Sarah Michaels

In a library in Paris, there are notebooks you cannot open without signing a waiver first. They belonged to a woman who spent four years boiling several tons of rock in a shed the university had condemned, and who ended up with enough of a new element to fit in an eggcup. She was born in a country that had been erased from the map. Her university wouldn't admit women, so she studied in an illegal night school that changed address every week to stay ahead of the police.
She spent three years as a governess in a house where the family had decided she was too poor to marry their son, sending her wages to Paris so her sister could go first. When she finally made her own discovery, she wasn't allowed into the hall where it was announced - a man read her findings aloud while she waited outside. What she found there was bigger than the two elements she's remembered for.
Working alone in a freezing storeroom with a quartz crystal and a set of weights, she measured something that shouldn't have been possible, and concluded that the atom - held for a century to be solid, permanent, and uncuttable - had an interior, and that something inside it was letting energy out. The radiation that made her famous also blistered her hands, clouded her eyes, and eventually stopped her bone marrow from working.
She refused for decades to believe it was doing any of that. This is the version with the arguments left in: the money she turned down, the affair that nearly ended her while the man walked away untouched, the breakdowns, the ambulances she drove to the front at Verdun, and the last question her own measurements answer - what actually killed her, and whether those notebooks are dangerous at all.