Page 5 of Her Dark Salvation

He said tenure with such gravitas I almost second guessed myself. Almost.

“And not that it’s any of my business, but what would you do instead?” The question was clipped like he took personal offense at the idea someone might not want to be entombed in the annals of academia.

But that was the question, wasn’t it?

“That’s part of the reason I want to take a sabbatical. I need some space, some time to think. I’m too burnt out to put a plan together. All I know is I want industry experience. I want to apply my research to real-world problems.” He opened his mouth to interrupt, but I held up a staying hand, and he clamped it shut. “And before you say I already do that with data sets from industry, it’s not the same. I want to work in an office without worrying about teaching or research or publishing.”

“I see.”

He sat back, steepled his fingers, and regarded me warily. “You do have an impeccable record of service to the department, and your research in financial modeling is unparalleled.” The words came out more begrudging admission than sincere compliment, and I waited for the inevitable caveat. “You found someone to teach your class. Thank you for that.”

“It was the least I could do on such short notice.”

“But…”

And there it was. My stomach dropped, and my mind raced through the different ways he might finish his sentence and destroy my plans. “But what?”

“I understand burn-out. It happens to the best of us. But I think this decision is ill-advised.”

I scrunched my face. “How so?”

He removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief he lifted from his shirt pocket. “May I be frank, Professor?”

“Of course,” I said, though I was sure I wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

“You don’t have the temperament to work in corporate finance.”

His words punched me in the chest. I sat in stunned silence as decades-old self-doubt resurfaced to knock the wind out of my sails.

He spread his arms and shrugged. “Let’s face it, Anna. You belong in academia. Can you really see yourself in a boardroom full of executives talking over each other and pushing agendas? I’ve never seen you get more than a word in edgewise at a professional conference. Not unless you were giving a talk, or someone asked you a direct question.” He leaned forward. “You spent the last three department-industry mixers sitting at the bar with my admin!”

My cheeks heated, embarrassed by my personality for the first time in over a decade. He’d thrown my deepest insecurities in my face in less than a minute, transporting me back to graduate school and the chain of events that had led to this exact moment.

International finance is no place for a mouse. Better try accounting. Or maybe teaching.

The asshole executive who’d given me that “advice” at an industry meet-and-greet during my first year at Harvard Business School had lived rent free in my head for years. Funny how one stranger’s off-the-cuff remark could destroy a person’s confidence and change the course of their life.

And Tim Fletcher had just tried to do the same thing.

My temper simmered, poised and ready to boil over, but I tamped down the hot waters. Yes, he’d played on my insecurities to try and manipulate me into staying, but could I blame him? I’d just waltzed into his office two weeks before the start of the semester and thrown him a major curve ball. He was drowning in work and grasping for an easy way to keep his head above water, but I refused to take the bait.

I straightened my spine, folded my hands in my lap, and cleared my throat. “Be that as it may,” I said, keeping my voice level and professional, “I’d still like to request a sabbatical. Will you approve it?”

He stared at me over a tight mouth, no doubt racking his brain for a valid excuse to deny my request. After a moment, he exhaled, and his shoulders descended. “Pending confirmation from Jack Owens he’ll take your class… Yes, I’ll approve it.”

I sprang to my feet. “Thank you! Thank you so much! And again, sorry for the short notice. I’ll send an email to you and Jack about the class and file the paperwork. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

He removed his glasses, waved them at me, and rubbed his eyes. “Good luck, Anna.”

“Thanks, Tim.”

I dashed out of his office and out of the finance building, making a beeline for Kendall Square. Long-buried memories fueled my hurried strides.

Smart, eager, and excellent with numbers, I’d always assumed my abilities would speak for themselves and never once considered my introverted, quiet nature would be seen as a liability. Not until that meet-and-greet. The event was intended to connect first-years with the big-name consulting and investment firms that ran up and down the East Coast. But instead of a potential employer, I’d received a slap in the face.

I’d cried myself to sleep that night, my dreams crushed beneath the heel of one man’s dismissal. After that, I’d stood on the sidelines at every event, completely paralyzed, my confidence shattered. I’d bought into his rhetoric, convinced myself I didn’t have what it took to enter his world.

Graduation sped toward me like a freight train and, with it, uncertainty about my future. My advisor suggested I transfer to MIT and pursue a doctorate instead of working in industry.

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