Chapter 11

You’re sitting at your desk in your home office, surrounded by the quiet hum of academia when your mobile erupts into life, shattering the tranquillity. The number flashing on the screen is one you don’t recognise—unknown, it says. There’s a niggling sensation in the pit of your stomach as you answer; after all, unknown calls rarely bear good news.

‘Lauren Millward?’ The voice on the other end is distorted, almost robotic, and sends a chill down your spine despite the warm Adelaide sun streaming through your office window.

‘Speaking,’ you reply, keeping your tone even, matter-of-fact, the way you always do. Your heart beats a steady rhythm against your chest, betraying your calm exterior.

‘Listen carefully,’ the caller instructs, their words clipped and precise. ‘Stop your research. If you know what’s good for you and your pretty little career, you’ll drop it.’

The threat hangs in the air like a bad smell, and before you can demand an explanation, the line goes dead, leaving you with nothing but a racing mind.

Your hands tremble ever so slightly as you set the phone down, a stark contrast to your usual unflappable demeanour. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. This has to be the work of the corporation; who else would have such a vested interest in stopping your investigation into their unethical practices?

With a sense of urgency, you attempt to trace the call. But it’s no use; the number is untraceable, disappearing into the digital ether like a phantom. They’re professionals, you realise, hired halfwits whose job is to intimidate and silence. It’s a clear sign that you’re onto something big, something they’re desperate to keep buried.

‘Blimey,’ you mutter under your breath, channelling a bit of that English grit you haven’t lost despite your years in Australia. You won’t be cowed by faceless threats, not when there’s truth to uncover.

A resolve settles over you like a suit of armour, ready to meet whatever comes next head-on. They see you as a threat, and that means you’re doing something right. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, and you’re not about to start now. Let them throw their worst at you; you’re Lauren Millward — doctor, mother, seeker of truth — and you’ll stand your ground.

Fingers poised over the keyboard, you’re deep in the research that’s become your life’s work. The screen glows with pages of data and notes, a digital mosaic of your dedication to exposing corporate malfeasance. But as you sift through numbers and testimonies, an email notification slides onto the corner of your monitor, tugging at your attention like a persistent itch.

‘Lauren, watch your back,’ it reads, the subject line terse and ominous. It’s from a colleague, one of the few whose integrity you’ve never questioned. Your cursor hovers over the message; a click and the details spill out—a warning of whispers slithering through the academic corridors, rumours crafted to discredit your findings, to question your professional rigour. Your heart sinks; the campaign to undermine you isn’t just external. You’re being attacked from all sides.

‘Bugger this,’ you mutter, the words slipping out into the silence of your office. A wave of frustration washes over you, but it’s quickly overtaken by a surge of resolve. They think they can intimidate you with scare tactics and smear campaigns? They’re sorely mistaken.

You stand up, stretching your arms above your head as you contemplate your next move. Confrontation isn’t your usual style—your preference is always for hard evidence over heated debate—but these are unusual times. And desperate times call for direct action.

Picking up the phone, you dial the number for the corporation’s local headquarters, a number you know by now as well as your own. The phone rings, an indistinct voice answers, and you demand a meeting with their representatives. It’s time to look them in the eye, to challenge their lies in person.

‘Tomorrow at 10 am,’ you insist, your tone brooking no argument. ‘Face-to-face.’

The meeting room is a sterile expanse of glass and chrome, a stark embodiment of corporate sterility. You walk in, head held high, every inch the professional—though inside, your stomach churns with a cocktail of anxiety and determination. Across the table sits a trio of suits, their smiles as tight as their handshakes.

‘Dr. Millward,’ the lead suit begins, his voice oozing faux warmth. ‘We’ve been following your work with great interest.’

‘Cut the crap,’ you interject, unwilling to wade through pleasantries. ‘I know what you lot are up to, and I’m not buying whatever you’re selling.’

They exchange glances, their masks momentarily slipping before they launch into a well-rehearsed spiel, denying any wrongdoing. They tout ethical practices, corporate responsibility—words that leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

‘Seems to me,’ you say, cutting through their performance, ‘that if everything was above board, my research wouldn’t be such a thorn in your side.’

One of them slides a folder across the table, a generous offer nestled within its pages. ‘Consider this a gesture of goodwill,’ he says, his smile unyielding.

But you know better. It’s hush money, a bribe wrapped in legalese and false smiles. You push it back across the table, standing firm. ‘No deal. I’m not here to negotiate; I’m here to tell you that the truth will come out.’

The tension thickens, the air in the room growing heavy with unsaid threats. But you don’t flinch. You’re Lauren Millward, PhD, seeker of truth—and no suit, no corporation, can shake your resolve.

You lean forward, elbows resting on the meeting table, your gaze flicking from one corporate representative to another. Their words are honeyed, but their eyes tell a different tale—one of deception and greed. As you parse through their statements, noting the inconsistencies like mismatched pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the real picture starts to emerge.

‘Earlier, you mentioned your company’s strict adherence to ethical guidelines,’ you say, tapping your finger on the notepad filled with scribbles. ‘Yet just last month there was that incident with the data breach—hardly the hallmark of integrity.’

The suits squirm in their seats, their rehearsed smiles faltering. They attempt to redirect the conversation, showering you with compliments on your critical thinking and suggesting how such an astute mind would benefit from joining their ranks.

‘Flattery doesn’t mask falsehoods,’ you retort, unmoved by their attempts to manipulate. ‘Your offer is generous, but my principles aren’t for sale.’

As the meeting wraps up, the coldness in their parting nods confirms your suspicions. They had expected you to fold, but you’re not one to be underestimated or intimidated.

The moment you step out of the building, the weight of the confrontation presses down on you. Your hand trembles slightly as you dial Brett’s number, seeking the comfort of his grounding presence.

‘Love, they’re pushing hard,’ you confide once he picks up, your voice barely above a whisper.

‘Lauren, remember what you stand for,’ Brett replies, his voice steady and reassuring over the line. ‘These blokes, they prey on fear and uncertainty. But you’re stronger than their scare tactics.’

You close your eyes, allowing Brett’s words to bolster your resolve. He’s right; your research could change lives, and no corporation should have the power to silence that.

‘Thanks, love. I needed to hear that,’ you admit, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. ‘I’ll keep fighting. For us, for the truth.’

‘Always here for you,’ Brett says before hanging up.

As you start the drive back to Erindale, your mind buzzes with strategies and contingencies. The battle lines are drawn, and you’re ready to defend your ground, come what may.

You stride into your office, the echo of your footsteps in the empty corridor a stark reminder of the solitude that often accompanies truth-seeking. The soft glow from your desk lamp casts long shadows across the room; it’s late, but your work as a social psychologist knows no clock. You flick on the main lights and there it is—an unassuming brown package sitting at the centre of your desk.

‘Curious,’ you murmur, a frown creasing your brow. With measured movements, you peel back the adhesive strip, revealing a stack of documents so incriminating they practically reek of corporate corruption. It’s evidence—hard, concrete evidence—of the very misdeeds you’ve been railing against. And there, nestled among the pages, a small note with just two words: ‘Use wisely.’

Your heart thumps—a mixture of adrenaline and vindication—as you realize someone within their ranks is on your side. This isn’t just happenstance; it’s a calculated move by a silent ally who wants to see justice served as much as you do.

‘Righto,’ you say under your breath, steeling yourself. Now’s the time for action, not second-guessing or shilly-shallying. You reach for the phone and dial the number of the one journalist you know won’t turn a blind eye, the one whose integrity mirrors your own.

‘Dan, it’s Lauren Millward,’ you begin, the words tumbling out with urgency. ‘I’ve got something big—bigger than we ever imagined. We need to meet.’

You can almost hear his pen scratching across paper as he notes down the details. ‘Tomorrow, 10 AM, the café on Rundle Street,’ he suggests with a gruff voice that brooks no argument.

‘Done,’ you confirm, the gravity of what you’re about to do settling onto your shoulders like a mantle. You hang up, your mind already racing through the possible outcomes. This could be the breakthrough you’ve been waiting for, the chance to topple a Goliath with nothing more than the slingshot of truth.

But as you sit there amidst the quiet assurance of your book-lined office, it’s not the accolades or professional triumphs that you think of—it’s the people. The countless faces who stand to benefit from the light of transparency you’re about to shine into dark corners. That’s where the real victory lies.

With a resolute nod, you start organizing the documents, your focus narrow and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. They thought they could intimidate you, shake your resolve. But you’re Lauren Millward—you don’t buckle under pressure; you rise above it. And come tomorrow, everyone will know just how high you’re willing to soar.

You’re rifling through the papers, aligning each one with meticulous care. The documents fan out in an arc, a paper constellation that maps out a corporate conspiracy. You’re preparing them for battle—a battle of exposure and truth. It’s the calm before the storm, and you’re the eye of it: resolute, unyielding.

But then, the tranquillity shatters as your mobile buzzes violently against the wooden surface. You glance at the caller ID—it’s Rachel’s doctor. The flutter in your chest is not one of anticipation but dread. With a steadying breath, you answer.

‘Dr. Evans,’ you greet, trying to keep the tremor from your voice.

‘Lauren, I’m afraid I have some concerning news about Rachel,’ he begins, and you can tell from his tone that this isn’t just a courtesy call. ‘She’s had a setback—’

His words seem to dissolve into the air, leaving behind only their echo of panic. A tightness grips your chest, squeezing until you force yourself to focus on his voice again.

‘—not responding as we’d hoped. We may need to explore more aggressive treatments.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ you manage, the words automatic, robotic. But inside, your world tilts dangerously askew. Your fingers tighten around the phone as if by sheer will you could reverse the universe’s cruel tug.

‘Stay strong, Lauren,’ Dr. Evans adds gently before ending the call.

The room feels smaller, the walls inching inward. You’re torn, shredded between the fight against the faceless corporation and the primal need to protect your daughter.

Pushing back from the desk, you wander to the window, gaze lost in the leafy embrace of Erindale. You remember reading somewhere that within chaos lies opportunity—the chance to forge a path through the uncertainty. Right now, though, that path feels overgrown, hidden.

Your mind drifts to your research, a tether in the storm. Expectations, visualization—these are tools you’ve wielded deftly in theory but never with such desperate necessity. Your own findings, they must hold some key, some lifeline you can throw to Rachel.

You cross the room to the mahogany bookshelf, fingers tracing the spines until they land on your unpublished manuscript. You pull it out, the familiar weight a comfort in your hands. Flipping through the pages, you find the section on visualization.

‘Visualize success, and the mind can help make it reality,’ you whisper to the empty room. The words embolden you, flickers of hope in the gloom. Like the researcher you are, you dissect the theory, searching for a practical application for Rachel.

‘Imagine her stronger, healthier,’ you murmur, envisioning her laughter, her energy returning. It’s a small step, but even the longest journey begins with the decision to try.

‘Rachel needs me,’ you affirm with newfound resolve. ‘And I won’t let this corporation—or anything else—keep me from fighting for her.’

As you stand there, your reflection stares back at you from the windowpane—determined, a mother and a warrior. You’ll take this evidence to the journalist tomorrow, but tonight, you’ll harness the power of positive thinking and pour every ounce of it into the universe for Rachel.

‘Tomorrow, Rachel,’ you promise the reflection, ‘we fight on two fronts. And we won’t back down on either.’

You sit beside Rachel’s bed, her hand delicate in your own. The rhythmic beep of the monitor is a reminder of the fragility of her condition, but you’re not here just as a spectator to her illness. You’re here as her mother, an anchor in the storm.

‘Imagine, love,’ you say softly, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘We’re at the beach, the one you love with the golden sand.’ You paint the picture with your words, a canvas for her mind to cling to. ‘The sun is warm, not too hot, and you’re building the biggest sandcastle.’

Rachel’s eyelids flutter, a small smile playing on her lips. It’s a tiny shift, but it’s there, evidence that the visualization is reaching her, stirring something within.

‘Can you feel the breeze, sweetheart?’ you continue, your voice steady and soothing. ‘It’s carrying the laughter of other kids, the smell of salt and sunscreen.’

In the dim light of the hospital room, you notice her breathing ease, the tension in her face relax. It’s working; the power of positive expectations is seeping through, igniting sparks of hope.

‘Keep holding onto that image, Rach. Let it fill you up with strength and health,’ you urge, your heart swelling as you witness these subtle signs of improvement.

Armed with this newfound hope, you leave the hospital room the following morning. The evidence folder feels heavy in your bag, a tangible symbol of your fight. You meet the journalist at a quiet café, the scent of fresh coffee mingling with determination.

‘Here’s everything,’ you tell him, sliding the folder across the table. Your fingers hesitate for a moment, the gravity of what you’re doing not lost on you. ‘It’s all the proof you’ll need to see what they’ve been up to.’

The journalist, a man known for his integrity, flips through the documents, his brow furrowing with concern. ‘This is big,’ he says, locking eyes with you. ‘I’ll take it from here. They won’t get away with it.’

‘Make sure they don’t,’ you reply, your voice firm. The stakes are high, not just for your career, but for every individual who could fall prey to the corporation’s greed and deception.

As you leave the café, the weight in your bag is gone, but the weight on your shoulders remains. You carry it willingly though, for Rachel, for justice, and for the truth that must come to light.

You stride away from the café, each step ringing with purpose. The autumn air of Erindale carries a crispness that seems to sharpen your resolve. You feel the fabric of your jacket brush against your arms, a reminder of the world pressing close, full of texture and reality. This is not just another day; it’s the beginning of a battle for truth.

You pause under the shade of an old gum tree, its leaves whispering secrets in the wind. A part of you reflects on the psychological concept of cognitive dissonance – how the corporation’s representatives must be wrestling with their own internal conflicts, trying to justify their actions. But your thoughts are clear, unburdened by such discord. You know what’s right, and you understand the importance of aligning actions with values.

As you continue walking, you consider the support structure around you. Brett, always the voice of reason, his reassurances echoing in your mind like a grounding mantra. Your twins, Rachel and David, the embodiment of innocence and the future you’re fighting to protect. And then there’s the anonymous ally within the corporation, whose courage in sending the documents has given you the evidence needed to shine a light on wrongdoing.

With each step towards home, you feel the weight of responsibility settle more comfortably on your shoulders. It’s as if your entire career—the articles, the research, the theories on social influence—has been leading to this moment. You realise that the power of expectations and visualization isn’t just a tool to aid in Rachel’s recovery; it’s also a weapon against the shadows cast by the corporation.

‘Keep going,’ you whisper to yourself, a personal affirmation that doubles as a vow. There’s no turning back now, not when the health of society’s trust is at stake, eroded by the unethical practices you’ve uncovered. You remember reading about the ‘bystander effect’, how individuals are less likely to help a victim when others are present. But you refuse to be a passive observer, to let fear dictate your actions while others suffer.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, a text message from Brett: ‘Everything okay?’ Simple words, but they carry the warmth of your shared life, the quiet strength of your partnership. You type a quick reply, assuring him and, perhaps, fortifying yourself. ‘More than okay. I’m making things right.’

As the sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the suburb’s peaceful streets, you find solace in the knowledge that each small victory contributes to the larger cause. Today, Rachel showed signs of improvement. Tomorrow, the article might just turn the tide of public opinion.

You reach your home, the sanctuary where battles are planned and weariness is shed. You’re ready to face what comes next, armed not just with evidence and theory, but with a heart steadfast in its pursuit of justice. In this fight, you’re not only Lauren Millward, PhD in Social Psychology, you’re a defender of integrity, an advocate for the vulnerable.

‘Let them come,’ you think, a smile playing on your lips. For you know that with every challenge comes growth, and with growth, a chance to make the world a little brighter, a little truer.