A small, hysterical sound escapes me—half laugh, half sob.
Of course. Of course, my obsessive note-taking saved me.
I keep reading.
Recommendation 1: Dr. Blackwell is to be removed as primary author from the manuscript “Trauma Frameworks in Post-Transitional Populations” and listed as a contributing author.
Recommendation 2: Dr. Vitale is to be listed as first author and recognized as originating architect of the conceptual model.
Recommendation 3: The university will issue a formal acknowledgment of this correction and a letter of apology to Dr. Vitale.
The room tilts.
I set my laptop down very carefully on the table because my hands no longer feel entirely attached to my arms.
For a second, all I can hear is my heart banging against my ribs and the faint whir of the ceiling fan. No crowd. No committee. No Blackwell.
Just this.
They believed me.
I lean back against the chair because my body feels like jelly right now.
My brain, true to form, immediately tries to balance the equation.
Not fired. Not blackballed. Not quietly buried.
There will be fallout. Political. Social. Academic. Blackwell will spin. The department will whisper. Some doors will close.
But the official record will say:She was right.
I press my fingertips to my sternum, tracing the flutter there.
I wish Fortuna were here so I could glare at her and say,This was not subtle.The wheel shifted with a crunch I felt in my bones.
I stare at the screen again, just to be sure it still says what it says.
It does.
My muscles start to shake.
I need… I’m not sure what I need. Air. A sensory reset. A body that isn’t currently vibrating at a frequency typically reserved for hummingbird wings.
I close the laptop.
I stand.
I walk.
Outside, the air has that edge to it—not cold, just honest. The maples along the sanctuary fence have started making decisions,amber creeping into the green at the tips. I didn’t notice that happening. I was too busy waiting.
I find Flavius where my nervous system knew he’d be.
Behind the stables, in the shaded patch of packed dirt near the fence, with the late light slanting across his shoulders. There’s a mare dozing nearby. On a low bench in front of him sits one of the volunteers—a college kid who tweaked his back unloading a shipment the day before.
Flavius is behind him, big hands moving with a focus I recognize from both the arena and the bedroom.
He’s working.
