My older sister lived in our father’s building. She received a monthly stipend, deposited into her personal bank account automatically, as recompense of her efforts on behalf of the family.

She accompanied our father on trips, served as a hostess for his parties, and shelved her own interests—personal and professional—in favor of his whims.

Dominika didn’t complain. Nor did she appear to be unhappy with the arrangement.

She’d emerged from what our father called the rebellious phase, a period during which his children were determined to live their life outside of his influence, make their own decisions, and thus relentlessly dissatisfy him.

I was still in my rebellious phase.

If his opinion wasn’t consulted, even successes were a disappointment. Scholarships, degrees, awards, grants—all meaningless.

Ultimately, however, and despite my fiercest efforts, Sergey Kroft’s influence was impossible to escape. He’d made certain of that.

“Dr. Kroft,” Dr. McGovern stood as I entered his office; he extended a hand if not a genuine smile. “Please come in, sit.”

I walked to a new set of leather club chairs and took the one closest to the door. The Persian rug was new, as were the shelves lining both walls, the conference table, the stained glass lamps, and the desk. My attention idled on what appeared to be a gold- plated stapler next to a futuristic looking conferencing telephone.

The forthcoming discussion was certain to be uncomfortable, now even more so with evidence of my father’s influence infiltrating every corner, and this was precisely why I hadn’t wanted to bring Anna into this world, my father’s world.

“What do you need?” The head of my department rested in his wingback desk chair, tepid smile in place.

“An impartial mediator is needed for a student in the summer session.” Impatience to have this exchange over imbued my tone with clipped efficiency.

Outcome certain, I saw no use delaying inexorable unpleasantness.

If circumstances had been different, if I’d earned my place as a tenured professor, if I—and Dr. McGovern—were free of Sergey Kroft’s influence, then I would be holding a resignation letter. No one would ever know that the captivating Anna I. Harris had been my reason and I would breathe easier.

Reality held us both hostage, to a point.

Dr. McGovern tugged on the hidden tray holding his keyboard and moved his attention to the new flat screen monitor on his desk. “Why do you need the mediator?”

“Compromised impartiality.”

“Why?”

“I hope to become involved with the student.”

And there it was.

Dr. McGovern ceased typing. His stare slid from the monitor to mine, and held. Previous traces of forced friendliness now gone, a flinty expression emerged. This, at last, was sincere.

When I’d met Dr. McGovern years ago, a CRT monitor sat on his pressed wood desk. The office had been shabbily decorated in postmodern avocado greens, peeling vinyl chairs that smelled like cigarettes, and shag carpet, presumably bequeathed from one Department Chair to the next since the 1960’s.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way. . .”

Bracing for the impressive pomposity of the exceptionally hypocritical, I inclined my head for the Department Chair to continue.

“I imagine it must be difficult for you, not knowing if your position, your tenure has been earned, or if it was a consequence of your family’s generosity to this great institution.”

He paused, and we shared what I suspected was meant to be a meaningful look, one that left me in no doubt of his thoughts on the matter.

“If you were any other young faculty member—an adjunct, or an assistant professor—you would be dismissed for this. This is a small world we live in and your credibility would be destroyed.”

He paused, as though to let that sink in, before continuing philosophically, “And if you were any other tenured faculty member, you’d be old enough to know better. Or, you’d be dismissed, forced to quietly retire. Let me be clear, I would force you out. I do not tolerate harassment of my students, the preying upon of young people by those in authority.” His gaze dropped to the gold stapler I’d noticed earlier. “But we both know you are not any other professor.”

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. And so does money.

Giving him nothing—no reaction, no words of explanation—I leaned my elbow on the arm of the club chair and covered my mouth with a hand. I waited.

Dr. McGovern also waited, but he’d be waiting indefinitely if his expectations included an impassioned defense, or contrition. I wasn’t the first professor to become involved with a student in our department—nor would I be the last—and therefore, his righteous speech was little more than sanctimonious blather.

Notwithstanding the bloated opinions of the sycophant across from me, I was discontented with myself. My weakness disappointed me. But I’d never confess as much to him.

“Well?” The older man leaned backward, turning his hands palm up, apparently dissatisfied with my lack of comment.

I scratched my cheek. “Would you like a resignation letter?”

He considered me, ubiquitous contempt painting the man a shade of green that would have complemented the office’s previous décor. “Of course not.”

“Then, a mediator.”

Dr. McGovern nodded once, his thin lips now a thinner line, the two bits of flesh pressed together somehow less than each separately. “Fine. If you have no respect for the tenets of this institution, a mediator will be arranged.”

My goal accomplished, I stood. “How soon?”

He threw a hand in the air. “Next week,” he blustered, exasperated, as though he’d been the one disenfranchised and preyed upon.

Next week.

I nodded, turned, and left.

One week.

I sailed down the hall, past the department secretary, not pausing to check my messages.

I wasn’t proud of my decisions where Anna was concerned. But for once in my life, pride seemed to matter not at all.

I wanted Anna.

I wanted to be with her, even if I wasn’t yet free to be with her fully.

If she is willing, this will have to be enough.

Yes, Anna was beautiful—I considered her the most beautiful woman I’d ever known—but it was her words that preoccupied me, unbearably brief glimpses into an exquisite soul. The email she’d sent in February, her responses to discussion test questions, the essay she’d written before dropping the class.

Each time we were alone, a surge of intrinsic rightness overwhelmed caution, circumspection eclipsed by an agonizing curiosity. I needed to know her. We’d barely touched, but these encounters—things left unsaid, actions untaken—haunted me.

My life split in two: before and after; the possibility of she, of hope and wonder; and then everything else.

. .

I didn’t deserve her, not yet. Not until my book was finished and published. Not until I’d secured enough in grant funding to be independent of the endowment my father had made in my name. Not until I’d succeeded in fully supporting myself, until I could offer her a life free of Sergey Kroft’s influence.

Then I’d be able to offer myself to her completely.

It might take months, or years. But it would be worth it.

For now, for this first step, I could wait one more week. Just one week. I could force circumspection.

For one week.