I'm about to say no when someone pounds on my door, making me jump hard enough to drop my phone.
"Dr. Chandler. Just a few questions about your relationship with Declan Hawthorne," a man says. Although his voice is muffled through the wood, it still sounds aggressive.
"How long have you been manipulating research data?" a female voice that's equally hostile asks.
"Is it true you're involved with multiple players?"
"Did Marcus Chandler help you get this position?"
The questions pile on top of each other, a feeding frenzy of accusation disguised as journalism. I press my back against the door, my breathing shallow, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone.
"Ivy?" Dr. O'Connell's voice is tiny through the speaker. "What's happening?"
"There are reporters outside my door."
"Get out of there. Pack a bag; Sloane is coming over to pick you up. I'll call campus security to clear them from the building, but you can't stay there."
She's right. But the thought of opening that door and facing cameras and people who have already decided I'm guilty makes my stomach turn.
A softer knock makes me glance up.
"Ivy, it's me. Open up."
Sloane.
Relief floods through me so suddenly my knees nearly buckle. I open the door wide enough for her to slip through, and she immediately positions herself between me and the hallway like a human shield.
Her hazel eyes blaze with protective fury.
"Back off!" she snarls at the reporters. "She's not making a statement. And if any of you step foot on this property again, I'm calling the cops for harassment. Actually, I'm calling a lawyer for stalking."
She slams the door hard, locks it, then turns to me.
"Pack. Now. You're not staying here another night."
"Ivy," O'Connell says. I realize I'm still holding my phone.
"Dr. O'Connell?"
"Is that Sloane?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"Good. Go with her. I'll handle the university. You handle surviving."
The call ends. I stare at Sloane, who has already pulled my suitcase from the closet and is grabbing clothes from the drawers.
"I can pack my own things."
"You can sit there looking shell-shocked while I pack, or you can help. Either way, we're leaving in fifteen minutes." She tosses a stack of T-shirts into the suitcase. "Where's your laptop?"
"Sloane..."
"Laptop, Ivy. And your research backup drives. Pack everything important because you're not coming back here until this blows over."
"What if it doesn't blow over?"
She stops, turning to face me fully.
