Chapter 23

Clara’s POV

The conversation had shifted to lighter things, the kind of easy talk I'd almost forgotten existed. Maya was recounting a disastrous first date involving a cryptocurrency enthusiast and an ill-timed market crash when she suddenly paused mid-sentence, her attention caught by something ahead.

"Is that Professor Harrison?" Her voice carried a note of surprise.

I followed her gaze to a weathered bench where an elderly man sat hunched over a newspaper, squinting through thick reading glasses. Even from a distance, I recognized the silver hair, the particular way he held himself with scholarly precision despite his age.

My chest tightened with an emotion I couldn't quite name. Regret, perhaps. Or the ghost of roads not taken.

"I think so," I said quietly. "I haven't seen him in almost two years."

Maya glanced at me, her expression knowing. She'd been there that semester when I'd turned down the Stanford opportunity, when I'd chosen Julian's world over my own dreams. "Do you want to say hello?"

I wasn't sure I did. Professor Harrison had been my academic mentor at Columbia, the one who'd seen potential in my thesis on Venetian textile preservation techniques.

He'd also been Marcus Reid's doctoral advisor, which had created an unspoken lineage of scholarly expectation I'd ultimately failed to meet. The last time we'd spoken, I'd been pregnant and desperate to prove I could balance everything. I'd been so spectacularly wrong.

"We should," I heard myself say. "It would be rude not to."

We approached slowly, and I found myself cataloging the changes in him. His hands trembled slightly as he held the paper, and the reading glasses were new, thick enough to suggest significant vision loss. He looked frailer than I remembered, more vulnerable. Time had not been gentle.

"Professor Harrison?" I stopped a respectful distance away, giving him space to look up without startling. "I don't know if you remember me.

Clara Hayes. I took your course on Venetian art history."

He lowered the newspaper with careful movements, peering at me through those magnified lenses. For a long moment, there was only confusion in his rheumy eyes, a blankness that made my heart sink. Then recognition dawned, sharp and sudden, transforming his entire face.

"Clara." His voice was rougher than I remembered, scraped thin by age. "Good God. I almost didn't recognize you."

There was weight in those words, layers of meaning I wasn't ready to unpack. I gestured to Maya and Hope. "This is my friend Maya. She works at Apex Capital. And this is Hope."

Professor Harrison's gaze moved to the stroller, his expression softening in a way that made me ache. "A daughter. How wonderful." He looked back at me, and I saw him taking in the changes.

The dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. The way I stood, protective and guarded. The absence of a wedding ring on my left hand. "Won't you sit? Both of you. Unless you're in a hurry."

Maya touched my arm gently. "I should actually make a call. Work thing. Take your time." She moved away with the discretion of a true friend, giving us privacy while staying close enough to intervene if needed.

I settled onto the bench beside him, leaving a careful distance between us. The newspaper lay forgotten on his lap, and I could see it was the Arts section.

"I was just trying to read about the new Tintoretto exhibition," he said, following my gaze. "But my eyes aren't what they used to be. Getting old is a series of small humiliations, Clara. Remember that when you're tempted to take your youth for granted."

"Would you like me to read it to you?" The offer came out before I could second-guess it.

His face brightened with such genuine pleasure that I felt my throat tighten. "Would you? That would be lovely. Your voice always had such clarity. Perfect diction. I used to tell Marcus you could have been a narrator if academia didn't work out."

I took the newspaper from him, smoothing it carefully. For the next twenty minutes, I read aloud about Tintoretto's technique, about the play of light and shadow in his religious compositions, about the ongoing debate over attribution of certain works. My voice fell into the old rhythms, the academic cadence I'd learned in his classroom. It felt like slipping into a familiar coat I'd forgotten I owned.

Professor Harrison listened with his eyes closed, nodding occasionally, making small sounds of agreement or interest. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment before opening his eyes.

"You always had such a gift for that," he said softly. "For making the technical accessible without losing the poetry of it. It's why I recommended you for Stanford. Why I thought you'd make an exceptional scholar."

The words hung between us, heavy with what I'd given up. I folded the newspaper carefully, buying myself time to respond. "I'm sorry I disappointed you, Professor. I know you went out on a limb with that recommendation."

"Disappointed?" He turned to face me more fully, and I could see the effort it cost him. "My dear girl, I was never disappointed. Worried, yes. Angry at the circumstances that led you to make that choice, certainly. But never disappointed in you."

I felt something crack inside my chest, a fissure I'd been holding closed through sheer force of will. "I thought you were furious with me. When I told you I was taking the position at Sinclair Group instead, you got up and left without a word."

"I was furious," he admitted. "But not at you. At a world that forces brilliant young women to choose between their minds and their survival.

At an academic system that offers prestige but no security. At whatever circumstances made you feel that corporate job was your only option." He paused, his gaze moving to Hope's stroller. "And at myself, for not seeing that you were struggling before it was too late to help."

The afternoon sun slanted through the trees, dappling the path in patterns of light and shadow. I watched Hope sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling with perfect regularity, and tried to find words for the tangle of emotions in my throat.

"I made my choices," I said finally. "I can't blame anyone else for them."

"Perhaps not. But that doesn't mean they were free choices, Clara. There's a difference between agency and survival." He shifted on the bench, and I noticed how stiffly he moved. "I heard you left Sinclair Group. Is that true?"

I nodded. "A few months ago. I've been doing independent consulting work. Now, unexpectedly, I'm also working as a staff member at the school. Some research assistance for Marcus when he needs it."

"And the marriage?" His voice was gentle, but the question still felt like a probe into an open wound.