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My stomach does a sharp, familiar twist. The easy morning feeling evaporates instantly, replaced by that sick, cold knot I used to get every time Dr. Hobson asked to see me in his office.

I touch the trackpad.

The first email is from the university registrar.

Dear Miss Estrella,

This email serves as official notification that your enrollment in the Doctoral Program in History has been formally terminated following the Academic Integrity Board’s review of Case #4092. Your graduate stipend and departmental access have been revoked effective immediately.

Additionally, your university-sponsored health insurance policy through Blue Cross will terminate at the end of the current billing cycle (October 1st). Please return all departmental keys and library materials to Dr. Hobson’s office within forty-eight hours.

I stare at the words.

Terminated. Revoked.

They didn't even wait for a secondary review. Cole handed in his falsified notes, cried plagiarism, and Hobson rubber-stamped it. Just like that, six years of ninety-hour workweeks, three years of adjunct teaching for three thousand dollars a semester, and my healthcare—wiped out with an automated form letter.

"Vivienne?" Lachlan’s voice is closer now.

I click on the second email without answering.

It’s an announcement from the department listserv, sent to every faculty member, graduate student, and alumni donor.

The Department of History is pleased to announce that Cole Gibson (PhD Candidate) will deliver the keynote address at the upcoming 42nd Annual Mid-Atlantic Historiographical Symposium.

Presentation Title:

"Shadows Over the Delaware: Uncovering the Forgotten Noctis Orders of Pre-Colonial Philadelphia."

Abstract: Drawing from newly recovered Latin ledgers, Mr. Gibson’s groundbreaking research establishes the existence of a continuous, esoteric administrative society operating within early Pennsylvania governance...

Approved by: Dr. Henry Hobson, Department Chair.

My breath catches in my throat.

Shadows Over the Delaware.

It was my title. I wrote it in the margins of my notebook eight months ago, sitting at my kitchen table while Cole watched basketball on the couch and told me no one cared about seventeenth-century secret societies.

He didn't just steal the research. He kept the exact damn title.

A sharp, hot pulse thumps behind my right temple.

I reach up, pressing my fingers to the spot. My skin feels hot. For a terrifying second, I wait for the familiar trickle of blood from my nose, for the pressure to start crushing my skull.

Power is heat.

I force myself to exhale, slow and deep. I drop my hand, curling my fingers into fists, pulling that hot, angry spike down, burying it in my chest until the pounding recedes into a dull throb.

"Vivienne."

Lachlan’s hand comes down on my shoulder. His grip is firm, heavy, anchoring me to the floor. When I look up, his face is hard, his hazel eyes completely black with blown pupils.

"What does it say?" he asks, his Scottish accent low and harsh.

"It says my ex is giving the keynote address at the annual symposium next month." My voice sounds flat, dead, devoid of any inflection. "Using my dissertation. Word for word."

Lachlan looks from me to the glowing screen, his jaw working. "The man who took your work."