Dr. Merrick of the renowned Wexley Biomedical Research Center found himself in an increasingly precarious position. On the surface, his career looked illustrious. He was frequently featured in medical journals and often appeared on television as a celebrity physician. Wexley, a prestigious institution with deep pockets and formidable media influence, had played a crucial role in building that public image. His marriage to one of the hospital’s executives had only accelerated his rise through the ranks.
But behind the polished façade, the truth was grim.
Despite the generous budgets Wexley kept pouring into his projects—mostly for show—his research produced little of real value. Seasoned scientists could easily detect the shallowness of his knowledge and the carelessness of his public remarks. Within the research community, his reputation had quietly eroded.
Only the younger interns—still dazzled by his fame and media glow—kept believing in the illusion he so carefully maintained.
Dr. Merrick knew it all too well—and lived in constant fear of the day it would come crashing down.
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That year, a new group of interns arrived—and among them was Naosa. Coincidentally, his own daughter, Megan, had also joined the intern program, her position secured through his professional connections.
Naosa stood out immediately. Even as a first-year intern, her analytical mind and meticulous methods put her leagues ahead of her peers.
Dr. Merrick quickly found reasons to involve her in his work. He assigned her to gather data, compile reports, and assist with research documentation. Her output was consistently exceptional.
One afternoon, after reviewing a particularly detailed report, he praised her work and casually asked to see some of her other documents.
Naosa politely declined, explaining that most of her files contained only personal analyses—nothing resembling formal research. But Dr. Merrick insisted, claiming he wanted to study her formatting techniques and organization. Under mounting pressure, she reluctantly opened several folders on her laptop.
One particular document caught his eye.
“Let me take a closer look,” he said, leaning in far too close.
Naosa tried to close the file, explaining it contained only private analysis, but he pressed harder—asserting his authority as her superior. “Send me a copy so I can review it properly at my desk.”
Feeling trapped by the power dynamic, she eventually sent him the file.
At the time, it felt insignificant—just raw data, not real research. And he was a respected physician. At least, she believed he was.
She was wrong.
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From that moment, things escalated. Dr. Merrick began scheduling private meetings with her, always finding professional justifications for the encounters. He’d rest a hand on her shoulder, hold it there just a little too long—“encouragement,” he called it.
The discomfort grew steadily.
She confided in Lu. Lu’s advice was crystal clear: “Avoid being alone with him whenever possible. If you absolutely must—record everything.”
The emails began to change too. More personal. Then inappropriate.
And then came the final line—he asked her out on a date.
Naosa reported the incident to HR immediately.
Thanks to Lu’s advice, she had recordings, emails, evidence.
HR accepted her formal complaint, but Wexley—eager to dodge scandal and headlines—buried it quietly. Dr. Merrick was ordered to stay away from her. No public consequences. No official record.
Naosa didn’t push for more. She just wanted it to be over.
That was a mistake.
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The very next day, malicious rumors began to spread. She had seduced him, they whispered. To advance her career. She had used her charm to manipulate a senior doctor. In every hushed conversation, she was cast as the villain.
Whether it was Merrick himself spreading the rumors or his daughter Megan trying to protect his name, the result was the same—devastation.
Even Corey—her boyfriend, the one she had trusted completely—chose to believe the whispers over her word. He ended their relationship without giving her the chance to explain.
The personal betrayal cut deeper than any professional loss. Naosa lost everything. Her reputation. Her support network. Her future.
And now—just as she was beginning to rebuild her life at Saint Clarion—an envelope arrived.
An official envelope stamped with Wexley’s unmistakable seal.
Inside: a notice from the Investigation Committee. An anonymous whistleblower had reported Dr. Merrick for research misconduct. An investigation had uncovered evidence that he’d submitted fabricated research data. Worse yet, Dr. Merrick was claiming that the questionable data had been developed as part of a collaborative project—with Naosa listed as his co-researcher.
The committee requested her testimony to clarify her supposed role in the research.
But Naosa knew the truth.
There had been no collaboration. The data was entirely her own—personal research she had conducted to track her medical condition. Dr. Merrick had simply stolen her work and was now trying to drag her down with him.
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If she stayed silent, she would be branded complicit in academic fraud.
If she told the truth—that the data was hers but had been stolen—she would have to reveal the deeply personal medical reasons behind her research. Her chronic illness would be exposed, and she knew from bitter experience that institutional promises of confidentiality meant nothing once rumors began to spread.
If she denied any involvement, Dr. Merrick would likely produce their email correspondence as “proof” of collaboration.
Every path led to ruin.
The request for testimony loomed closer. Though they called it “voluntary cooperation,” she knew the threat behind it—refuse, and she’d look complicit.
She made her decision. She would resign from Saint Clarion after the hearing. She couldn’t let the people who’d welcomed her so warmly suffer because of her. She would leave quietly, without bringing scandal to their doorstep. She would give up her dream.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Alex’s smile. His warmth. The way he held her like she mattered. Like she was precious.
And every time, that memory stopped her from saying goodbye.
Not yet.
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