Chapter 4 — Department Meeting

The next day of Marcus's life had been the worst so far.

Even the conversation with Damian hadn't been this bad.

The chemistry department conference room was the one place Marcus dreaded coming to every other day.

And for several reasons, at that.

That cold, judgmental room always smelled like coffee and something vaguely resembling academic resentment.

On second thought, academic resentment ruled the room. Marcus didn't expect that to change anytime soon.

Although Marcus didn't necessarily enjoy being there, he supposed the smell was fitting.

Considering how unbearable faculty meetings could be.

Specifically at Hartwell University, it felt less like collaboration between professors and more like watching intellectuals politely assassinate each other through passive aggression.

Marcus sat near the end of the glistening oak table with an expression he thought looked interested.

Sadly, he mostly just looked constipated.

He flipped through various grant proposal documents while professors at least ten years older than him spoke over one another in what was apparently supposed to be a polite tone.

Calling it 'polite' was generous.

"...funding allocation should obviously prioritize ongoing senior research—"

"Senior research that hasn't produced results in three years," another professor interrupted dryly.

The room fell into tense silence.

Marcus decided, for the sake of his own survival, to keep his mouth shut unless he wanted to be publicly humiliated by the chemistry department.

Currently, that sat very high on his list of things to never experience again.

Right beneath thinking about a certain blond man.

Either way, he'd only been working at Hartwell for about three weeks now, and he'd learned the hierarchy faster than he liked.

Prestige mattered more than intelligence.

Connections mattered more than merit.

And most importantly, tenure mattered more than everything else combined.

Dr. Evelyn Hart sat quietly nearby, and judging by her expression, she wasn't enjoying this any more than Marcus was.

Admittedly, he couldn't blame her.

She'd survived here far longer than he had, and lasting this long in a room full of intelligent narcissists with superiority complexes sounded exhausting.

No.

Tedious was the right word.

Marcus glanced carefully around the room.

Just about everyone in the room was a professor he'd never met before—people he wished he didn't have to meet—who were at least 10 years older than him.

As it turned out, they weren't very subtle about their dislike toward him either.

Some of them had the decency to hide it behind their fake smiles.

Deep down, Marcus knew exactly what they were waiting for.

The day he finally failed.

He didn't need to hear them directly to know it was true.

He's too young for a position like this.

I'm surprised the students can even understand him. He's way too inexperienced.

He doesn't deserve this spot. Far too ambitious.

Oh look, it's the scholarship hire. No, wait—the diversity hire.

Most of the time, he pushed through without a second thought.

Even so, the last comment always hit somewhere personal.

He snorted internally.

As if surviving poverty and clawing his way into academia through sheer psychological damage somehow made his achievements less impressive.

The department chair, Dr. Reynolds, carefully adjusted his tie before his eyes landed directly on Marcus.

"Monroe."

Marcus looked up with visible reluctance.

Ah.

How wonderful.

Exactly what he needed right now.

More suffering.

And unfortunately, academic suffering somehow meant something faintly worse than physical violence.

Marcus forced a polite smile that was suddenly feeling quite painful.

"How are you adjusting to teaching undergraduates?"

They'd barely started speaking, and Marcus already hated the tone of the question.

"I'm managing pretty well." He spoke with calm clarity.

Sucker.

This man really wanted him to fail, didn't he?

"Hm."

The tone sounded far more condescending than genuinely interested.

Did these people ever bother to hear themselves talk?

Marcus legitimately feared that if he stayed at Hartwell long enough, his brain might rot so severely he'd end up exactly like them.

The thought alone disgusted him.

Meanwhile, Reynolds leaned back professionally in his chair.

"I imagine the transition from research assistant to lecturer must feel rather overwhelming."

Marcus smiled tightly.

Mostly because offending a senior department chair with a superiority complex sounded like career suicide.

The man's words translated into exactly one thing, no matter how politely he phrased them.

You're a fucking child, and you don't belong here.

How adorable.

Marcus mentally punched a cartoon version of Reynolds directly in the face.

"Not particularly," Marcus replied with restrained anger.

Another professor immediately decided to make his suffering worse.

"The students seem to like him."

Marcus nearly burst into laughter right then and there.

Like him?

What kind of sick joke was that?

The irony was excruciating.

He supposed they were old after all.

Perhaps they needed their eyesight checked.

Seriously, the students looked traumatized whenever Marcus cold-called them during lectures.

Which was probably one of the nicer things he did.

Reynolds seemed to notice Marcus's reaction and hummed softly.

"Students also tend to enjoy professors who grade generously."

Marcus held his gaze, his jaw ticking in annoyance.

Oh.

So that was what this was about.

Again.

Apparently Hartwell valued professors kissing students' asses for approval.

How pathetic.

Marcus chose his words carefully.

"My grading averages are currently below the departmental standard."

Silence filled the room.

It didn't last long, but Marcus found it deeply satisfying.

Dr. Hart—who'd been quiet this entire time—attempted to hide a smile behind her coffee cup.

Meanwhile, Reynolds looked visibly disappointed Marcus hadn't melted under pressure like butter left in the sun.

Aww. The poor little baby didn't get the reaction he wanted.

Unfortunately, Marcus's amusement died quickly as the meeting dragged painfully onward.

Budget discussions.

Not that the university actually used the money for anything important.

Like replacing ancient beakers in the chemistry labs.

No.

That was far too unreasonable.

Then came the grant proposals.

Specifically Marcus's grant proposal, which was criticized in every possible direction.

Marcus forced himself to focus despite how exhausted he already felt.

Everyone competing constantly.

The endless obsession with publications and recognition.

At Hartwell, one failed project could destroy years of work overnight.

Marcus understood the stakes better than most people.

Without funding, his research disappeared.

Without research, his career stalled.

And if his career stalled here?

People would celebrate proving themselves right about him all along.

He's simply too young.

Not established enough.

Not Hartwell material.

Marcus hated how deeply those possibilities buried themselves beneath his skin.

Dr. Reynolds slid several folders toward the center of the table.

"The Davidson Foundation representatives will be visiting next month," he announced cheerfully. "They're considering a multi-million dollar investment into department research initiatives."

The atmosphere changed instantly.

Marcus watched professors subtly straighten in their chairs, suddenly far more attentive.

As expected.

Money was involved now.

Everyone at this table might as well have worshipped currency.

Money was the true love language of universities.

"The board wants our strongest candidates prepared before the review," Reynolds continued. "Publication records, active research, presentation readiness."

Dr. Hart spoke first. Marcus immediately placed her in the brave category.

"My polymer study is already under peer review."

Another professor followed.

Then another.

And another.

Marcus stayed quiet.

Mainly because his own research wasn't ready yet.

He'd barely even finished setting up the damn lab.

So naturally, Reynolds chose him next.

Everyone's attention shifted directly toward Marcus.

"And you, Monroe?"

Marcus calmly placed down his pen.

"My catalytic stabilization project is still in early development."

Reynolds stared at him with an expression that somehow felt worse than direct criticism.

Sympathy.

Fuck.

"Ah," he said lightly. "Still preliminary."

Marcus stared intensely at the metal coffee pot sitting in the center of the table.

He briefly contemplated throwing it directly at Reynolds's head.

The humiliation probably wasn't worth it.

Though Reynolds having a permanent bruise sounded deeply satisfying right now.

He eventually tore his gaze away and spoke in a strained voice.

"For now."

Reynolds smiled again.

This time Marcus genuinely wanted to murder him.

Marcus swore he saw evil in the man's eyes.

Nobody would suspect him of committing a little bit of murder.

He sure would not miss Reynolds, and he hoped no one else would either.

Potentially.

The meeting finally ended forty miserable minutes later.

Faculty members filtered out in groups, continuing their never-ending conversations about funding and research politics.

Marcus stayed seated a moment longer, gathering his papers.

He waited for all the troublesome people to leave before he could exhale properly.

God.

He was so fucking tired.

"Don't let Reynolds bother you."

Marcus glanced up to find Dr. Hart still standing nearby.

Unlike most of the faculty, she actually looked at Marcus like he was a human being instead of an inconvenience.

Marcus offered her a tired but genuine smile.

Honestly, it was the best he could manage.

This meeting had drained every ounce of energy from him.

"I'm trying."

Hart sighed softly, brushing a hand through her long brown hair.

"You're young. Hartwell resents young talent unless it comes attached to family money."

That was unfortunately one of the most accurate things Marcus had heard in weeks.

He slid his papers into his bag, making sure not to wrinkle them.

"They think I'm inexperienced. If I'm honest, at this point, I think I'm the only one resisting the urge to throw something at Reynolds's head."

Hart laughed brightly.

"Probably not. The truth is... they actually think you're threatening."

Normally Marcus would've laughed at that.

But this time he paused.

Because that possibility had never occurred to him.

Hart crossed her arms while studying his expression.

"You published groundbreaking research before thirty," she said with a shrug. "Academia punishes that faster than failure sometimes."

Marcus looked away quickly.

Compliments had always made him uncomfortable.

A lifetime of bullying had warped how he processed praise.

All the attention he'd received growing up had often been negative.

People only needed him when they could benefit from it.

Useful until he wasn't.

That was exactly why he needed to prove himself worthy of being here.

And he wasn't about to let anyone distract him from that goal.

Hart spoke again, disrupting his train of thought.

"You've already isolated yourself."

Marcus scoffed immediately, suddenly defensive.

"Excuse me? I absolutely have not."

Where exactly was she going with this?

"You barely speak during meetings."

"Because I enjoy surviving them."

Or because Reynolds would probably combust if Marcus expressed an original thought.

Hart laughed again, though her expression softened afterward.

"Hartwell becomes lonely very quickly, Marcus."

Something about hearing someone call him by his first name felt strange.

Most faculty members avoided that level of familiarity entirely.

Maybe it felt too human.

And at this point, most of Hartwell resembled human versions of Mr. Krabs than actual people.

Money-obsessed robots.

Marcus adjusted the strap of his bag.

"I didn't come here to make friends."

"No," she agreed softly. "You came here to prove yourself."

Marcus didn't answer.

Because deep down, he knew she was right.

Every second at Hartwell felt like standing in a crowd while waiting for someone to decide whether he deserved permission to exist.

He would always be judged here.

Always compared against people born into opportunities Marcus had nearly destroyed himself trying to earn.

"Just be careful."

Marcus frowned slightly at her tone.

"About what?"

A strange look crossed her face.

"Students here tend to blur... boundaries." She paused warily. "Especially the wealthy ones."

Marcus nearly rolled his eyes.

He was almost certain this conversation somehow circled back to Damian showing up during office hours.

"I can handle difficult students."

"Mm."

Marcus narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"What exactly does that mean?"

She smiled slightly.

"Nothing."

Ha.

As if he believed that for even a second.

Hart gathered her papers too before continuing in her cautious tone.

"I'm simply saying Hartwell students are used to getting what they want."

Unfortunately, that sentence immediately brought back memories Marcus had spent the entire day trying to suppress.

Sharp green eyes.

Charmingly dangerous smiles.

He suddenly wanted to bleach his own brain.

Hart reached the doorway before pausing once more.

"Oh," she added playfully, "the Cross family donated an entire athletic wing last year."

Marcus blinked confused for a second.

"...The student did?"

"The family."

"Right."

Of course Damian Cross came from billionaire royalty.

Why wouldn't he?

The universe clearly enjoyed tormenting Marcus personally.

After Hart finally left, Marcus laughed quietly to himself.

He really was unlucky, wasn't he?

Despite being surrounded by thousands of people every single day...

He'd never felt more alone.