Chapter 11 Fertility and Its Control
FERTILITY AND ITS CONTROL
*Samantha*
I stared at Nieminen, then at the folder. His words didn’t compute.
“A show?”
He smiled again, a flash of white teeth and cleft chin. “I overheard you mention to that guy in the cubicle next to you that you haven’t been to any Broadway in months, and I had an extra connection with the box office. It’s Company, at the Bernard Jacobs. The reviews are excellent.”
I picked up the folder. Inside were two tickets, row J. I was so confused. “This is for tonight?”
“Of course,” James Nieminen said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to randomly spring a Broadway show on an colleague less than an hour before curtain, let alone a boss springing it on an employee.
I blinked, then tried to recover. “Uh, Dr. Nieminen, I can’t. I have other plans tonight.”
He cocked his head to the side, lips pursed. “You have other plans? But I thought—when we scheduled these meetings, you said you didn’t have other plans on Friday nights.”
I stifled a strangled bark of laughter. “I agreed to meet you in the conference room, not to go to a Broadway show.”
He frowned. “You said you were free. You didn’t mention anything else.”
“I’m not—I mean—” I glanced at the wall behind him. “I am free Fridays, but only for this meeting. I have plans after work.” My face was getting hot. With anger.
James exhaled loudly through his nose, shoulders going rigid. “Sam, I wouldn’t have bought these tickets if I’d known you weren’t available. Are you telling me you can’t change your plans?”
The phrasing, the sudden shift from genial to weirdly controlling, made the inside of my skull itch. “No. I can’t.”
James’s face went flat, the smile gone. “Fine. With whom do you have plans that can’t be canceled, if you don’t mind me asking?”
This was too much. Even my least chill hookups had never interrogated me like this. I summoned every ounce of petty I had, which, to be fair, was enough to run a midsized petty kingdom where petty trees were logged and made into petty paper at a petty mill.
“I’m having dinner with my fiancé.”
James stared at me, unblinking. “You have a fiancé?” The way he said fiancé told me he thought I was lying.
Which I was technically, but still. Whether I had a fiancé was none of his business.
“Yes.” The lie came so naturally, it shocked even me. “And he can be very jealous, controlling, so I don’t like to provoke him.” Internally, I wondered why I’d never made up a jealous, controlling fiancé before now. Fictional controlling men were so hugely handy in a pinch.
James’s eyes dropped to my hands, which, to be fair, were empty of rings of any kind. “Where’s your ring?”
“In my locker,” I said, without missing a beat, because that was the truth. I took it off on days I knew I’d be in the lab.
For a second, I thought he might laugh or otherwise let it drop. Instead, he just stood there, staring with a sort of clinical dissatisfaction, like I was an unexpectedly recalcitrant cell culture.
James eventually shook his head. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. You never mentioned it before now.”
I shrugged, wanting to leave and never think about this again. “I keep my personal and professional life very separate,” I said, which was not just true, it was extremely true.
James was silent for a moment, then asked, “Are you sure you can manage the increased responsibilities of your position, Sam? I’m not convinced you can keep your commitments. Or that you’re being completely truthful with me.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or smash his face into the table. Instead, I could only look at him blankly and try to keep my voice pitched as detached as possible. “I’m happy to continue meeting the obligations you set for me, as long as we keep things professional.”
“I’ll think about it.” His voice was tight and cold.
Not bothering to smile or offer a parting salutation, I placed the tickets back on the table, turned, and walked out of the room, hearing him huff loudly just before the conference room door closed behind me.
I left the corridor as quickly as I could, taking the side stairs to the women’s locker room.
The building felt empty now, each echoing step in the cinder-block stairwell rebounding back at me in a hollow, rattling syncopation.
Once I made it inside, I sat down on a bench and put my face in my hands.
My cheeks were burning, and my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I wondered how many other times James had tried this move on other grad students.
I wondered how many of them had given in, terrified that they’d be blacklisted or kicked out of the program if they said no.
I thought about the way James had looked at me, the sudden withdrawal of praise, the veiled threat about funding.
I thought about his postdoc who everyone whispered about and dismissed as dramatic because he’d said so.
I thought about how little control I would have over the narrative, how easily a man’s expectations could be treated as fact.
I thought about the last fifteen years of my life, about watching my father be destroyed by liars, about my mother’s body wasting away, her giving up because no one would listen to the truth.
When she’d denounced the Kristiansens publicly, would people have taken her more seriously if she’d been a man? My father had died before he’d been allowed to plead his case, before he’d even made a public statement or given an interview.
But if he’d lived, would he have been believed? Would his word carry more weight because of his chromosomal arrangement and phenotypic sex? Yeah. Probably.
Standing from the bench, I walked to the sink and splashed cold water in my face, certainty taking hold in my bones.
Discovering the truth about my father and the charge of fraud against him now felt more important than securing Oskar Kristiansen’s shares upon his death.
Proving that my dad had been framed wouldn’t only absolve my father, it would also vindicate my mother, show the world she hadn’t been hysterical or lying about the Kristiansens before her death.
Thank God for Andreas. Thank. God.
Thank God he’d pushed me to take revenge.
Thank God he’d found a way to make it happen that didn’t involve bringing an innocent child into the situation.
Even if I discovered all of their secrets on my own, I would never be able to confront Oskar and Tobias and Henrik openly with the truth or go to the press, not even with rock-solid proof.
Without Andreas to back me up, I’d have to use some other surreptitious means.
Because women weren’t believed. Somehow, I’d have to trick them into confessing, or otherwise trick them into destroying each other.
But with Andreas, he’d arranged the pieces masterfully, our subterfuge with the engagement making me appear like a pawn instead of the queen.
They will find out soon enough, I promised myself as I glared in the mirror. They would all find out soon enough. Including Dr. James Nieminen.
* * *
I zipped my parka all the way up after waving goodbye to the dude at the security desk in the lobby.
As I approached the glass doors of the main entrance, I scanned the street for Tara’s Mercedes beyond.
I never left the building until Tara arrived.
Per protocol, she generally showed up ten minutes after I texted her, which I’d done in the locker room right after placing the engagement ring on my third left finger.
Pulling my hand out of my pocket, I studied the twinkle of the large stone in the dim light.
I honestly didn’t know precisely why I’d put it on my hand.
Usually, I wore it on a chain around my neck if I wore it at all.
But for some reason, after telling James that I had a fiancé, wearing it on my ring finger just felt right.
Faint sound and movement beyond the glass doors had me lifting my head. I spotted Tara’s Mercedes pull up to the curb, hazard lights blinking. That was my sign that it was safe to leave.
I had barely reached the first step down when a voice said, “Where are you going?”
James Nieminen materialized from behind one of the columns. Apparently in full stalker mode, dressed in a dark wool coat and leather gloves, he looked me up and down.
“Just heading out,” I said, faking cheer. Then, because I’m a petty queen, I couldn’t resist adding, “You should get going if you want to make that show.”
Ah. Sam. You are your own worst enemy.
I shifted my weight and looked past James toward the waiting black car, which had just been joined by a second SUV.
From the passenger side of the Mercedes, Tara climbed out, eyes locking on mine.
I gave my head a faint shake, hoping she’d stay put.
The last thing I needed was James claiming that he’d been harassed by my security team, then I’d have to explain why I had a security team.
He was a dipshit, but I didn’t consider him a physical threat. I didn’t need Tara this time.
Meanwhile, James smiled, and I didn’t like how much teeth it showed. “I realized we didn’t finish discussing the distribution of tasks for the conference poster. There’s a lot to do, and I decided I want you to draft my section.”
“You want me to draft your section?” Quickly, I scanned the sidewalk and I spotted two other security detail people who I recognized.
Both glanced at me, then at Tara. Obviously, they were following her lead, hands in pockets but stance alert.
They fanned out, silent as bats, and started inching toward us as though they were simple strangers passing by.
“That’s right,” James said, leaning closer, “you draft it, I’ll edit it. That’ll save me time.” He stepped fully into my personal space, the gap between us narrowing to “intimate conversation” range. I could smell his cologne, citrus and chemical, and the tang of it made me want to sneeze.