Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,71

pitching her voice to carry to the farthest corners of the room, “there is no avenue of my professional life that I feel will not stand up to the most active scrutiny. I have no qualms about any question you might ask.”

He cleared his throat. “While I’m sure that’s the case, this issue actually pertains to your personal life,” he said. Glancing at the remaining panelists, he reluctantly elaborated. “Ms. Galloway, please tell the committee if you have ever engaged in the solicitation or hiring of a male escort during the course of your enrollment at Wellington University.”

Leanne froze.

“I beg your pardon?” she croaked.

Gillian. She’d naively thought Gillian had been satisfied ruining Brandon’s chances and ensuring that any connection between them was decimated, that torpedoing their burgeoning relationship was her goal. Now Leanne saw that her revenge was much more far-reaching than that. She hadn’t come today only to see Leanne’s reaction to Brandon’s destruction; she’d come to lay the seeds for Leanne’s downfall too.

If she didn’t give the answer of her life, it would derail everything she’d worked for. She had to stall, give herself time to work out a solution.

“I’m afraid,” she said carefully, “I don’t understand the relevance of the question in this context. Any relationship I may or may not have with the individual in question is wholly unconnected to my abilities as regard the Walters Prize, is it not?”

The second judge spoke up. “Of course they are. We value diversity of experience and pride ourselves on the inclusiveness of the selection process…”

Her voice droned on, dancing around the heart of the matter, trying to dress up their revulsion as a matter of academic integrity. Platitudes, Leanne thought ruthlessly, nothing but platitudes. Armstrong had been right. The committee cared less about academics than they did about the absence of scandal. In their minds, few things were more scandalous that being involved with a stripper.

The dean’s reaction should have made that clear but she hadn’t thought through the ramifications of Gillian’s attack. If she had, Leanne would have realized the charges would impact every facet of her life that mattered. The mere accusation, true or not, had effectively poisoned her professional future.

The irony of course was that she was no longer involved with the “individual in question.”

Because he knew this would happen.

Not that Gillian would exact her revenge like this, but Brandon understood as that his continuing presence would put her academic advancement in jeopardy. That was why he’d been so adamant about distancing himself from her when they’d clashed in the Graduate Office.

He’d done it for her.

He’d capitulated without argument. He’d sacrificed his chance at a defense in order to give her the best possible shot at the prize she wanted more than anything.

Her heart bled.

The interview process was a sham. They weren’t looking for the next great mind. They were looking for the next great mind that was just like theirs. Dry. Contained. Uncontroversial. If she wanted this prize, she would be trapped by the chains of expectation forever.

She tried to focus. In the audience, the faces of her colleagues and peers swam before her. Kessler was apoplectic. She could see her mother’s face, pale and wide-eyed, but she looked away. This had to be her decision to make. No one else could make it for her.

The Walters Prize was everything she’d ever worked for.

Except…

She’d been working toward the wrong prize.

Brandon was the prize she needed. Because she loved him.

Because with him, she could embrace all the pieces of her life.

It was too late, though. She’d thrown it all away in pursuit of a prize that didn’t really matter.

With her back against the wall, she couldn’t deny the overwhelming impact he’d had on her life. He’d freed her and—despite the personal heartbreak she knew was waiting for her and the professional chaos she would certainly unleash—she couldn’t turn her back what she felt for him.

The buzzing in her mind intensified. On the table in front of her lay her meticulously crafted closing statement. It was a masterpiece of public speaking. It had taken her days to perfect.

It wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.

Licking dry lips, she finally spoke. “My personal life has…It has…” She slowly found her stride. “My personal life should have no bearing on my reception before this committee. Clearly, it does. Yes, I have been seeing a man who works as an exotic dancer. I have not, now or ever, paid for his sexual services. I will not apologize for