Chapter 1: The Promotion That Never Was

In my previous life, as a member of the review committee, Derek Foster blocked my promotion for ten years.

It was the kind of grudge you see in old movies—me hunched under those flickering fluorescent lights, the air stale with burnt coffee, watching every opportunity slip away with Derek’s neat little signature. In the hush of that committee room, I’d wonder if anyone else noticed how my name always vanished, year after year.

He’d say things like:

"You know how folks talk, Nat. I can’t show you special treatment—not even a little."

He’d recite it with a straight face, his voice carrying that flat Midwestern cadence, like he was quoting scripture. Sometimes I thought he believed it was mercy, that his cold, careful logic would shield me from the small-town rumor mill.

"It's only the second year; there's still a chance."

I can still see him glancing at the wall clock, as if time itself would someday flip things in my favor. He always managed to sound so reasonable, as if patience was all I needed. But patience was starting to taste like rust in my mouth.

By the fifth year, he told me,

"Natalie, you should give more opportunities to the younger folks. If the older generation hadn't stepped aside back then, how could we have gotten into the research lab so easily?"

That one stung. I was thirty-four—far from old—and yet, in his eyes, I was already meant to step aside. His words echoed in my head every time I spotted a new face in the lab.

In the final year, knowing that if I didn't get promoted I would have to step down, I pleaded with him in desperation.

I remember my hands trembling, the tight ache in my chest. I could barely look at him, afraid I’d see only pity—or worse, nothing at all. I begged him, not as a wife, but as a woman desperate to keep a hold on the life she’d built. Even now, I remember the way my voice cracked, the rawness that made my words hard to understand.

But the next day, the first name on the promotion list was actually the woman he’d always kept on a pedestal—his secret ideal, the one he never quite let go of.

It sounds dramatic, but that’s exactly what she was to him—a glowing presence always at his periphery, just out of reach. Her name was highlighted in yellow marker at the top. Mine was missing, as always.

This time, the man who always acted with such dignity and righteousness…

Used all his connections to strike my name from the list once again.

He called in favors, played politics, and all behind closed doors. People whispered in the breakroom, but nobody ever said a word to my face. It was the Midwest, after all—we don’t do confrontation unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Wracked with endless regret, I was literally angered to death.

The doctors said it was a heart attack, but I know better. I died from a broken heart and a life that was never really my own.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day I went to retrieve my promotion application.

I stared at the ceiling, waiting for the hum of the old radiator to remind me this was real, not some fever dream.