My advisor, Dr. Arthur Sterling—a man whose pristine white lab coat and sharp spectacles usually radiated the absolute, unyielding composure of a top-tier corporate academic—turned a sickly, pasty white. His hand remained frozen mid-air, his eyes darting frantically from my dad’s sun-weathered face down to the heavy, calloused hands resting on his knees.
“Arthur,” my dad said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding baritone that entirely bypassed his usual quiet, blue-collar hesitation. “It’s been a long time since the probate audit in New York.”
“David?” Dr. Sterling stammered, his arrogant academic posture instantly shrinking into a pathetic, sweating panic. His knees buckled slightly against the mahogany seminar table. “You… you’re supposed to be in the lower transit sector. The lineage registry reported that your logistics firm suffered a total liquidation event twenty-five years ago!”
“I chose to work with concrete and drywall, Arthur, because it’s a lot cleaner than dealing with corporate fraud,” my dad murmured smoothly, sharper than a scalpel.
The rest of the department faculty in the room froze, the celebratory chatter dying down into a dead, suffocating silence. My mom looked on with a proud, unyielding clarity, while Dr. Sterling’s unearned confidence completely turned to absolute ash.
“What is the meaning of this theater?!” Sterling hissed under his breath, trying to regain his composure as he smoothed down his tie. “Your daughter’s dissertation is under administrative review! I run the primary state development board for this entire university sector!
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