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After three straight all-nighters, I finally cracked the core data. At the project launch party, I watched the credits roll across the main screen. There, listed as Deputy Project Lead, was the name of our intern: Lola Clark. I confronted my husband, Freddie Green, the project director himself. Mingling in the crowd, he swirled the wine in his glass and let out a low, elegant whisper meant only for me. "Lola just graduated. She needs this on her record to secure a full-time position," he said. "You're a veteran, and you're my wife. What's the harm in letting a junior have the spotlight?" He took a sip. "I know what you contributed. Everyone knows how supportive you are at home. Why make a scene over an empty title? It just looks petty." The room was buzzing with people sucking up to him and Lola, praising the "deep bond" between the mentor and his star pupil. A laugh escaped my lips. In one fluid motion, I unclipped my ID badge and tossed it into the cascading champagne tower. "There's a critical flaw in the data," I announced. "And since Lola was responsible, I'm sure she'll have no problem taking full responsibility for the consequences."