27
IVY
Firestorm
The pipette trembles in my hand.
I'm supposed to be measuring cerebro-spinal fluid samples, calibrating data for my research that's been sitting dormant since the ethics investigation cleared me. Dr. O'Connell gave me full lab access again, though working here feels hollow after everything that happened.
But my hands won't stop shaking.
It's been a couple of days since I last saw Declan and I threw myself into work. Days of pretending I don't lie awake remembering the devastation in his green eyes when I told him we were done.
The lab door crashes open.
Sloane stands there, chest heaving like she's run the entire way from her office. Her freckled face is flushed, eyes wide with something between shock and excitement.
"Turn on the TV," she gasps. "Now."
"I'm in the middle of something."
"Ivy, turn on the damned TV. Right now."
My stomach drops. That tone means something catastrophic or monumental is happening. I'm not sure I can handle either, but I set down the pipette and pull up the news stream on my laptop.
Every channel shows the same image of the Raptors' press conference room packed with reporters. The caption reads:
“BREAKING: Raptors Star Holds Emergency Press Conference.”
The Metro Raptors logo gleams behind a podium where Declan stands, flanked by a severe-looking woman in a gray suit. I snap a picture and search for the woman. She’s Patricia Ammon, a lawyer.
My eyes glance back at the laptop screen.
Declan looks terrible.
His dark hair is messier than usual, falling across his forehead. The angular jaw I've traced with my fingers is covered in more stubble than I've ever seen. His green eyes are bloodshot, ringed with exhaustion.
But his shoulders are squared, his jaw set with determination.
"Thank you for coming," he begins, voice rough. "I've called this press conference to address serious criminal allegations against my former agent, Gregory Stallworth, and to correct false information that has damaged an innocent person's reputation."
Patricia touches his arm, a clear warning. He ignores her.
"For nine years, I trusted Gregory Stallworth to manage my career and finances. But I recently discovered that trust was catastrophically misplaced.“ His hands grip the podium edges, knuckles white. "Gregory has systematically stolen from me, skimming approximately eight million dollars through fabricated expenses, hidden accounts, and manipulated contracts."
Murmurs ripple through the press corps.
"I have extensive documentation proving this theft. Bank statements showing unauthorized withdrawals. Emails discussing how to hide the transactions. Financial records that don't match what was reported to me." He reaches into a folder and pulls out a thick stack of papers. "I'm releasing all of this evidence publicly today. Copies are being distributed to law enforcement, the league, and the press."
A reporter shouts a question. Declan holds up a hand.
"I'm not finished." His voice hardens. “Gregory's crimes extend beyond financial theft. Three weeks ago, a video surfaced allegedly showing Dr. Ivy Chandler, a biomechanics researcher contracted with the Raptors, falsifying concussion research data."
My breath stops.
"That video was fabricated. Edited and manipulated using footage Gregory obtained through illegal access to facility security systems." Declan's jaw clenches. "Dr. Chandler's research was completely legitimate, her methodology sound. Her findings were accurate. Her reputation was destroyed by a man trying to maintain control over my career and personal life."
The room erupts. Cameras flash. Reporters surge forward shouting questions.
