Chapter 2
Fine, Technically
Harlee
Chicago
If there's one thing I’m certain of, it’s that my long, grueling academic career has pushed me right to the brink of insanity. I cannot wait for it to be over.
The scent of stale coffee and old highlighters clings to my sweater as I stare at the mountain of textbooks stacked on my desk. Each one is a monument to some past semester: midterms, finals, tutoring sessions, late nights, coffee runs. Every time I survived one fire, another popped up.
“It'll all be worth it,” I mutter. “Master’s in applied mathematics. Early graduation. Florida save the planet, yadi-yadi-ya.”
My gaze slides to my laptop.
The email is still open.
The laugh dies in my throat.
To: Harlee Prince
From: Northbridge University Graduate it was the models and dashboards.
Watching how one tiny change on a spreadsheet shifted budgets, timelines, entire departments.
The math was cool, but the way it moved people—and money—was the part I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I’d even noticed numbers that didn’t quite line up once or twice. Tiny discrepancies I chalked up to, I’m the grad student, they’re the grown-ups. Guess I know what those were now.
If Shawl doesn’t count, the whole line gets messy. Best case, I’m delayed. Worst case, Healy can’t find me another approved practicum fast enough and I’m stuck paying for another year at a North Shore school that does not believe in second chances.
Tuition. Rent. Fees. Another year of “you’re almost there” stretching out in front of me like punishment.
Herman Prince is going to kill me. Simple as that.
He is absolutely going to blame this all on the one stupid decision I made at eighteen.
This Northbridge degree is supposed to be my proof.
I worked my ass off to get into this grad program, never dropping from the top of my class, so I can finally say: See, Daddy?
I can fumble and still land on my feet. I can be top-tier again.
If I slip now—if this bullshit scandal derails me, again—it becomes Exhibit C in his favorite thesis: Harlee cannot be trusted with her own future. Her instincts are too weak.
My phone’s in my hand before I fully decide. Muscle memory. I thumb to my favorites and tap the only name that makes sense.
Me: Call me ASAP. 911
I barely make it three full laps across the room before my phone buzzes.
“What's the emergency?” Wynter’s voice crackles through the speaker, concern cutting through static and background chaos.
“Remember that internship I busted my ass for last year?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “Well, apparently, it was all for nothing. The advisement center just dropped a bomb on me.”
“Whoa, slow down, Lee.” Her tone shifts—songwriter brain activated. “What exactly did they say?”
I clear my throat and slip into my best stuffy white man voice. “Allow me to enlighten you, dear Wynter.” I read the email aloud, every syllable soaked in sarcasm.
When I finish, the line goes quiet.
Then: “What. The. Actual. Fuck?”
“Exactly! ‘What the fuck’ is right!”
“Wait, hold up.” Paper rustles on her end. “What’s this about ‘ongoing allegations?’ Last I heard, they only indicted the CEO. They haven’t even found Shawl yet.”
“That’s not even the point, Wynn!” My voice spikes as I pivot toward the window.
“I spent seven months at that hellhole, getting violated by Lazy-Eye Larry’s stare for free.
No pay, no sleep, no social life. And now they’re like, ‘Oops, our bad, those credits don’t count anymore.
’ The least they could do is not screw me over a year after the shit hit the fan. ”
“Okay, Lee, breathe,” Wynter soothes. “And for the love of God, stop pacing. You’re gonna wear a hole in Big Mama’s floor, and you know she don’t play that.”
I freeze mid-stride, a reluctant laugh snorting out of me. “You know me too well.”
“Damn straight. When’s your meeting with Dr. Healy?”
“Wednesday.” I sigh, glaring at my long-cold coffee. “One week to come up with a miracle or kiss my six-year plan goodbye.”
“Don’t start,” she warns. “Healy loves you. He literally pulled strings for that Florida placement, remember? If anyone can fix this, it’s your old savior with the PhD.”
“He’s my advisor, not my savior,” I mutter. But my chest eases a fraction. I have worked my ass off at Northbridge. Healy knows my GPA. He signed off on the whole graduate early, go to Florida, impress Herman blueprint.
“Look,” Wynter continues, “you’re not just some random student with a sad little résumé. Ain’t a single person on that campus with more pull than you. Relax.”
I flop face-first into my pillow and let out a muffled scream. The lavender-scented fabric softener Big Mama uses does absolutely nothing to soothe my rage.
“Harlee Quinn Prince,” Wynter says, slipping into her no-nonsense tone. “Listen to your best friend. I say this with love, but girl, you’re being dramatic… again.”
“I am not,” I mumble. I am. And also… I’m kind of right.
“It’s gonna be fine,” she insists. “You haven’t even talked to Dr. Healy yet.
Let him do his job. Worst case? You walk in the summer.
You’ll still have your degree, still have your little Florida save-the-planet project down the line.
No big deal. You’ll still be my bougie-ass, overpaid financial advisor. ”
I trace the geometric pattern on my comforter, jaw tight. “You’re minimizing.”
“I’m reframing,” she corrects. “Right now, you’re acting like the committee sent an email that said, ‘We regret to inform you that you’re a failure and your daddy was right.’”
“Is that not what it said?” I deadpan.
She laughs, then lets it fade. I hear her move, the background noise dulling like she’s walked away from the chaos.
“Okay, time out,” she says. “Talk to me. What’s really freaking you out? And don’t just say ‘credits.’ You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?” I ask, even though I already know.
“The thing where your voice goes flat but you’re pacing like you’re on a treadmill from hell,” she says. “You only do that when you’re two seconds from spiraling. So, start over. What are you actually scared of?”
I stare at the email, throat thick. “It’s everything,” I admit.
“I finally got my shit back on track. After MIT, after Illinois, after Gavin, after—” I cut myself off.
“This was my proof. I’m not that girl anymore.
I don’t let men derail my future. And now some man I’ve never even met torches my internship and my early grad in one shot. ”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” Wynter says quietly. Her voice drops into that softer register she only uses with me. “You’re not panicking about school; you’re panicking about the narrative.”