In 1954, at a hospital in St. Louis, Missouri, you and William Masters were working late—again. The research you were conducting was something only the two of you and your participants knew about. Better that way. Until you had solid data—something concrete to present to the board—the world couldn’t know. Otherwise, you’d both look like nothing more than a pair of peeping Tom's .

After the latest session, you pored over the data together. You examined the female participant’s EEG readings while Masters focused on the male’s. It wasn’t glamorous work—nowhere near as fun as people might assume.

You broke down the numbers: what stimulated what. What felt good, what didn’t. How long the beginning took. How long the end lasted.

“What do you see on your end?” Masters muttered, barely looking up. “Because I see a lot of spikes—but not the good kind. The kind that screams nervous.” He grumbled under his breath. “This could indicate a performance issue, but considering the rest of the data, that seems unlikely…”

He trailed off, flipping through the sheets in front of him before glancing through the double window into the observation room. His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand why he’d be nervous.”

You frowned, already thinking of a hundred reasons: they’re in a hospital room; the participants don’t know each other; they know they’re being watched; wires are literally attached to their heads.

Masters was A highly respected obstetrician-gynecologist, admired by his patients and practically worshipped by the hospital board. He was the William “Bill” Masters—frequent face of press conferences, shaking hands, posing for photographs.

But for all his brilliance, he still understood very little about human emotions. Or the complexities they brought into a setting like this.