fine, Fabian. You'd better keep your word."

That night, to make amends, he cooked dinner himself—a whole table full of dishes.

But the next day, everything fell apart.

I had taken the day off from the Pruitt Research Center. Then, around noon, my assistant called.

"Professor Pruitt, something's happened with your paper. You've been accused of plagiarism!"

I gripped my phone, my head buzzing.

"Plagiarism? That's impossible."

Those papers represented countless hours of painstaking work and dedication. Several of them were at the cutting edge of the field—concepts I had pioneered myself.

How could anyone accuse me of plagiarism?

There was no time to think. I rushed to the Research Center.

But before I even reached the entrance, I froze at what I saw.

Fabian was carefully opening a car door, then ceremoniously scooping up a girl in a white dress, carrying her bridal-style.

"Professor Morton, I'm so sorry to trouble you." Doris had her arms wrapped around his neck, gazing up at him with starry eyes. "I'm so clumsy—I twisted my ankle. Otherwise I wouldn't have bothered you like this."

Fabian looked down at her, his gaze soft as it rested on her face.

"At least you know you're clumsy." His voice was teasing. "Next time you're this careless, I can't guarantee you'll still have an internship at the Research Center."

Doris nuzzled against his chest like a clingy cat, then playfully raised her hand in a vow. "Professor Morton, I'll never do it again. I swear I'll walk more carefully from now on."

Fabian's lips curved upward. He reached out and tapped her nose.

Then he turned and carried her into the Research Center without so much as a glance in my direction.

I stood there, stunned. My scalp prickled, my vision swam, and my stomach churned violently.

Fabian was a germaphobe. He never willingly touched anyone.

In nine years of marriage, I had been the only person he would allow close.

But now, Doris had become the exception.

My mind was still reeling when my assistant appeared beside me, hesitating before she spoke.

"Professor Pruitt, I looked into it. The plagiarism accusation against your paper... it was filed by Professor Morton."

The words hit me like a plunge into ice water. Suddenly, everything made sense.

The day Fabian had pressured me to give Doris first authorship on my paper, I had stood my ground.

He'd pretended to back off.

But in reality, he'd played dirty—dragging me into a plagiarism scandal, destroying my reputation, forcing me to hand over the authorship.

My chest heaved. The color drained from my face.

"I need to find Fabian!"

I spun around and ran into the Research Center. The next second, I stopped dead in my tracks, frozen in shock.

My workstation had been ransacked.

Petri dishes lay shattered across the floor. The hard drive containing all my research data had vanished without a trace.

"Professor Morton said your experimental design has critical flaws. All your projects are suspended."

Doris stood in the doorway, chomping on gum with infuriating nonchalance. Pinched between her fingers was the USB drive I'd backed up my data to just last night.

She dangled it in front of my face, her expression pure provocation.

"Thanks for all those late nights you pulled for me, Professor Pruitt. Now it's all mine."

Gone was the fragile, innocent girl from before. The woman standing before me now was a completely different creature.

I lost it. I lunged for the drive.

Doris didn't even flinch. She tucked the USB into her lab coat with maddening calm.

"Professor Morton says people who commit academic fraud don't deserve a place in this lab." Her lips curled. "Congratulations, Professor Pruitt. You've officially graduated."

My head rang like a struck bell.

What was there left to misunderstand? The plagiarism scandal, the accusations—all of it was a trap. Fabian and Doris had orchestrated the whole thing.

My eyes burned. Before I could stop myself, my hand connected with Doris's face.

"Don't think I don't see right through your two-faced act." My voice shook with fury. "You think these underhanded tactics will drive me out? Keep dreaming."

Doris cupped her reddening cheek, but instead of retreating, she smiled.

"Oh, Sara. Getting a little hysterical, are we?" She tilted her head, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I suppose I understand. A woman past her prime who can't even keep her own husband... what else can she do but throw a tantrum when faced with someone younger?"

She shook her head slowly, then pulled something from her pocket with theatrical flair.

Fabian's car keys.

"I'm so sorry, Professor Pruitt." Her voice was honey laced with venom. "When Professor Morton drove me home last night, I accidentally left my lipstick on his passenger seat. I should go retrieve it."

She turned to leave. "As for you—feel free to keep having your little meltdown. I won't be staying to watch."

As she walked away, something fluttered to the ground.

A photograph.

I picked it up. The image showed Fabian in his office, guiding Doris through revisions on a paper—his hand over hers on the keyboard. But her other hand rested on his shoulder, and they were gazing at each other like lovers posing for a portrait.

Something inside me snapped.

I stormed to Fabian's office and kicked the door open.

"You ordered someone to destroy my lab? To wipe out my research data?" I was shaking. "What happened to everything you promised me yesterday? You're going back on your word already?"

I'd completely lost the composure I usually prided myself on. Every trace of poise, of calm—gone. I wanted to grab the ashtray from his desk and hurl it at his head.

His assistant went pale, stammering at Fabian. "I'm so sorry, Professor Morton, I couldn't stop her—"

"Leave us." Fabian set down his pen and rose from his chair, his expression maddeningly neutral. "All of you."

The room emptied.

"Sara, I'm not targeting you." His voice was measured, reasonable. "But your papers are under investigation for plagiarism. You need to lay low for a while."

I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound—and stared at him through burning eyes.

"Under investigation? For what?"

"You know exactly how I wrote those papers. You were there." My voice cracked. "You know how much time I poured into that research. How much of myself I gave. And the moment someone accuses me of plagiarism, you just believe them? You reported me yourself?" I stepped closer. "What kind of husband does that?"

Fabian's expression cooled.

"Sara, stop making a scene." His tone hardened. "Precisely because I'm your husband—your family—I have to recuse myself. Avoid any appearance of favoritism."

He straightened his cuffs. "If your papers are clean, you have nothing to fear from an investigation. I'm just asking you to go home and rest for a few days. Cooperate, and this will all blow over."

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.