"However," Dean Whitfield continues, "given the media attention and negative publicity this has generated, we think it's best if you step away from the Raptors project."
The relief evaporates.
"You just said my research is solid. The video was fake. I didn't do anything wrong."
"We're not saying you did." His voice is maddeningly calm, the tone of someone delivering bad news they've already decided on. "But the relationship between the university and the Raptors organization has been damaged. There are concerns about optics and credibility. We think a fresh start is best for everyone."
"A fresh start." I repeat the words slowly, tasting the bitterness. "You want me to abandon months of work because someone lied about me?"
"We'll help you transition to a new research focus," Dr. Raymond offers gently. "It’s something equally compelling…"
"Equally compelling?" I lean forward, voice rising despite my efforts to control it. "Do you have any idea what you're asking me to give up? I have baseline data on twenty-five professional athletes. Cognitive assessment protocols that took a year to develop. Injury pattern analysis that could change how teams handle concussions. None of that can be replicated. It's gone."
Dr. O'Connell places a warning hand on my arm. I force myself to sit back, swallowing the rage burning in my throat.
Dean Whitfield's expression doesn't change. "I understand your frustration, Dr. Chandler, but this is the committee's decision. You're cleared of all wrongdoing. We'll issue a formal statement by the end of today. But the Raptors project is closed."
The other committee members nod in agreement. Case closed. Problem solved. Except the problem in my life just got wider.
"Is there anything else?" Dean Whitfield asks.
"No," I reply.
"Then this hearing is concluded."
They dismiss me like I'm a minor inconvenience they've finally dealt with, not a person whose career they just gutted.
Outside the hearing room, Dr. O'Connell pulls me aside.
"I know you're angry."
"I'm furious."
"You have every right to be." Her dark brown eyes soften. "But you're cleared, Ivy. That's what matters."
I snort, shaking my head.
"Is it?" I cross my arms. "Because it doesn't feel like winning."
"Sometimes survivingiswinning." She squeezes my shoulder. "Take some time and process this, then we'll figure out your next steps."
I nod, but I don't believe her.
Marcus calls several times that afternoon. I send him to voicemail. He shows up at Sloane’s apartment that evening, knocking until I answer.
"Ivy, please. Let me in."
"I'm fine, Marcus."
He walks in. "You're not fine. The hearing went well, right? You're reinstated."
"Yeah. I’ve been cleared of all charges, and they killed my research project because of bad optics. So, I'm great," I say, choking out the last sentence.
He pulls me into a hug. "Ivy..."
A sob escapes my lips, cutting him off. He pulls me closer. I break down into great, wracking sobs, my chest heaving.
Marcus says nothing. I wish King, or even Declan, was holding me right now. Loving me. But for the first time, my brother’s presence is reassuring as he comforts me. We stay that way for several minutes until I’ve let everything out. Then I step back.
