Chapter 1 

Damien

The boardroom smells like oversteeped Earl Grey and desperation.

That’s the first thing I notice. The second is that Dean Whitaker’s tie is crooked, which wouldn’t matter except it’s always perfectly aligned with the seam of his shirt collar. Today, it veers half an inch to the left. I clock it like a deviation on a graph—anomalous, but not yet significant.

“Dr. Caldwell,” he says, fingers steepled under his chin like a benevolent cult leader, “thank you for making time.”

I don’t point out that I always make time. That’s the only currency I value—precision, punctuality, control. I’ve built an entire career on those three pillars. And now they’ve summoned me with the kind of smile people use before they put down a beloved dog.

“Of course,” I say, evenly. My voice, like my life, does not waver. “Let’s begin.”

The room is too warm. Or maybe it’s just the way they’re all looking at me—Dean Whitaker, Dr. Hasan, Dr. Flores, and Dr. Linden. A panel of expressions that range from discomfort to pity. Which is interesting, considering I’m the one holding the highest-funded neuroscience lab on the East Coast. Or I was.

Whitaker clears his throat. “We’ve reviewed your independent grant proposal. Your work on the neurochemical underpinnings of romantic attachment is, as always, compelling.”

“But,” I say. I’ve learned to hear the preamble before it lands.

“But,” Dr. Hasan says gently, “the board feels that continuing the project in its current format lacks the… interdisciplinary collaboration we’re encouraging this cycle.”

I know he's just implying that it's too clinical, so like me. 

“The new funding model,” Linden chimes in, “is prioritizing studies with broader social applicability. Cross-departmental initiatives. Human-centered data.”

I arch a brow. “My study is literally centered around the human brain.”

“Yes,” Flores cuts in, “but there’s also the matter of public interest. We’re hoping to fund a project that engages not only the scientific community but broader social conversations about love, connection, and—”

“Emotion,” I finish, and it tastes like iron in my mouth.

Whitaker hesitates. “We’ve already awarded partial sponsorship to Dr. Celeste Harper from the Social Psych department. Her proposal overlaps significantly with yours.”

And there it is.

The anomaly becomes significant.

Dr. Celeste Harper. The human glitter bomb of academia. The woman who once submitted a research article to the Journal of Social Psychology titled “Love as Quantum Entanglement: A Nonlinear Theory of Soulmates.” It read like poetry. It also read like a rejection letter to the very concept of empirical rigor.

“She believes the universe sends people signs,” I say, deadpan.

“She has a robust track record in emotional attachment theory and long-term bonding studies,” Linden offers.

“She believes astrology is an emerging science,” I counter.

“She’s your new research partner,” Whitaker says.

Silence.

If I could hook my brain to an fMRI machine right now, I know what I’d find: elevated amygdala activity, suppressed prefrontal control. Rage, restrained. I consider walking out. But then he says the magic words.

“If you want the funding,” he says, “you’ll collaborate with Dr. Harper on a single joint study—The 36 Questions to Fall in Love protocol. You’ll conduct it. Together. On each other.”

I stare at him. “You want me to fake date the social psychologist equivalent of a TED Talk with legs?”

Flores winces. “To eliminate participant bias, the board agreed the principal investigators would undergo the experiment personally. It’s groundbreaking. Intimate. A media-friendly trial.”

I look around the room, searching for the punchline. But it’s just tight smiles and awkward silence.

“And to maintain the integrity of the public-facing narrative,” Hasan adds, “you’ll need to present as romantically involved for the duration of the study.”

“Pretend to be in a relationship,” I say flatly.

“Yes,” Whitaker confirms. “Publicly. It’s important that the university’s community sees the realism of the experiment in action.”

I’ve been ambushed. Strategically, subtly, and irreversibly.

“Any questions?” Whitaker asks, as if this is a routine memo about lab safety protocols.

Just one.

What fresh psychological hell have I been conscripted into?

But I don’t say that. Instead, I lean back in my chair, hands steepled, mimicking his earlier pose. It feels like war paint. “No questions,” I say coolly. “Only variables to control.”

They relax, visibly. But it’s performative. We all know I’m calculating. Strategizing. Finding the weak point in the plan.

Because there always is one.

The meeting ends. I stand, slide the proposal packet under my arm, and nod at each board member in turn. I’ve already memorized their body language, their microexpressions. Hasan’s twitch at the tip of her mouth. Flores’s thumb tapping the edge of her tablet. Linden’s compulsive straightening of her notes. Signs of uncertainty.

Good. Let them be unsure.

Because I’m about to make this study my own.

My office is a sanctuary of symmetry—papers perfectly stacked, books arranged by subject, color, and citation frequency. I lower the blinds before I sit, light filtering into horizontal slats across the wall.

I stare at the empty chair across from me.

In forty-eight hours, that chair will be filled with Celeste Harper.

She’ll talk with her hands. She’ll wear something with too many patterns. She’ll probably bring some glitter-covered emotional support notebook.

And I’ll sit here, tracking my heart rate, forcing my facial muscles into something approximating patience, while convincingly pretending to be in love with her.

I rub my temple. My neurostimulator patch buzzes lightly in response. Elevated cortisol. Mild tension.

I want to laugh. I don’t.

Because this isn’t funny.

This is my career. My reputation. My lab. My research.

And now it’s all tied to a woman who thinks soulmates are a replicable variable.

I tap open my tablet, scrolling to her published work. I’ve read it before, of course—opposition research. But now, I read it differently. Line by line. Trying to see the mind behind the metaphors.

She’s chaotic. But smart. Too smart.

And that makes her dangerous.

Because smart people with feelings are unpredictable.

And I don’t do unpredictable.

Not anymore.

The door creaks open. My assistant pokes her head in. “Dr. Harper confirmed her availability. She’ll be arriving for the pre-study meeting Monday morning.”

I nod, dismiss her, and sit back in my chair.

It begins.

The study. The chaos. The unraveling.

I open a new document on my laptop and title it:

"THE LOVE EXPERIMENT: CONTROLLED VARIABLES"
By Dr. Damien Caldwell.

And then, just below it, I type one sentence.

Let’s prove love is nothing but a myth.

Even as I type it, something about the word myth feels... fragile.

But I ignore that. I need to stand my ground.