Three weeks after the conference, Sarah sat in her managing partner's corner office, watching James Morrison's expression grow increasingly skeptical as she outlined her request for a transfer to the New York office. The late afternoon Chicago skyline stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but Sarah's attention was focused entirely on reading the subtle shifts in her boss's demeanor.
"This is rather sudden, Sarah," Morrison said, leaning back in his leather chair with the calculating look that had made him one of the city's most feared litigators. "Your performance here has been exemplary. You're up for partner consideration next year. Why would you want to start over in New York?"
Sarah had prepared for this question, had rehearsed her response until it sounded natural rather than defensive. "The Manhattan office handles more complex international cases. The intellectual property litigation they're developing aligns perfectly with my long-term career goals."
It wasn't entirely untrue. The New York office did handle more sophisticated cases, and Sarah was genuinely interested in expanding her expertise. But she could see in Morrison's eyes that her explanation wasn't entirely convincing.
"This wouldn't have anything to do with personal circumstances, would it?" Morrison asked, his tone carefully neutral but his implication clear.
Sarah felt heat rise to her cheeks but maintained her professional composure. "My personal life has never interfered with my professional performance, James. You know that."
"I do know that," Morrison agreed. "Which is why this sudden interest in relocating concerns me. Sarah, you're one of our most promising associates. I'd hate to see you make a decision based on emotion rather than career strategy."
The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, with Morrison alternating between expressing concern for her career trajectory and making subtle attempts to discover her real motivations. By the time Sarah left his office, she had secured tentative approval for the transfer but at a cost—Morrison clearly suspected there was more to her request than professional ambition, and his skepticism would follow her to New York.
That evening, Sarah called Daniel to update him on her conversation with Morrison, seeking the support and understanding that had become essential to her daily routine over the past three weeks. Their nightly phone calls had become the highlight of her days, hours-long conversations that ranged from professional concerns to intimate confessions about their hopes and fears.
"He knows there's more to the story," Sarah said, curled up on her couch with a glass of wine, exhausted from the day's professional maneuvering.
"Does it matter?" Daniel asked, his voice warm and reassuring through the phone. "You're not obligated to share your personal motivations with your boss."
"It matters because he'll remember this conversation when my performance is evaluated. Morrison doesn't like being kept in the dark, and he definitely doesn't like the idea that his attorneys might make career decisions based on personal considerations."
Sarah could hear Daniel moving around what she now knew was his book-lined study, probably grading papers or reviewing manuscripts for his new position. The domestic intimacy of their phone calls—sharing details about their days, their work, their mundane concerns—had become precious to her.
"Are you having second thoughts?" Daniel asked quietly, the question carrying undertones of vulnerability that made Sarah's chest tighten.
"About the transfer? No," Sarah said immediately. "About us? Never."
The relief in Daniel's sigh was audible. "I'm sorry. I know I've been asking that question too often. It's just... this feels too good to be real sometimes. I keep waiting for reality to intrude and complicate everything."
Sarah understood his concern. Their relationship existed primarily in phone calls and text messages, sustained by memory and imagination rather than daily presence. The intensity of their conference weekend had been easy to maintain in the artificial environment of the hotel, but building something lasting required navigating the complexities of real life.
"Reality has already intruded," Sarah pointed out. "My boss's suspicions, your department's gossip about your move to New York, the logistics of coordinating our schedules. We're handling it."
"Speaking of department gossip," Daniel said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "I need to tell you about something that happened today."
Sarah's stomach clenched with sudden anxiety. "What kind of something?"
"Dr. Elizabeth Crawford cornered me after the faculty meeting. She's heard rumors about my sudden decision to leave Northwestern, and she's... perceptive about these things."
Sarah knew the name—Dr. Crawford was a senior professor in the English department, someone Daniel had mentioned as both a colleague and a friend. Her concern would be personal rather than professional.
"What did she say?"
"She asked if my decision to move to New York had anything to do with a former student she'd seen me talking to at a conference a few weeks ago," Daniel said carefully.
Sarah's heart stopped. "She saw us together?"
"Apparently. She attended the opening session of the literary conference, saw us talking afterward. Elizabeth has an excellent memory for faces, and she remembered you from department events during your senior year."
The implications hit Sarah like a physical blow. If a Northwestern faculty member had witnessed their interaction, if there was academic gossip connecting Daniel's career move to his relationship with a former student, the complications could extend far beyond logistics and career planning.
"What did you tell her?" Sarah asked, her legal training immediately focusing on damage control.
"The truth, mostly," Daniel said. "That I'd reconnected with a former student who was now a successful attorney, that our conversation had reminded me how much I missed discussing literature with people who were genuinely passionate about ideas rather than grades."
"And?"
"And that any suggestion of impropriety was unfounded and unwelcome," Daniel continued, his voice firm. "I reminded her that you graduated five years ago, that you're now a colleague rather than a student, and that my career decisions are based on professional opportunities rather than personal relationships."
Sarah could picture the conversation, could imagine Daniel's careful professorial tone as he navigated questions that threatened both his reputation and their privacy.
"Did she believe you?"
Daniel was quiet for a moment. "Elizabeth is too intelligent to be easily fooled, but she's also too professional to push inappropriate questions. I think she accepted my explanation, but I also think she'll be watching for any indication that there's more to the story."
"This is exactly what we were trying to avoid," Sarah said, feeling the weight of potential scandal settling over their carefully constructed plans.
"Is it, though?" Daniel asked, surprising her. "Sarah, what are we really afraid of here? That people will know we care about each other? That our relationship might be seen as unconventional?"
"We're afraid of damage to our careers, our reputations," Sarah replied, though even as she spoke, the words felt hollow.
"But what actual damage?" Daniel pressed. "You were never my student in any romantic context. Our relationship began after you graduated, after any possibility of inappropriate influence or power dynamics. We're both adults, both professionals, both free to make our own choices about our personal lives."
Sarah recognized the logic in his argument, but her legal training had taught her that perception often mattered more than reality in professional settings.
"Daniel, it doesn't matter what the facts are if the perception damages our careers. Academic gossip, professional speculation—these things have consequences."
"Then maybe the problem isn't our relationship," Daniel said quietly. "Maybe the problem is a professional culture that can't distinguish between actual ethical violations and adult relationships that happen to have unconventional origins."
His words resonated with something deep in Sarah's chest, a frustration she'd been carrying with the need to justify and explain their connection to people who had no real stake in their happiness.
"You're right," she said finally. "But recognizing the hypocrisy doesn't eliminate the practical consequences."
"No, it doesn't," Daniel agreed. "But it might help us decide how much weight to give those consequences when we're making decisions about our future."
They talked for another hour, working through their concerns and fears with the intellectual rigor they'd both learned to apply to complex problems. By the time they said goodnight, Sarah felt steadier, more certain of their path despite the complications.
The next morning brought an email from the New York office confirming her transfer request had been approved, with a start date six weeks away. As Sarah read the formal language outlining her new position and responsibilities, she felt a mixture of excitement and terror that had become familiar over the past month.
She was really doing this. She was upending her carefully constructed Chicago life for the possibility of love with a man she'd known as a student and was still discovering as a woman. The risks were real, the complications mounting, but the alternative—returning to the safe, predictable existence she'd built over the past five years—felt like a form of slow death.
Sarah picked up her phone to call Daniel with the news, already imagining his voice, his excitement, his shared commitment to making this impossible thing work despite all the obstacles in their path.
Whatever complications lay ahead, they would face them together. The alternative was simply unacceptable.