[Sophie’s POV]

The next morning, my gut told me everything I did not need to know. I could tell something is wrong before anyone actually says anything to me.

It starts with the meeting invite.

The subject line sits in my inbox like a bruise I don’t remember earning: New Assignment — Immediate Availability Required. No emojis. No softening language. No friendly exclamation point the way Mara usually writes when she’s pretending deadlines aren’t threats. Just clean, sharp words that feel heavier than they should.

I stare at it longer than necessary, my cursor hovering, my coffee cooling beside me. The office hums around me in that familiar, deceptive way. Phones ring. Pages turn. Someone laughs too loudly near the copy desk. Everything looks normal, which somehow makes the unease worse.

When I finally open the email, it’s short enough to feel surgical.

Sophie,

We’re assigning you to a new high-profile memoir effective immediately. Editorial meeting at noon.

— L.

No title. No author name. No context.

My stomach tightens anyway.

By noon, I’m seated in the small glass-walled conference room that always feels like it’s designed for quiet executions. The table is too white. The chairs are too straight-backed. Everyone brings laptops they barely open, like props meant to signal professionalism rather than actual collaboration.

Lydia stands at the head of the table, fingers resting on a stack of printed pages. She doesn’t smile when she sees me. She doesn’t frown either. She looks neutral in the way people do when they think neutrality equals fairness.

“Thanks for coming on short notice,” she says, eyes sweeping the room. “This project just cleared legal this morning, so timelines are tight.”

I sit straighter, every muscle suddenly alert.

“This is a memoir,” Lydia continues, tapping the papers lightly, “written by Dr. Vaughn.”

The name hits like a dropped plate.

Not loud. Not explosive. Just sudden and sharp enough to make everyone look.

I feel it in my chest before my brain catches up. A strange hollowing sensation, like air being pulled out of me too fast.

“Dr. Vaughn?” someone asks. “The academic?”

“Yes,” Lydia replies. “Former professor. Now a researcher and advocate. The manuscript covers her experiences in academia, specifically power abuse and manipulative relationships between professors and students.”

The room shifts.

Not visibly. Not dramatically. But I feel it anyway, like the temperature just changed a few degrees and no one wants to acknowledge it.

Lydia turns toward me then. Fully. Directly.

“Sophie will be lead editor.”

For a second, I think I misheard her.

I wait for someone to correct it. For Lydia to add a qualifier. For this to make sense in a way that doesn’t feel so precisely wrong.

Instead, Lydia keeps going.

“Given Sophie’s track record with sensitive material and her editorial instincts, we believe she’s the right fit.”

My throat closes.

I managed to say, “I didn’t realize my schedule was open.”

It comes out calm. Professional. Almost convincing.

Lydia nods like this is a reasonable concern. “We’ll shift your other projects. This one takes priority.”

“Does Sophie have experience in this specific subject area?” someone else asks, carefully.

Lydia doesn’t hesitate. “She does.”

Every nerve in my body lights up at that.

I keep my face neutral. I keep my hands folded on the table. I keep my breathing steady because I am very good at pretending composure when something inside me is unraveling.

The meeting continues. Timelines. Marketing angles. Sensitivity readers. Legal oversight. Words like accountability and truth and responsibility float around the room, heavy and loaded, while my mind keeps snagging on one thing.

This is deliberate.

There is no version of this assignment that is accidental.

When the meeting finally ends, chairs scrape back and conversations splinter into quieter pieces. People pack up slowly, exchanging looks that might mean nothing or might mean everything. I stay seated longer than necessary, my palms pressed flat against the tabletop like I need to ground myself in something solid.

Lydia lingers.

“Walk with me,” she says, not unkindly.

I swallow.

“So I’m being tested,” I say.

“You’re being trusted,” she corrects.

The difference feels theoretical at best.

“I haven’t even read the manuscript,” I say.

“You will,” Lydia replies. “Take tonight. Read it alone. If you truly feel you can’t do this, we’ll revisit.”

The word revisit feels like a courtesy, not a promise.

I leave her office feeling hollowed out, the hallway suddenly too bright, too loud. By the time I reach my desk, my hands are shaking enough that I have to clasp them together.

Mara glances over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie automatically. “Just got assigned something intense.”

She winces sympathetically. “Lucky you.”

I don’t answer.

I pack up early. I tell myself I need the quiet. That I need space to think. That this is just another challenge, another test of professionalism.

But the truth is uglier.

The truth is my body knows this story too well.

When I get home, the apartment feels different. Smaller. Like the walls are listening. I drop my bag by the door and stand there for a long moment, keys still in my hand, heart thudding too fast for a room that quiet.

I open my laptop. The manuscript file is already there.

Working Title: Unlearning Authority.

I close my eyes. I don’t open it yet.

Instead, I sit back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of it settle. The irony is so sharp it almost feels cruel. A memoir about surviving manipulative relationships with professors. Assigned to me. Now. After everything.

This isn’t a coincidence.