“Dr. Mitchell,” Derek said, his voice cracking slightly.

“Sarah, please.”

I did not look back at him.

I opened the heavy wooden door of the reception room.

The noise of the main corridor flooded in.

The sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low murmur of hundreds of guests.

I stepped out into the hallway, the cool air hitting my face.

Priya followed me closely, her heels clicking rapidly on the terrazzo floor.

“Are you alright, Dr. Mitchell?” she whispered.

“I am fine, Priya,” I said.

My heart was beating fast, but my hands were steady.

We walked past the display cases showing Stanford’s historical achievements.

We passed a group of donors in tuxedos who nodded politely.

I returned their nods, keeping my pace steady.

The hallway led to the backstage entrance of the main auditorium.

The heavy black velvet curtains hung from the high ceiling.

Behind them, I could hear the muffled sound of the university wind ensemble tuning their instruments.

A stage manager with a headset saw me and hurried over.

“Dr. Mitchell, we are five minutes from the processional,” she said.