Chapter 3

The next day I went to the office to process my return paperwork.

Munir in HR looked up and her expression shifted. "Sandy, your position..."

"I know. Ismael took it over."

I set my suitcase in the corner. "It's fine. Just find me something standard."

Munir sighed and pulled up my file on her computer.

"Your five years out west — the official record says you voluntarily requested the frontier support assignment, overcame difficult conditions, and completed the project successfully."

"That's accurate."

"But," she lowered her voice, "the outcome reports for all three projects you led — Ismael is listed as first author on every single one."

I went still.

"That's not possible. Those were my—"

"You signed off on it."

Munir clicked open a document and turned the screen toward me.

"See this? It's an agreement from five years ago. You signed it, authorizing shared credit for all project outcomes across the team."

The signature was mine. But I had absolutely no memory of signing anything like that.

"You left in a hurry back then. A lot of the paperwork was handled by Harris on your behalf."

Munir hesitated, like she wanted to say more, then pulled back. "Sandy, some things... never mind. Go find your desk."

My desk was wedged in the corner next to the printer, buried under a pile of other people's junk.

Colleagues passed by. Some pretended not to see me. Others gave a quick nod.

Only Helen came over, dropping her voice. "You're back? How?"

"The project wrapped up."

"So you're just... here?" She glanced toward Ismael's office. "Watch yourself. She's a supervisor now, and Harris is her husband."

I set down my bag. "I know."

That afternoon, my phone rang. Harris.

I let it go to voicemail.

He called again. Then twice more.

On the fourth call, I picked up.

"Sandy, we need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Ismael's pregnant again. The doctor said the pregnancy is unstable — she can't have any stress."

He sounded exhausted. "Can you just... stay out of our lives for a while?"

A child's voice carried through the phone.

"Daddy, Mommy threw up!"

"Coming, coming."

Harris said quickly, "That's all. I'm asking you, please."

The call ended.

I stared at the screen, and thought about the day five years ago when the transfer order came through. I'd called him crying.

He said: "Wait for me. I'll be right there."

Then he held me and said: "Go. Think of it as building experience. I'll wait for you. We'll get married when you're back."

That day, there was a faint perfume on him. Not the one he usually wore.

Now I knew. It was Ismael's.