Chapter 26

BLACKWELL

I stopped just short of the heavy wooden doors and took a deep breath, forcing the air down into my lungs, trying to steady the storm in my chest. I

The Dean opened the door before I could knock. “Professor Blackwell,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “Please, join us.”

I stepped inside, the polished floor cold under my shoes. A long table dominated the center of the room, lined with stern faces and crisp suits. My colleagues were here, some curious, some skeptical, some already judging. I could feel their scrutiny, the silent tallying of my missteps before a word had even been spoken.

“Professor,” the Dean said, gesturing to the empty chair at the head of the table. “Please be seated.”

I lowered myself into the chair, every motion measured, deliberate. I couldn’t afford a twitch, a slip, a sign of weakness. Not now. Not here.

The questions began almost immediately. Routine at first—dates, times, classes, attendance. I answered concisely, calmly, giving only what was necessary. I could hear the whispers at the edges of the room, the occasional shuffling of papers, the stifled coughs, but I ignored them.

Then, the tone shifted. The Dean’s expression hardened slightly. “We need to address the blackout incident,” he said, voice steady but with an edge. “Your presence with Ms. Monroe during that period has raised concerns among the administration. Can you explain your actions?”

I took a moment before answering, careful not to let the tension dictate my words. “It was an unavoidable situation. The blackout trapped several students in the archive. I ensured Ms. Monroe’s safety. That is all.”

A murmur ran around the table. One of the Board members raised a brow. “And the photographs?”

I froze slightly, though only briefly. My hand brushed the edge of the folder in front of me, as if the papers could anchor my thoughts. “I don’t know what photographs you’re referring to,” I said evenly, maintaining eye contact with the Dean.

“That is disingenuous, Professor,” the Dean said. He paused, exchanging a look with one of the assistants. “We have evidence. A photograph taken at a local café after the incident, showing you in proximity to Ms. Monroe. The Board has reviewed it. How do you respond?”

The room seemed to shrink, walls closing in. I inhaled sharply, steadying my pulse. The image had been captured by some anonymous source, but it didn’t show what anyone thought it did. Yet it existed, and that made it real in their eyes. I met the Dean’s gaze steadily. “Yes, I am in that photograph,” I admitted, careful to keep my tone neutral. “However, the photograph misrepresents the situation. There is nothing inappropriate occurring. My sole concern has always been her safety and well-being.”

“Yet the perception is troubling,” one of the Board members interjected. “It casts doubt on your professional conduct.”

I pressed my lips together, weighing my words. I couldn’t argue perception; I couldn’t control how they chose to interpret what they saw. But I could plead the only thing that mattered. “I request that Ms. Monroe be excused from any punitive measures. She is a student, and her involvement has been incidental. She has not acted improperly in any way.”

Another pause. The Dean’s gaze was sharp, scrutinizing every flicker of expression across my face. “And your interactions leading up to this incident?”

I met his stare. “Professional. All interactions were professional and appropriate.” I didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. Truth, pared down, minimal, untouchable.

The room buzzed quietly with murmurs. Whispers from the Board, scribbled notes, muted coughs. I felt the weight of every pair of eyes on me, measuring, judging, deciding. I could almost hear the verdict forming in their heads.

Then the Dean spoke again, voice quieter but cutting. “Professor Blackwell, we have also received audio recordings. We will not play them here, but I want you to be aware that they exist.”

I froze for a fraction of a second, swallowing. I had known they might try to use anything, but hearing it aloud made the threat real. “I understand,” I said evenly, forcing the words out through a tight jaw. “I stand by my previous statement. My conduct was appropriate at all times.”

Another pause. The Dean leaned back slightly, his hands folded in front of him. “Despite your assurances, the Board is concerned about the optics and potential risk to the university’s reputation. You will be placed on indefinite suspension pending further investigation.”

The words hit like a physical strike.

I blinked, forcing control back into my posture. “I understand,” I said evenly, though every fiber of me screamed against it. My mind raced, considering every option, every move I could make to protect both myself and her.

The Dean gave a faint nod, then leaned forward slightly. “You will receive formal documentation by the end of the day. Your access to campus is restricted, and you are not to contact Ms. Monroe or any involved parties directly. This is standard procedure.”

I pressed my lips together, counting silently. One. Two. Three. Keep calm. Keep measured. Keep untouchable. I would not let panic or anger define my actions. Not now. Not here.

As I stood, I allowed a slow, deliberate glance across the room. Colleagues were watching, some sympathetically, some with barely concealed judgment. My control didn’t waver outwardly, though inside the pulse of anger, frustration, and helplessness surged.

One of the assistants handed me the suspension notice. I took it carefully, keeping my hands steady, pretending the paper weighed nothing. It was heavier than lead. The words on it, the implications, the loss of control—it all sat in my chest, a tangible pressure I couldn’t shake.

I nodded to the Dean, careful not to let my voice reveal the tension coiling in my throat. “Thank you for your time,” I said. Minimal. Polite. Detached.

Once the room emptied, I remained seated for a long moment, staring at the folder in front of me. The photo from the café, the recordings, the accusations—they didn’t break me. Not yet. They couldn’t. But the suspension was a warning. A limit. A line drawn by others in a game I hadn’t agreed to play.

I pushed the folder aside, letting my hands rest on the table. My thoughts turned to her—Aria. Her safety, her perception, her experience in all of this. They couldn’t touch her beyond what already existed. I would not allow it.

I leaned back in the chair, letting the tension release slightly, though the pulse in my chest remained. The room smelled faintly of old wood polish and stale coffee, but I barely noticed it. My mind raced ahead—what steps to take, what protections to enact, how to survive this suspension without losing control entirely.

Outside the Boardroom, the hallway was quieter now. No whispers, no murmurs, just the echo of my footsteps and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. But the weight of the hearing, the judgment, and the suspension followed me, like a shadow too long to shake.

I let out a slow breath, letting the exhale carry away the tightness in my chest. I had survived scrutiny before. I had survived chaos before. I would survive this too.

And despite the anger, despite the frustration, I felt something else settle in the pit of my stomach. A resolve. This was not the end. Not by far.

I left the Boardroom with a measured pace, silent, composed, untouchable to those watching. The suspension was a setback, yes. But it did not define me. It would not break me.

I would return. I would act. And when the time came, the truth would have its own voice, louder than any photograph, any recording, any rumor.

For now, I walked through the hallway with my head held high. Indefinite suspension was only a pause. It was not the conclusion. And I would ensure that, when the final judgment came, it would be on my terms.