“It was sent from the Mitchell Group’s media liaison,” Priya whispered.

Helen did not blink.

She reached into her handbag, pulled out a gold pen, and tapped it against her palm.

“It is a pre-emptive release, Sarah,” she said.

“It is a lie,” I said.

“It is a necessity,” she corrected, her voice ice-cold.

“You will tell Priya to contact the editor immediately,” Helen said.

“And say what?” I asked.

“You will tell them that you fully endorse Derek’s fund,” Helen said.

“I will do no such thing,” I said.

My father shifted his weight, his leather shoes squeaking on the polished oak floor.

“Sarah, please,” he muttered, looking out the narrow window toward the Stanford quad.

“Listen to your mother,” he said. “It is just a statement.”

“It is my name, Dad,” I said.

“It is our name,” Helen snapped, her voice rising slightly.

She took a step closer to me, the scent of her expensive lavender perfume filling the small space.

“You have built your entire career on the myth of the self-made academic,” she said.

“But the Mitchell name opened every door you ever walked through.”