Ivy:
Please respond. I need to know you're okay. Even if you're angry with me, just let me know you're alive.
Nothing.
The silence is deafening.
What if something happened to him? What if he's hurt? What if my message broke his heart and he's...
No. That's irrational. He's probably giving me space to figure things out with Declan, or he's realized our connection was never meant to be more than texts and has gracefully bowed out.
I'm being paranoid. My mother got into my head with her warning, and now I'm seeing conspiracy where there's none.
I set my phone down and try to sleep.
***
The email arrives sometime after six a.m.
I'm making coffee when my phone buzzes with the notification. The sender is anonymous, a generic email address that's just numbers and letters. The subject line makes my blood run cold:
“Ethics Violation Report - Dr. Ivy Chandler”
My hands shake as I tap the screen.
To the Metropolitan University Ethics Board,
I am writing to report a serious ethical violation by Dr. Ivy Chandler, who is currently conducting research with the Metro Raptors hockey team. Dr. Chandler has engaged in an inappropriate intimate relationship with one of her research subjects, specifically Mr. Declan Hawthorne, in direct violation of research ethics protocols and university conduct standards.
Please find attached photographic evidence documenting this relationship, including time-stamped images of Dr. Chandlerentering and leaving Mr. Hawthorne's residence on multiple occasions.
This relationship compromises the integrity of her research and violates the trust placed in her by both the university and the professional organization she represents.
I trust you will investigate this matter with appropriate urgency.
- A Concerned Party
Below the message are photos of me entering Declan's apartment building at night and leaving at dawn with disheveled hair. Me getting into his car. Each one is time-stamped and dated.
It's evidence of everything we've been trying to hide.
The coffee mug slips from my fingers, shattering on the kitchen floor. Brown liquid spreads across white tile, but I barely register it.
"Shit," I whisper, stepping back. "Shit."
Someone has been watching us. Following us. Documenting our relationship.
And now they've sent it to the ethics board.
My career and research are over. Everything I've worked for is about to be destroyed because I fell in love with my research subject.
My phone buzzes with a text message.
Dr. O'Connell:
Come over to my office. We need to talk.
Another buzz. This one from the university ethics board:
