The familiar ache of not being believed settles heavily in my chest.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Sophia—”
I hang up.
The silence is brutal.
I need proof. Something undeniable. Something no one—my mother, the university, the committee—can dismiss.
Flavius.
His memory: Perfect. Specific. Unimpeachable.
He can verify everything: the timeline, the breakthroughs, the language, the moments. But I told him I needed space. I pushed him away.
And now he’s the only person who can help me fight this.
My phone buzzes again.
It’s Dr. Blackwell:Thinking ahead—perhaps our next project could expand the trauma framework to additional historical contexts? Your continued fieldwork is such a gift!
She wants to do it again. Take whatever I create next. Absorb it. Claim it.
A cold, clarifying line of resolve sharpens inside me. No!
I rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, and catch my reflection. The panic hasn’t vanished, but it’s no longer the whole horizon. I look wrecked—red eyes, blotchy cheeks—but beneath that, there’s something solid.
Determination. Anger. Self-respect.
I open my research folder. Timestamps. Drafts. Raw notes. Everything I’ve built.
If I’m going to fight, it must be methodical. Precise. Undeniable.
And I can’t do it alone.
I pick up my phone and text:I was wrong to ask for space. I need your help. Can we talk?
He replies almost instantly:Conference Room B. Five minutes.
I grab my laptop. No time for fear.
Only now. Only truth. Only the choice to stop shrinking.
I head for Conference Room B.
Chapter Seventeen
Flavius
Three days. That was what she asked for.
Three days of seeing Sophia only from a distance—tight shoulders in the corridor, untouched food on her tray, the way she vanishes into her room as though she wishes the door could swallow her whole.
Three days of trying to be what the modern world calls respectful.
I have failed in every quiet way that matters. Every glimpse tells me the same thing: she is not simply busy. She is breaking.
