Chapter 9 Chapter nine
DEV
Friday morning, and I woke before my alarm. Not because I was well-rested. The opposite. My brain had been churning all night, running through the presentation, anticipating questions, reviewing evidence.
Four days until Tuesday.
I rolled off the sofa bed, folded it back into position, stretched muscles tight from another night on springs that were at least a decade old. The flat was quiet. Mum wouldn't be up for another hour. Marco was still asleep. Giulia had texted last night that she was pulling a double shift at the hospital.
I skipped the run. Needed the time to review my presentation one more time before heading to King's.
Made tea. Strong, the way that actually worked. Opened my laptop at the kitchen table and pulled up the slides I'd been refining for weeks.
Slide 1: Title. "Crown Estate Development Practices: Environmental Racism and Systematic Displacement in London"
Slide 2: Overview of Crown Estate holdings across London, color-coded by income level of surrounding areas.
The pattern was obvious. Developments clustered in working-class neighborhoods. Areas with weakest tenant protections. Communities with least political power to resist.
Slide 8: Air pollution data. Before and after Crown Estate developments. The pollution concentrations weren't accidents. They were predictable outcomes of building luxury flats near industrial sites while displacing residents who'd been there for generations.
Slide 15: Lorenzo Marchetti. My father's photo. The safety report. The proof that his death could have been prevented.
I'd debated including this slide. Professor Williams had suggested keeping it less personal, more academic. But this wasn't just academic. This was my father. And if I was going to present this research, people needed to understand the human cost.
My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number.
Dr. Marchetti, this is Catherine Mills from Buckingham Palace Press Office. Following up on my previous message. We'd still welcome the opportunity to discuss your presentation before Tuesday's forum. Would this afternoon work for a brief call?
I stared at the message. Previous message? I scrolled through my texts. Nothing from any palace office, not ever.
Either she was lying to make it seem like she'd already tried to reach me, or this was just how palace bureaucracy worked. Manufactured familiarity to make their pressure seem reasonable.
Either way, more games.
I didn't respond.
Another text came through almost immediately. This one from Professor Williams: Marchetti, the dean wants to see us both. Today, 10 AM. Non-negotiable.
Brilliant. Another pressure session.
I typed back: I have TA session at 9.
His response: Cancel it. This is more important.
I arrived at the dean's office at 9:55. Professor Williams was already there, looking tired. Dark circles under his eyes, his usually neat shirt slightly rumpled. He gave me a slight nod as I sat down.
Dean Morrison's office smelled like furniture polish and old books, the kind of academic space designed to intimidate through centuries of institutional weight. Morrison himself was in his early sixties, perfectly groomed, with the kind of smooth diplomatic manner that came from decades of academic politics. He smiled as I entered.
"Dr. Marchetti. Thank you for making time."
"Professor Williams said it was non-negotiable."
The smile didn't waver. "Yes, well. We have some developments we need to discuss. I'm sure you're aware that your upcoming presentation has generated considerable interest."
"That's the point of public forums."
"Indeed." Dean Morrison folded his hands on his desk. "However, we've received some concerns from various stakeholders about the nature of the allegations you're planning to present."
"Stakeholders meaning the Crown Estate."
"Among others. King's College has relationships with numerous institutions, including government bodies and Crown-affiliated organizations. These relationships support our research programs, fund scholarships, enable the work we do."
I glanced at Professor Williams. He was staring at his hands.
"Are you asking me to soften my presentation?" I said.
"I'm asking you to consider the broader implications. Your research is valuable, Dr. Marchetti. Important, even. But the way it's presented matters. The language used. The framing. There's a difference between rigorous academic critique and inflammatory public accusations."
"My presentation is rigorous academic critique. Every claim is documented."
"I don't doubt that. But perhaps we could review the presentation together? Ensure the language is appropriately measured? Remove any elements that might be perceived as... personal vendetta?"
There it was.
"You want me to remove the section about my father."
Dean Morrison shifted uncomfortably. "I'm suggesting that leading with a personal tragedy might undermine the objectivity of your research. It invites questions about bias, about motivation. Wouldn't the data be stronger standing on its own merit?"
"The data includes my father's death. It's not separate from the research. It's evidence of the systematic negligence I'm documenting."
"But presenting it as the opening of your talk, with your father's photograph..."
"Makes it real," I said. "Makes it about actual human beings, not abstract statistics."
"It also makes it emotional. And emotion clouds judgment."
I looked at Professor Williams. "Do you agree with this?"
Williams took a long breath. Looked older suddenly. "I think your research is solid, Dev. I think the evidence speaks for itself. I also think you need to be strategic about how you present it if you want to actually create change rather than just create controversy."
"I've had the Vice-Chancellor calling me twice a day since your Guardian article dropped," Williams continued, his voice heavy. "Palace lawyers. Crown Estate board members. People asking questions about your methodology, your funding, whether King's is endorsing your conclusions. I can only shield you so much."
So that was it. Williams wasn't just caving. He'd been fighting and losing for days.
"I'm not trying to create controversy," I said. "I'm trying to expose the truth."
"The truth can be presented in different ways," Dean Morrison said. "Ways that invite dialogue versus ways that create defensiveness. We're simply asking you to consider which approach is more likely to achieve your actual goals."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.
"My actual goal is to make sure everyone knows that Crown Estate development practices harm working-class communities. That people like my father die because safety costs money and profit matters more than lives. That families are being displaced while the Crown makes millions. That's the truth. I'm not going to soften it because it makes people uncomfortable."
"No one is asking you to lie, Dr. Marchetti. We're asking you to be judicious."
"Judicious meaning palatable to the institutions I'm criticizing."
Dean Morrison's smile finally faded. "I'm trying to help you. The palace has significant influence. If they decide your research is defamatory, if they pursue legal action, King's College may not be able to support you. Your PhD could be delayed. Your funding could be pulled. Your career could be over before it starts."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm explaining reality. You're a brilliant researcher with a bright future. Don't destroy it over presentation choices."
Professor Williams finally spoke up again. "The LSE position I mentioned. They've been asking about your defense timeline. I told them spring. But if this situation becomes... complicated, that recommendation might be harder to make."
I stared at him. "You're saying if I don't soften my presentation, you won't recommend me for LSE?"
"I'm saying I need to recommend someone who demonstrates good judgment. Someone who understands how to navigate institutional politics while doing rigorous work."
The room felt smaller suddenly. The walls closing in.
This was how they did it. Not by censoring directly. Not by banning research. But by making the cost of truth too high. By threatening careers, funding, futures.
By making you censor yourself.
"I need to think about this," I said, standing up.
"The forum is Tuesday," Dean Morrison said. "That doesn't give you much time."
"I'm aware."
I walked out before either of them could say anything else.
I didn't go to the library. Couldn't face being around people, around the performance of academic normalcy. Instead I walked. Along the Thames, past tourists taking photos of Big Ben, past street performers and vendors. Just walked until my head cleared enough to think.
Normal people everywhere. Laughing, taking selfies, eating ice cream despite the cool weather. Living ordinary lives while I tried to figure out how to tell the truth without destroying my future.
My phone kept buzzing. I finally pulled it out.
Three texts from Giulia:
Did you talk to the dean?
Dev, call me
Seriously, call me when you get this
One from Marco: Mum's worried. Says you left early without breakfast. You ok?
And one from a number I didn't recognize: Dr. Marchetti, this is James Thornton, private secretary to HRH Princess Aanya of Wales. Her Royal Highness wanted me to convey that she's looking forward to Tuesday's forum and hopes for a productive discussion. She's committed to hearing community concerns.
I almost laughed. The palace was pulling out all the stops. First the press office trying to schedule a call. Then the dean's pressure session. Now the princess's private secretary sending reassuring messages.
All of it designed to make me believe they were reasonable. That they wanted dialogue. That if I just toned down my presentation, we could have a nice productive conversation where nothing actually changed.
I deleted the text.
Called Giulia instead.
She picked up on the first ring. "Finally. What happened with the dean?"
"They want me to soften the presentation. Remove Dad's photo. Make it less 'emotional.'"
"Bastards." I heard her moving, probably finding somewhere private to talk. "What did you say?"
"That I'd think about it."
"Dev, you can't let them intimidate you."
"I'm not. I'm just... trying to figure out the smart play here."
"The smart play is telling the truth."
"The smart play might be telling the truth in a way that doesn't destroy my career before it starts."
Silence on the other end. Then: "That doesn't sound like you."
"Maybe I'm being realistic for once."
"You're being scared. Which is fair. They're trying to scare you. But if you soften this presentation, if you take out Dad's story, if you make it all academic and polite, what's the point? You've been working on this for years. This is your chance to make people actually see what's happening."