Chapter 3

THREE

B efore Quinn could formulate a coherent response, Gerri was swept away by other party guests, leaving behind her mysterious cards and an air of possibility that Quinn couldn’t quite shake.

“Well,” Lydia said after a moment, examining her card with fascination. “That was...”

“Completely insane?” Quinn supplied.

“I was going to say incredible .” Lydia grabbed Quinn’s arm. “Think about it! A whole new world to study, geological formations no human has ever seen?—”

“Aliens, Lyd. She’s talking about aliens.”

“So? You dated Brad from the chemistry department. After him, aliens would be an upgrade.”

Quinn couldn’t help laughing. “That’s not exactly a high bar.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of polite conversations and avoided debates about geological methodology. But Quinn couldn’t stop thinking about Gerri’s offer, or the way the business card seemed to pulse with possibility in her clutch.

The next morning, Quinn stared at the shimmering business card on her desk, its surface catching the basement office’s fluorescent light in ways that seemed to defy physics. She’d tried to dismiss Gerri’s offer as ridiculous, but something about it kept nagging at her.

A stack of papers dropped onto her desk with a loud thud, making her jump. James Foster loomed over her, his expensive cologne overwhelming in the small space.

“Need you to review these before the board meeting,” he said, already turning to leave. “Just check the calculations, nothing major.”

Quinn flipped through the papers, her blood pressure rising with each page. This was her research—her entire monitoring system proposal, rewritten with James’s name on it. He hadn’t even bothered to change her original wording in most places.

“These are my findings,” she called after him. “My entire proposal for the Highland Development site.”

James paused in the doorway, his smile condescending. “We’ve been over this, Sam. You do the groundwork, I present to the board. That’s how it works.”

“That’s not how it works. That’s how you’ve made it work because no one stops you.” Quinn stood, her chair scraping against the floor. “I’ve spent months developing this monitoring system. I’m the one who identified the fault line risk.”

“And I appreciate your... contribution.” His pause made the word sound like an insult. “But the board responds better to a more experienced voice. You understand.”

“More experienced?” Quinn’s laugh held no humor. “I have a PhD from MIT. I’ve published more papers than you’ve probably read. The only thing you have more experience in is taking credit for other people’s work.”

James’s smile hardened. “Careful, Sam. That attitude isn’t going to get you very far in this industry.”

“It’s Dr. Quinn,” she snapped. “And this ‘attitude’ comes from years of watching men like you build careers on women’s work.”

“The board meeting is in an hour. Have those calculations checked by then.” He left without waiting for her response, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Quinn sank back into her chair, fury and frustration warring in her chest. Her eyes fell on Gerri’s business card again, its surface seeming to shimmer with promise.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Lydia: Just heard Foster’s presenting YOUR monitoring system to the board. Want me to accidentally spill coffee on his presentation?

Despite her anger, Quinn smiled. Pretty sure that’s a felony.

Only if we get caught. Seriously though, you can’t let him do this again.

Quinn picked up Gerri’s card, turning it over in her hands. What if we did something crazy?

Now you’re talking! Meet me for lunch. We can plot revenge and/or career changes.

An hour later, Quinn sat in the corporate boardroom, watching as James smoothly presented her research as his own. She’d seen it happen before, but never this blatantly. Her hands clenched under the table as he explained her monitoring system using her own words.

“The data clearly shows an unprecedented pattern of seismic activity,” she cut in, unable to stay silent any longer. “These readings suggest?—”

“Sam.” Andrew Matthews leaned forward, his designer suit crinkling as he interrupted. “We appreciate your... enthusiasm, but let’s focus on the big picture here. We can’t get bogged down in these minute details.”

Quinn’s jaw clenched. Minute details . Like potential earthquakes were equivalent to choosing paper stock for the company newsletter. She glanced around the table at the sea of disinterested male faces illuminated by laptop screens. Not a single one looked up to meet her eyes.

“These ‘minute details’ could save lives,” she pressed, jabbing her laser pointer at a particularly concerning cluster of data points. “If we implement the monitoring system I’ve designed?—”

“About that.” James’s voice sliced through her explanation. He flipped through the glossy report—her report—with casual disregard. “I was thinking we should take a deeper dive into this new theory.” His lips curved into a predatory smile. “Oh wait, looks like I already did.”

The room tilted sideways as Quinn stared at the report’s cover page. There it was in bold type: James Foster, Lead Researcher . Her name was buried in the acknowledgments, reduced to a footnote in her own work. Blood rushed to her face as months of research, sleepless nights, and groundbreaking discoveries were casually stolen with a signature and a smirk.

The ringing in her ears grew louder, drowning out the polite murmur of agreement from around the table. Her hands trembled as she reached for the report, slamming it shut with enough force to make several executives jump.

“You didn’t do this work.” Quinn’s voice came out low and dangerous, trembling with barely contained rage. “That’s my research. My theory. My monitoring system. I spent months developing these models while you were busy taking three-hour lunches and claiming my previous projects as your own.”

“Now, Sam,” Andrew started, his patronizing tone setting her teeth on edge. “Let’s be professional about this. James has more experience presenting to the board?—”

“Stop.” Quinn pushed back from the table, her chair screeching against the polished floor. “Just stop. My name is Dr. Samara Quinn. I have a doctorate from MIT, thirteen published papers in peer-reviewed journals, and more field experience than half this room combined. I’ve discovered three previously unknown fault lines, developed two revolutionary monitoring systems, and predicted the last major seismic event that could have saved lives if someone had actually listened to me.”

She grabbed the report, holding it up. “This? This is theft. Plain and simple. My research, my data, my conclusions—all stolen because heaven forbid a woman get credit for her own work in this company.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” James said smoothly, but Quinn caught the flash of panic in his eyes.

“You’re damn right it is.” She pulled out her phone, quickly typing something before holding it up. “And here’s my proof. The original files with metadata showing when they were created. The email chains where I explained these theories to you, James, because you couldn’t understand the basic concepts. The timestamps on my security badge showing all the late nights I spent in the lab while you were probably at the golf course.”

The boardroom had gone deadly quiet. Several of the executives shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“I won’t waste another minute in a room where my work is stolen and I’m treated like someone’s assistant.” Quinn shoved her materials into her bag. “I quit. And when this monitoring system prevents a major disaster—because it will—remember that a woman you couldn’t be bothered to listen to tried to warn you.”

She strode toward the door, then paused, turning back. “Oh, and James? The next time you steal someone’s research, you might want to change more than just the name on the cover. You left my digital signature in the coding. Amateur move.”

The door slammed behind her with a satisfying bang. Quinn’s boots echoed off the marble floors as she headed for the elevator, each step carrying her further from a career she’d spent years building. Her hands shook as she pressed the button for the basement, reality starting to sink in.

She’d just quit. Actually quit. Ten years of education, countless hours of research, all the nights and weekends sacrificed to her career—and she’d walked away from it all in a blaze of righteous fury.

The elevator dinged, doors opening to the familiar fluorescent-lit hallway. Quinn walked to her office on autopilot, her mind racing. She should feel terrified. She’d just burned every professional bridge in spectacular fashion. But instead, she felt... light. Free.

Lydia was waiting in her office, perched on the edge of her desk with an expectant expression. “Well? How did the great theft go?”

Quinn dropped into her chair, a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up. “I quit.”

“You what?” Lydia’s eyes widened. “Details. Now.”

“I called James out in front of the entire board. Showed proof he stole my work. Told them exactly what I thought about their boys’ club mentality. And then I quit.”

A slow grin spread across Lydia’s face. “Please tell me you made that smug bastard squirm.”

“He turned about six different shades of red.” Quinn pulled Gerri’s business card from her desk drawer, its surface catching the light in that strange, otherworldly way. “Remember what you said about doing something crazy?”

Lydia leaned forward. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That maybe exploring alien planets can’t be worse than dealing with corporate theft and toxic masculinity?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘adventure of a lifetime,’ but yeah, that works too.” Lydia bounced excitedly. “Call her. Call her right now before you talk yourself out of it.”