[Adrian’s POV]

The consulting firm is nothing like academia, and I mean that in the best possible way.

There are no faculty meetings that stretch for hours debating inconsequential procedural changes. No departmental politics requiring careful navigation of egos and agendas. No publish-or-perish pressure that turns every colleague into a potential competitor. Instead, there’s work—focused, purposeful, applied work that connects directly to outcomes I can see and measure.

Dr. Okonkwo runs a tight ship. The team she’s assembled is small but brilliant, each member bringing expertise from different fields—economics, sociology, law, political science—that intersects with my historical knowledge in ways I find genuinely exciting.

Our first project involves analyzing historical patterns of refugee resettlement and developing policy recommendations for a congressional committee. It’s exactly the kind of work I’ve always wanted to do: research that matters, research that might actually change something.

“You’re settling in well,” Okonkwo observes during our second week, finding me in the break room reviewing materials for an upcoming presentation. “I was worried academia might have broken you.”

“It came close,” I admit. “But I’m surprisingly resilient.”

“Surprising to whom? You struck me as resilient from the first interview.” She pours herself a coffee, black and strong, and leans against the counter with the easy confidence of someone who’s built exactly the career she wanted. “I’ve been in this field for thirty years, Dr. Lewis. I’ve learned to read people. You have the hunger of someone with something to prove.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Depends on how you channel it.” She takes a sip, studying me over the rim of her cup. “Hunger can drive you to excellence. It can also drive you to burnout. The key is knowing when to push and when to rest.”

“I’m working on the resting part. My partner—partners—keep reminding me.”

If she’s surprised by my use of the plural, she doesn’t show it. One of the things I’ve come to appreciate about this workplace is its studied indifference to personal lives. People here are judged by their work, not their family configurations.

“Smart partners,” she says simply. “Keep listening to them.”

The conversation stays with me as I return to my desk, settling into the rhythm of research and analysis that’s become comfortable over the past two weeks. Okonkwo is right—I do have something to prove.

Not just to the world, not just to the shadow of Vaughn lurking in my peripheral vision, but to myself. I need to know that I can build something new. That my worth isn’t dependent on the approval of gatekeepers who’ve decided I’m not welcome in their club.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sophie: How’s day 10 treating you?

Better than day 1. I actually remembered where the bathroom is now.

Progress! Cassian made dinner. Come home hungry.

Always hungry. See you soon.

The domesticity of the exchange fills me with a warmth that still catches me off guard sometimes. A year ago, I was alone in an apartment that felt more like a hotel room, married to my work because I didn’t know how to be married to anything else. Now I have a home, a family, a daughter on the way. The transformation seems impossible when I examine it too closely, so I’ve learned to simply accept it.

I pack up my materials and head for the elevator, already anticipating the meal Cassian has prepared and the evening of quiet companionship that will follow. We’ve developed routines in the new apartment—shared dinners, alternating responsibility for dishes, movie nights where Sophie falls asleep halfway through and Cassian and I argue about plot points in whispered tones. Small rituals that build the scaffolding of a life together.

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