[Adrian’s POV]

Diana Castellanos’s office smells like expensive leather and old money.

I sit across from her, Sophie on my left and Cassian on my right, watching her review the evidence we’ve compiled. The recordings. The documents Marcus gathered. The pattern of behavior spanning nearly a decade. Every piece of ammunition we’ve collected against Lisette Vaughn, spread across her mahogany desk like a map of destruction. My palms are slick with sweat despite the room’s cool temperature, and I resist the urge to wipe them on my pants.

Diana’s silver-streaked hair is pulled back in a severe bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. She’s been silent for nearly twenty minutes, flipping through pages, occasionally making notes in the margins. The only sounds are the rustle of paper and the soft tick of an antique clock on her bookshelf. Each tick feels like a countdown to a verdict I’m not sure I’m ready to receive. The waiting is excruciating—my future, our future, distilled into the expression of a woman who holds our fate in her manicured hands.

Sophie’s hand rests on her belly where Maggie has been unusually quiet today—as if even our unborn daughter understands the gravity of this moment. Cassian sits perfectly still beside me, his presence steady and grounding, a counterweight to the anxiety thrumming through my veins. I can feel the tension radiating from both of them, a shared frequency of hope and fear that binds us together in this moment.

“This is substantial,” Diana says finally, removing her glasses and setting them on the desk with a soft click. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, the gaze of a predator evaluating potential prey. “The pattern alone demonstrates a clear history of targeted harassment. Combined with the documentation of her interference with your Stanford application and the testimony from other victims…” She pauses, her expression sharpening. “You have a case, Dr. Lewis. A strong one.”

The words should feel like victory. Instead, they feel like standing at the edge of a cliff, preparing to jump. The ground beneath me seems to shift, solid certainty giving way to the vertigo of possibility. We have a case. After months of feeling helpless, we finally have a weapon.

“What would a lawsuit actually look like?” Sophie asks, her voice steady despite the tension I can feel radiating from her. “Timeline, process, what we’d need to prepare for?”

Diana leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Harassment cases can take anywhere from several months to over a year, depending on how vigorously the defendant fights. Given Dr. Vaughn’s resources and personality profile, I’d expect her to contest every point aggressively. You’d need to be prepared for depositions, potential countercharges, and—I won’t sugarcoat this—public scrutiny.”

“Public scrutiny,” I repeat, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. A chill runs down my spine despite the room’s warmth. “Meaning our relationship becomes fodder for discussion.”

“Meaning everything becomes fodder for discussion. Your past with Dr. Vaughn, your current living situation, potentially even questions about the pregnancy.” Diana’s gaze is sympathetic but unflinching. “Defendants in harassment cases often try to paint the plaintiff as unstable, unreliable, or motivated by personal vendetta rather than legitimate grievance. Your unconventional family structure could be used against you.”

The silence that follows is heavy with implications, pressing down on my chest until each breath feels like effort. I look at Sophie, at the life growing inside her, at everything we’ve built that could be dragged through public mud if we pursue this. The thought of strangers dissecting our relationship, passing judgment on how we love each other—it makes something protective and furious coil in my gut.

“What’s the alternative?” Cassian asks, ever practical. “If we don’t file suit, what happens?”

“Dr. Vaughn continues operating as she has been. The pattern continues. Other victims accumulate.” Diana’s expression hardens. “And you spend the rest of your career looking over your shoulder, wondering when she’ll strike next.”

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