Chapter 9 Sam #2
I kiss him, soft and slow, and settle back down against his chest.
We stay like that for a long time, locked together, breathing in sync. The room is quiet except for the occasional creak of the bed and the distant sounds of campus outside.
I'm almost asleep when my phone buzzes.
I groan, trying to ignore it, but it buzzes again. And again.
"That's insistent," Devan murmurs.
"Probably Braiden or Toby." I reach out blindly, fumbling for the phone on the nightstand.
The screen lights up with an email notification.
My blood goes cold.
"What?" Devan shifts, trying to see. "What is it?"
I open the email with numb fingers.
From: M. Sterling
To: S. Sharma, D. Morse
Subject: Follow-up Required
Mr. Sharma and Mr. Morse,
Your interview today raised some interesting questions that the committee would like to address in person. Please report to my office tomorrow morning at 9 AM.
This is not optional.
M. Sterling
"That's not good," I say, voice distant.
"No." His arms tighten around me. "It's not."
The post-orgasm haze evaporates, replaced by cold dread. Sterling's face flashes in my mind—that calculating look, one winner, one loser, that's the game.
"What do you think he wants?" I whisper.
"I don't know." Devan's jaw is set. "But whatever it is, we face it together. Remember?"
"Together," I echo.
But the word feels hollow.
***
My hand is in Devan's, our fingers laced tight enough to hurt. Neither of us slept much. We spent the night tangled together, not talking, just holding on.
The administrative building is quiet this early on a Saturday. Our footsteps echo on marble. The portraits of distinguished alumni seem to watch us pass—old white guys in old suits, judging us for daring to want things.
Sterling's door is solid oak. Devan knocks.
"Come in."
We step inside.
Sterling is behind a massive mahogany desk, perfectly pressed. Dr. Thorne stands by the window with her arms crossed.
"Sit," Sterling says.
We sit, our hands linked between the chairs.
Sterling notices. His lips twitch.
"I'll cut right to it," he says. "Yesterday was illuminating. You're both exceptional. Individually, you represent exactly the kind of talent the Johnston was designed to cultivate."
He pauses.
"But together?" He shakes his head. "Together, you're a liability."
My stomach drops.
"The hesitation in that room," Sterling continues. "The way you tried to wound but couldn't commit to the kill. Impressive, but concerning."
"Sir," Devan says carefully, "our relationship doesn't affect our professional capabilities—"
"It already has." Sterling cuts him off. "Yesterday, you both pulled your punches. Not much, but enough."
Thorne speaks. "The internship is high-pressure. Long hours. Intense competition. We can't have candidates whose judgment might be compromised by..." She waves at our linked hands. "This."
"So here's what's going to happen," Sterling says. He picks up two folders. "These are your offers."
He sets one in front of me. One in front of Devan.
"We're prepared to offer the internship to either of you," Sterling says. "But only one. And the other signs a non-compete agreement."
The words don't register. Just sounds.
Then they hit.
"A non-compete?" My voice comes out strangled. "What does that mean?"
"The person who doesn't take the internship agrees not to pursue opportunities in economic policy at any partner institution for five years," Sterling says calmly. "No internships. No fellowships. No entry-level positions. You'd be locked out of the field."
The room spins. I grip Devan's hand until my knuckles ache.
"That's insane," Devan says. His composure is cracking. "You can't ask us to—"
"We're not asking." Sterling's voice hardens. "We're offering a choice. One of you takes the career-making opportunity. The other steps aside. Permanently."
"Why?" I manage. "Why would you—"
"Because I need to know you can prioritize," Sterling says. "Make the hard choice. The rational choice." He leans forward. "Consider it a final test."
"And if we both refuse?" Devan asks.
"We select a candidate from another school. Neither of you gets anything." Sterling shrugs. "Your choice."
I look at Devan. He looks at me.
"Twenty-four hours," Sterling says. "Nine a.m. tomorrow. You can go."
We stand on shaky legs and make it to the door.
"Oh, and gentlemen?" Sterling's voice stops us. "Choose wisely. One of you has a bright future. The other... well. There are other fields."
The door closes behind us. We stand frozen in the hallway.
"I'll sign it," Devan says quietly.
"What?" I spin to face him. "No. Devan—"
"You take the internship." His face is pale, resolved. "This is what you've worked for. I'm not letting you lose it because of me."
"Are you insane?" My voice echoes off the walls. "I'm not building my career on your professional grave! That's not winning, that's just losing differently."
"Sam—"
"No!" I grab his shirt, forcing him to look at me. He's so much taller that I have to crane my neck, but I don't care. "You don't get to sacrifice yourself and call it love. That's not how this works."
"Then what?" His voice cracks. "I'm not letting you sign it either. I won't. I'll forge your rejection before I let you give up your future for me."
"So we're at a stalemate," I say bitterly. "Both too stubborn to fall on the sword."
"Apparently."
We stare at each other. My heart pounds. My eyes burn.
This is what Sterling wanted. This impossible choice designed to tear us apart.
"There has to be another way," I whisper.
"If there is," Devan says quietly, "I don't see it."
Neither do I.