Page 11 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
"While accepting mediocre students whose parents donate buildings," I interrupted. "While overlooking disciplinary issues because Daddy writes large checks. My father may have been many things, but he never compromised academic integrity for financial gain."
"Your father understood the realities of modern educational funding," Caldwell said coldly. "Perhaps if you'd remained involved, you'd understand them too."
I stood abruptly, the leather chair rolling backward.
"I understand them perfectly. That's why I can't let you turn this place into a playground for the highest bidders."
"Then marry someone," Dr. Thornfield said bluntly. "Find a wife, meet the terms, and prove you're serious about this commitment. Because right now, you look like a man making empty threats."
I could feel their collective skepticism, their certainty that I would eventually see reason and walk away.
"I'll be in touch," I said, moving toward the door.
"Harrison," Caldwell called after me. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. Your father's gone. The past is past. There's no shame in admitting you're not suited for this role."
I paused at the threshold and looked back. "My father spent forty years trying to prove I wasn't suited for anything," I saidwithout turning around. "I'm not giving up the chance to prove him wrong."
I left them sitting in their leather chairs, surrounded by portraits of men who had died decades before any of them were born.
Let them plot and scheme and threaten.
I had eighty-seven days to find a solution, and I intended to use every one of them.
The January evening was sharp with an approaching winter storm as I drove through the winding roads that led away from campus.
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, tension radiating through my shoulders and neck.
The board's dismissive certainty had awakened something I'd thought I'd left behind—the stubborn defiance that had carried me through childhood in these halls.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Eastside Fitness, a converted warehouse on the outskirts of town.
The gym catered to serious athletes rather than casual exercisers, all exposed brick and industrial lighting, heavy bags and Olympic platforms.
It was the kind of place where people came to work, not to be seen.
Juan Morales was waiting in the ring, shadow boxing with the fluid movements of someone who had never lost his edge.
At forty-two, he was still lean and quick, his dark hair showing gray at the temples but his reflexes sharp as ever.
"You're late," he called out, not breaking rhythm.
"Board meeting ran long." I grabbed my gear from the locker and began changing into workout clothes. "They're trying to pressure me into walking away."
"Smart board." Juan ducked and weaved around an imaginary opponent. "You should listen to them."
"Thanks for the support." I laced up my boxing shoes and climbed through the ropes. "I thought best friends were supposed to offer encouragement."
"Best friends tell you the truth. And the truth is, you're about to destroy your life over a building full of rich kids and bitter memories."
We touched gloves and began circling each other, falling into the familiar rhythm we'd established twenty years ago.
Juan had been my roommate at Boston College, the scholarship kid from Dorchester who had taught me that intelligence and determination mattered more than pedigree.
He threw a lazy jab that I deflected easily.
"Eighty-seven days to find a wife. You realize how insane that sounds?"
"Plenty of people have shorter engagements." I countered with a combination that he slipped effortlessly.
