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“They’ve assigned me an independent research laboratory for my combinatorial analysis project as a freshman,” he added proudly.
“That is practically unheard of, sweetheart; normally only doctoral candidates receive private lab allotments,” I remarked with delight.
“He said an anonymous donor established a massive new research fellowship this week specifically for incoming minds,” Noah explained.
My coffee cup stopped halfway to my lips, my sharp, defensive instincts flaring for a fraction of a second in my chest.
I looked at Noah’s radiant, uncorrupted face, seeing the pure excitement of a young scholar on the threshold of his greatness.
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I knew with absolute certainty whose hand had guided that forty-million-dollar gift into the university’s coffers.
Vincent Moretti had sent his remorse across the country, wrapped in the only language he knew how to speak: institutional capital.
Yet for the first time in eighteen years, I felt no anger, no urge to storm into the dean’s office and demand the gift be returned.
