The Real Daughter Said I Copied Her？Oops, My Test Was Blank Chapter 07
A wave of hushed murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“Professor Van Buren? The—the National Medal of Science recipient? Former AMS president?”
“Holy shit… someone like that—you only ever see his name on textbook covers. What’s he doing here?”
Patrick clearly recognized him too.
He practically snapped into a groveling smile, hauling Sophia up off the floor and shoving her forward.
“Professor Van Buren! What an honor! I’m Patrick Walsh—Managing Partner of Walsh Capital.”
“This is my daughter Sophia—she scored top of the grade on the SAT!”
“We had a little misunderstanding earlier, but I promise you, this girl’s talent and work ethic are second to none!”
Sophia didn’t even bother wiping the handprint off her face. She dabbed at her tears and forced out a demure smile:
“It’s such an honor to meet you, Professor Van Buren. I’ve always admired your research…”
But Van Buren walked right past them—past both of them—and came straight to me.
In front of everyone, the most legendary figure in American mathematics looked at me with something almost like exasperation:
“Lena. Why does your phone never work?”
“Mitchell Institute sent you an early admission letter a month ago. You never replied.”
“The admissions committee’s been losing their minds—they even called my house, asking if I could track you down.”
“I’m seventy-eight years old. I don’t leave the house much anymore. But for you, I had to fly all the way to Boston.”
Another dead silence.
Patrick’s grin had frozen on his face like a wax statue.
Sophia’s eyes were bulging—her nails dug so deep into her palms her knuckles went white.
“Professor… you—you’re here for… Lena?”
Harrison Wells asked carefully.
Van Buren glanced at him:
“Why else would I come? To find some girl who’s proud of being top of her grade?”
He pulled a dark blue envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. The MIT seal was embossed on it—and below it, Van Buren’s own signature.
He placed it directly in my hands.
“Here. This is your official admission letter to MIT’s Mitchell Institute.”
“I’ve already signed it. No SAT score required. No recommendation letters. No red tape. You’re already registered.”
“Combined bachelor’s, master’s, and PhD. Pick any major you want. Use any lab you want. Full scholarship.”
“Plus—the institute approved an apartment for you. On campus, windows facing the Charles River. Move in whenever you like.”
He paused, holding my gaze:
“So—is that enough to get you to reply to an email?”
I took the envelope and looked down at the gold-embossed MIT seal—and the word “Accepted” in Van Buren’s own handwriting.
A flood of mixed feelings hit me.
In my past life, I’d hidden that letter the moment I got it.
Because Sophia told me it would make Mom and Dad think I was “stealing her spotlight.”
I kept quiet.
In the end, I tossed it—and all my pride—into a Boston snowbank.
This time, I could hold it with my head up.
“Thank you, Professor Van Buren.”
I gave him a small smile.
“I’ll sign.”
“But I should warn you—I turned in a blank SAT. Zero score.”
Van Buren waved a hand, unbothered.
“So what? You just didn’t feel like taking it.”
“If you actually wanted to, the people who wrote that test would have to go back to math class.”
“I’ve read your paper from the Annals of Mathematics—the one you published at fifteen—three times cover to cover.”
“That ‘top of the grade’ of Sophia Walsh’s? In front of you, it doesn’t even count as a starting line.”
He said it quietly—barely above a whisper.
But coming from Van Buren, it carried a weight that ended all argument.
Everything Sophia had been so proud of, everything she’d schemed to take—shattered in an instant.
“No… no, that’s not possible…”
She shook her head, her voice breaking into splinters.
“She’s average… she can’t even do basic algebra…”
“Average?”
Van Buren turned slowly to look at Sophia. There was something almost like pity in his eyes.
“Do you know whose problem Lena solved in that paper she published under a pseudonym?”
“Mine. Forty years ago, I left it at the end of a paper—an open conjecture. I didn’t think I’d live to see it answered.”
“She handed me the solution when she was fifteen.”
“And you—you took the SAT as your battlefield, thinking you were in the same race as her?”
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower—but every word carried across the room:
“She was never even in your league.”