"Steady," Webb said, a hand on my arm. "You did well in there."
"I didn't do anything. You did."
"You told the truth. That's not nothing." He released my arm, straightening his jacket. "Your father will be pleased. He was... invested in this outcome."
I didn't know what to say to that. Charles Rothwell invested in his daughter's career. The same one he'd once dismissed entirely.
"Thank him for me," I said finally. "And thank you. For everything."
Webb nodded. "Take care of yourself, Dr. Rothwell. And if the Langs try anything else—call me."
He walked away, already pulling out his phone, already moving on to the next case.
I stood alone in the hallway, the weight of the past weeks shifting, just enough to breathe.
I needed to tell Brian what had just happened.
He was waiting when I got home.
On the couch, two glasses of wine on the coffee table, the afternoon light slanting through the window and turning everything golden. Watson was curled up beside him, head on Brian's thigh, watching me with his usual air of judgment.
"Well?" Brian's face was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hand had stilled on Watson's fur.
"Dismissed." The word felt foreign in my mouth. Too small for what it meant. "The whole thing. They're even referring the complaint for investigation."
Brian's face broke into a grin. He was off the couch before I could say anything else, pulling me into a hug, laughing against my hair.
"I knew it," he said. "I knew they couldn't touch you."
"Webb was good. My father's firm—" I shook my head. "I still can't believe he helped."
Brian set me down but didn't let go. His hands stayed on my waist. Warm. Steady. Like he wasn't ready to let go either.
"How do you feel?"
I considered the question. Really considered it.
"Relieved," I said. "Grateful. Confused." I laughed, the sound surprising me. "I don't know how to feel about my father being in my corner. It's been fourteen years since he was anything but an obstacle."
"Maybe people can change."
"Maybe." I stepped back, reaching for my wine glass. "He offered to help me find my own apartment, actually. Said he has connections with a building on the Upper West Side. Something about a client who owes him a favor."
Brian’s hands stilled on the glass.
"Your own apartment?"
"For when this is all over." I took a sip of wine, not quite meeting his eyes. "Somewhere I can start fresh. I told him I'd think about it."
The silence stretched between us.
“That's... good," Brian said finally. His voice went cautious. Neutral. "It's good that he's helping."
"It is.” I stared at the city skyline, at the way the light caught the windows of distant buildings, and waited for him to say something else. “When this is all over, I’ll get out of your hair. Stop complicating your life."
"You're not complicating anything."
"Brian—"
