[Adrian’s POV]

The call comes on a Tuesday, from a number I almost don’t recognize.

I’m in the middle of helping Cassian assemble a bookshelf for the nursery—a task that should be simple but has somehow devolved into a philosophical debate about instruction manuals and whether they’re actually necessary—when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. The area code is familiar: New York. The number itself triggers a vague recognition that I can’t quite place.

“Go ahead,” Cassian says, gesturing toward the phone with a screwdriver. “This shelf isn’t going anywhere without proper alignment anyway.”

I pick up the phone, stepping into the hallway for privacy. “Hello?”

“Adrian. It’s Marcus Chen.”

The name clicks into place immediately. Marcus was a colleague at Columbia, one of the few people I genuinely respected during my time there. We’d collaborated on a paper years ago, shared drinks at conferences, maintained the kind of professional friendship that exists primarily in email form but feels genuine nonetheless.

“Marcus. It’s been a while.” I keep my voice neutral, curious. “What’s going on?”

There’s a pause on the other end—the kind of weighted silence that tells me this isn’t a casual check-in. Something crawls up my spine, a premonition of incoming information that I’m not going to like.

“I need to tell you something,” Marcus says finally. “And I need you to understand that I’m taking a risk by making this call. If anyone finds out I reached out to you…”

“I understand.” My grip tightens on the phone. “What is it?”

“It’s about Vaughn. About what she’s been saying.”

The confirmation of my suspicions should feel vindicating. Instead, it just makes me tired—a bone-deep exhaustion that comes from having your worst fears confirmed. I lean against the hallway wall, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

“Tell me everything.”

Marcus takes a breath, and then the words come in a rush, like he’s been holding them back and can’t contain them anymore. “She’s been making calls, Adrian. Discreet ones, to search committees and department chairs. Nothing official—she’s too careful for that. But she’s been ‘expressing concerns’ about your judgment. Your reliability. She mentions your ‘complicated personal situation’ without going into specifics, lets people draw their own conclusions.”

The phrases are familiar—echoes of what I’d already suspected, now given concrete form. Complicated personal situation. A euphemism for Sophie, for Cassian, for the family we’re building that doesn’t fit neatly into any conventional box.

“How do you know this?” I ask.

“I ran into her last week at a history symposium downtown—that annual conference on American immigration policy. She’s not at Columbia anymore, but she still attends these things, still networks like her career depends on it.” Marcus’s voice drops lower, as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “She cornered me at the reception, asked if I’d heard anything about your Stanford application. I played dumb, said I didn’t know anything about it. But the way she asked… it wasn’t casual curiosity. She wanted to know if you were trying to rebuild your career. And she didn’t seem happy about the possibility.”

My free hand clenches into a fist at my side. Even after resigning from Columbia, Lisette Vaughn was still working to destroy me. She’d given up her position but not her vendetta. The rage that’s been simmering beneath the surface for weeks threatens to boil over, but I force it down. Anger won’t help. Information will.

“Is there any way to prove this? Documentation, witnesses, anything that would hold up if I tried to make a formal complaint?”

The silence that follows is answer enough.

“It’s all whispers, Adrian. Innuendo and implication. She never says anything actionable—just plants seeds and lets them grow. By the time anyone realizes what she’s done, she’s moved on to the next conversation.” Marcus sighs, the sound heavy with frustration. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”

“It’s what I needed to hear,” I correct him. “There’s a difference.”

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