"Leave us." Fabian set down his pen and rose from his chair, his expression maddeningly neutral. "All of you."
The room emptied.
"Sara, I'm not targeting you." His voice was measured, reasonable. "But your papers are under investigation for plagiarism. You need to lay low for a while."
I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound—and stared at him through burning eyes.
"Under investigation? For what?"
"You know exactly how I wrote those papers. You were there." My voice cracked. "You know how much time I poured into that research. How much of myself I gave. And the moment someone accuses me of plagiarism, you just believe them? You reported me yourself?" I stepped closer. "What kind of husband does that?"
Fabian's expression cooled.
"Sara, stop making a scene." His tone hardened. "Precisely because I'm your husband—your family—I have to recuse myself. Avoid any appearance of favoritism."
He straightened his cuffs. "If your papers are clean, you have nothing to fear from an investigation. I'm just asking you to go home and rest for a few days. Cooperate, and this will all blow over."
Cooperate nicely, he said.
When this research center was built, my father was the one who funded it.