[Adrian’s POV]

The consulting opportunity comes through three weeks after Marcus’s phone call.

It’s not academia—not the prestigious university position I’d spent my career building toward—but it’s something. A private research firm specializing in immigration policy, exactly the kind of interdisciplinary work that drew me to history in the first place. They want me to lead a project examining historical patterns of migration and their implications for contemporary policy debates. The possibility feels fragile in my hands, like holding a soap bubble I’m terrified of bursting with too much hope.

The interview happens over video call, which feels appropriate somehow. No flights to distant cities, no formal dinners with search committees, no opportunities for mysterious phone calls to derail my candidacy at the last moment. Just me, my laptop, and a panel of people who seem genuinely interested in what I have to offer. My palms are slick with sweat as I adjust my camera angle, but my voice stays steady—a small victory that feels enormous.

“Your work on immigrant narratives is exactly what we’re looking for,” the director says, a sharp-eyed woman named Dr. Okonkwo who clearly has no patience for academic politics. “We need someone who can connect historical research to present-day implications. Someone who can communicate with policymakers without talking down to them.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do for years,” I admit. “The academy isn’t always… receptive to that kind of applied approach.”

“The academy has its head up its own ass half the time,” she replies bluntly. “No offense intended.”

“None taken.”

The conversation continues for another hour, covering everything from project specifics to team dynamics to compensation packages that make my eyebrows rise despite my best efforts to maintain professional composure. By the time we hang up, I have a job offer pending—contingent on reference checks and background verification, but essentially guaranteed.

I sit in the apartment for a long moment after the call ends, trying to process what just happened. The silence hums around me, pregnant with possibility. A few weeks ago, I was convinced that Vaughn had destroyed my career, that her campaign of whispered poison would follow me wherever I went. And now…

“Well?” Sophie appears in the doorway, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. She’s been hovering outside the room for the entire interview, pretending to read a book while actually listening to every word she could catch through the door. “How did it go?”

“I got the job.”

Her face transforms—surprise melting into joy, joy expanding into something that looks almost like triumph. She crosses the room in three quick strides and throws her arms around me, her pregnant belly pressing between us in a way that makes us both laugh.

“You got the job,” she repeats, pulling back to look at my face. “Adrian. You got the job!”

“I got the job.”

Cassian appears behind her, drawn by the commotion. He takes in the scene—Sophie beaming, me still slightly dazed—and a slow smile spreads across his face.

“The consulting firm?”

“The consulting firm. They want me to start next month.”

“That’s incredible.” He extends his hand for a shake, then seems to change his mind and pulls me into a brief hug instead. The gesture is awkward—we’re still figuring out how to express affection toward each other—but it’s genuine. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the contact, a connection I didn’t know I needed until it was offered. “Congratulations, Adrian. You deserve this.”

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