She smiles sadly. “It started small. Coffee to discuss my thesis. Then drinks after seminars. Then dinners because we were working late and he was hungry and wouldn’t I join him? His office, Nico. Always his office. Door closed. Nine, ten, eleven at night.”
I stay silent. Let her talk.
“He made sure I didn’t connect with other faculty.Other advisors. He’d say things like ‘they won’t understand your work the way I do’ or ‘you don’t need their input, you have me.’ And I believed him. I thought I was special.”
Her hands are shaking. She clasps them together.
“I was twenty-four. He was forty-two. Married. My professor.” She takes a shuddering breath. “There was a night. Late. We’d been drinking wine and he—”
She stops. Starts again.
“I don’t even know what to call it. A kiss. Maybe more. I didn’t say no clearly enough. Or maybe I did and he didn’t care. I was confused and flattered and terrified of losing his support. I’ve spent five years trying to convince myself it was nothing. That maybe I wanted it. That maybe I gave him the wrong impression. That I caused it somehow.”
“Bree—”
“When I finally asked for a different advisor, he turned on me.” Her voice becomes distant. “Suddenly my work wasn’t good enough anymore. He told everyone I seduced him.” Her laugh is bitter and broken. “That I developed an inappropriate fixation and became vindictive while he always maintained professional boundaries. He savaged my thesis. My committee suddenly had concerns about my work quality. Other professors and students heard I was difficult, unstable.”
My hands have curled into fists. I force them to relax.
“I barely graduated,” she continues. “My letters of recommendation were lukewarm at best. He used his connections to poison the well... my applications were rejected for every position I appliedfor in the nonprofit world, thanks to him. Two years, Nico. Two years of temping and admin work and wondering if I was crazy. If maybe I really did give him the wrong impression. If it was my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I state slowly.
“Part of me still wonders.” She’s crying again, quieter now. “And the worst part? He’s still there. Still tenured. Still mentoring female grad students. Still doing this to other women, probably. And I can’t do anything about it because who would believe me?”
I take her hand. Her fingers are cold.
“Seeing that article,” she whispers. “University partnerships. It brought it all back. And I just. I couldn’t.”
She breaks off, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
I kneel there holding her hand, and a dark, cold clarity settles in my core. The same clarity I felt when I knew exactly how to take Martin apart.
“What university.” My voice comes out controlled.
Bree’s eyes widen slightly. She knows that tone. “Nico.”
“What university,” I repeat. If she won’t tell me, I’ll pull it from her resume.
She hesitates. Her hand tightens in mine.
“Columbia,” she finally says. “Communications and Nonprofit Management program. But this is my story. I don’t want you fighting my battles. I just want to ignore him and move on. That’s what I’ve been doing for five years. That’s what I’ll keep doing.”
I don’t answer her.
“Promise me you won’t do anything.” Her gaze is fierce now, and desperate. Almost wild. “Promise me, Nico.”
I look at her tear-stained face. The vulnerability and the steel underneath. The woman who’s been carrying this weight alone for five years because someone with more power than her decided to weaponize it against her.
That sick fuck destroyed her career because she said no. He made her believe she was complicit in her own victimization.
He took five fucking years of her life.
And he’s still out there. Doing it to other women while the system looks the other way.
“I promise,” I lie.
She searches my face, then nods, seems to believe me. Some of the tension drains from her shoulders.
