Page 3 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 4

I accept my transcripts and sign for them, and when I make my way two doors down to the Dean of Students office, I’m sweating like I just ran the marathon. Is he going to lecture me? There’s nothing he could say that I haven’t already thought a million times. Maybe he’s got some advice for me? That would be ok, though it would mean acknowledging that he knows what happened to me. Oh god, I can’t believe Dr. Costanovich knows about my sex life. That’s almost worse than my parents finding out.

His secretary, a kindly older woman with graying hair named Ms. Coyne, who still takes notes in shorthand, is at her post. In my four years at NEC, I never walked into this office to find her desk empty. Dr. Costanovich, at least, doesn’t mind people in his shit.

“Hello dear,” she says, a warm smile on her face. I have to work overtime to beat back the thought that she knows, because that would probably cause a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me hole (which, honestly, would be a mercy). “You can go on in.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, and then hurry through the wide, mahogany door leading in his office.

His office has the strange characteristic of being neat and cluttered at the same time. I remember him remarking once that the hardest part of his job was keeping his gorgeous office in order for the parents and visiting dignitaries who inevitably showed up. If left to his own devices, he’d do the stereotypical professor thing of being surrounded by dangerously teetering stacks of books, papers strewn everywhere. As it stands, there are plenty of stacks of papers, and books on shelves that aren’t quite as orderly and neat as they should be, like the room is just pulsing with life, ready to burst open. I spent so many wonderful hours here talking about books and philosophy and plans for the future.

Dr. Costanovich is sitting behind his desk, shuffling papers, when he looks up to see me come in the room.

“It’s good to see you, Delaney,” he says, gesturing to one of the leather wingback chairs across from his desk, the ones where the leather is worn and smooth like butter. “How are you doing?”

I drop into the chair and lean back. I contemplate just letting my body go limp and sliding off the chair into a puddle on the floor. Because that’s how I’m doing, if he really wants to know.

“I’m ok,” I say. And then I decide to rip off the Band-Aid. “I mean, I assume you know things haven’t really been going according to plan.”

He purses his lips, taking in a deep breath, then blowing it all out. He nods. “Yes, I was disappointed to see that you had such a negative experience at Scour. I know you had high hopes for the program.”

I nod. High hopes seem like ancient history at this point.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Because we here at NEC take these matters very seriously. To hear that you were the victim of workplace harassment as part of a program that we endorse so wholeheartedly, and that the perpetrator was an alum with whom we have deep ties, well, to say that we’re troubled doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Oh, well, uh—“ I start, but then trail off, because I’m not sure what to say. Nixon released the statement without consulting me, and though it certainly took a little bit of the heat off me (though half the internet is still delighting in calling me every synonym for slut they can imagine), it didn’t make me feel much better. Because I’m not a victim of harassment, and parading around like I am feels disrespectful to all the women who really do suffer that kind of treatment. I don’t want to co-opt their stories and experiences just so I can shake free of my own terrible decisions. I wanted to sleep with Nixon, despite the fact that he was my boss. He never forced me. I was more than willing. He never made me feel uncomfortable or pushed me further than I wanted to go. If anyone wanted an example of enthusiastic consent, it was me.

But telling my college mentor and advisor, a distinguished older male faculty member, at that, that I was happily having sex all over my workplace, a workplace for which he wrote me a glowing recommendation? Well, I’ll be honest, I’m thoroughly chickening out on that one right now.

When I don’t say anything else, Dr. Costanovich charges on.

“I want you to know that New England College has severed all ties with Nixon Blake and with Scour. He won’t be welcome back on campus, and we won’t be accepting any more donations from him or his company. That’s how much we value equity and respect in the workplace.”

Holy crap, seriously? I mean, it’s one thing to make Nixon persona non grata, but to decline any of that sweet sweet Scour money? Those checks are why the dorms now have air conditioning, and why the computer labs have state of the art equipment, updated with each new generation of hardware and software. That’s got to be a huge financial loss, not just for the college, but for the students who were the beneficiaries of that money. Hell, Scour funded hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of scholarships, scholarships that I myself needed to go to school here.

This has gotten way out of hand.

“Dr. Costanovich, as much as it pains me to say it, I need you to know the truth,” I tell him, my heart beating like there’s a marching band playing in my chest. “Nixon Blake didn’t harass me or take advantage of me. While our relationship was definitely against company policy, and ill-advised on both our parts, it was completely consensual.”

His eyes widen as he takes in what I’m saying. It’s in direct contradiction to the media narrative that’s been going on for days, which is that Nixon Blake is a disgusting, creepy cad who screwed an intern and should be banished to the outskirts of society. I never should have let that statement stand.

“This is really uncomfortable for me to say, so that’s how you know I’m telling the truth. I can’t bear the think of all the ways the college will suffer from acting on a lie, though. There’s too much at stake. Too many needy students like me who benefit from that money.”

I take a deep breath and let it out, feeling calm for the first time since the story broke. Because for the first time since I saw that push notification on my phone and realized my world was coming crashing down on my head, I know exactly what I need to do. The fog is lifting, and I see the way forward. I know this is the right thing.

“I’m going to make sure the story is set straight, so the NEC doesn’t see any fallout from maintaining their relationship with Scour. I understand, of course, if you feel you can’t work with Nixon Blake personally, but I want to make sure you have a clear path to accept fiscal support from Scour and its subsidiaries.”

Dr. Costanovich sits back in his chair, which creaks under his weight. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at his desk for a moment. I can tell this is a lot of information, and this is probably going to make his summer a little less relaxed than he’s normally used to. But after a moment, he nods.

“I always knew you were special, Delaney,” he says. “It takes a lot to tell the truth and own your actions in the face of the kind of scrutiny you’re under. And I’m impressed that you’re willing to fall on that grenade for NEC and its students.”

I shrug. I’m not doing it for praise. I’m doing it because it’s right.

“I want you to know that this doesn’t in any way affect any future recommendations you may need from me, either for jobs or graduate school. Though I think you know my advice would be to keep grad school on the back burner and climb back on the proverbial horse.”

I smile.

“And the horse is not Nixon Blake, in case you were wondering where I stand on that particular issue.” He arches an eyebrow at me.

I bark out a laugh at the same time that my cheeks turn red as tomatoes. Because holy shit, my college mentor just made a sex joke in front of me.

“I don’t think that’s going to be an issues, Dr. C,” I assure him.

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