Chapter 179

Chapter 179
Rainey's POV

A week since that ceremony.

My knuckles rapped three times against the wood—not too soft, not too aggressive. Professional. Composed.

"Come in."

The voice that answered was deep and measured, carrying an authority that made my spine straighten automatically.

I turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.

---

The office was massive—three walls entirely covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather-bound legal volumes and meticulously organized case files. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. The space smelled like paper and ink and something indefinable that felt like knowledge.

Behind an enormous mahogany desk sat Professor Steven.

His attention fixed on a thick document spread across his desk, one finger tracing down the page as he read.

When he finally raised his head, his eyes were sharp behind those glasses. Intelligent. Assessing.

"Miss Rainey Ellis?" His voice was warmer now, less formal. He gestured to the leather armchair across from his desk. "Please, sit."

I walked forward on legs that felt slightly unsteady and perched on the edge of the chair, hands clasped tightly in my lap.

"Thank you, Professor Steven."

He waved a hand dismissively. "In informal settings, you can call me Professor Steven. But over the next several years, I'd prefer if you simply called me Steven." He removed his glasses, cleaning them with a cloth from his desk drawer. "As of today, I'm your faculty advisor."

He replaced his glasses, studying my reaction. "You've been accepted into one of the most rigorous academic programs we offer, Miss Ellis. And I'll be guiding you through it personally."

"I need to thank you." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "For the case—for Sarah Sterling. If the school hadn't provided legal support, that trial never would've gone the way it did. She never would've—"

"Faced consequences?" Steven finished quietly. "That's what we do here, Miss Ellis. We ensure the law functions as it should—protecting the vulnerable, holding the powerful accountable." He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Representing our future students when they need it most is not charity. It's obligation."

He paused, his gaze becoming more intense.

"But I hope," he continued, voice dropping lower, "that someday you'll walk into a courtroom yourself. Not as the victim seeking justice, but as the lawyer delivering it. For people who have no one else to fight for them. People like you once were."

My throat tightened. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Steven opened a desk drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper—printed so densely that the text looked like a solid block of black. He slid it across the mahogany surface toward me.

"The Justice program," he said, tapping the page with one finger, "is designed for a very select group of students. Students we believe possess exceptional aptitude." His eyes found mine. "It will be brutal, Miss Ellis. Your vacations will be shorter than other students'. Your reading load will be triple theirs. The challenges you face will make regular coursework look like child's play."

I picked up the paper with trembling hands.

Course titles I didn't recognize. Reading lists that spanned pages. Mock trial competitions. Externships at actual law firms. Research seminars. Dissertation prep starting in year two.

It looked impossible.

"You have near-photographic memory and an extraordinary ability to maintain logical clarity under extreme pressure. These are gifts that cannot be taught, Miss Ellis. They're what separate good lawyers from great ones."

His expression shifted—became more serious.

"But you also have weaknesses. Potentially fatal ones." He didn't blink. "You hide. You struggle with verbal expression. You shrink from confrontation in group settings. In a courtroom, where your voice is your only weapon, that kind of hesitation will destroy you—and your client."

The words stung because they were true.

I forced myself to meet his gaze. "But isn't justice the most important thing? For a lawyer, I mean?"

For the first time since I'd entered the office, Steven smiled.

"You're absolutely right." He nodded slowly. "Justice is everything. But here's what you need to understand: Law is the final dignity of justice. And lawyers are its guardians." He tapped the desk for emphasis. "Guarding that dignity requires more than a passionate heart. It requires eloquence. Composure under attack. The courage to speak truth to power, no matter the consequences."

He leaned back again, studying me.

"Without those weapons," he said quietly, "your sense of justice will be crushed. Along with everyone depending on you."

I swallowed hard, absorbing the weight of his words.

Steven's expression softened. He smiled—almost ruefully—and shook his head.

"My first mock trial?" He laughed under his breath. "I was far more terrified than you are right now. My legs shook so badly I thought I'd collapse. I stuttered through my opening statement. And when the opposing counsel challenged my first argument, I completely froze." He met my eyes. "I lost that case so spectacularly that my professor suggested I consider a career in legal research instead."

Despite myself, I felt my shoulders relax slightly.

"You?" I couldn't hide my disbelief. "But you're—"

"Dean of the Law School now, yes." He grinned. "But twenty-five years ago? I was a nervous wreck who couldn't string two sentences together under pressure." His smile faded into something more serious. "The difference between that version of me and this one? Practice. Thousands of hours of it. No shortcuts, Miss Ellis. Just work."

He tapped the paper still clutched in my hands.

"This is your schedule for the first month only. Every Friday at four p.m., you'll come to this office. We'll review your progress for the week—what went well, what didn't. Then I'll update your plan for the following week." His gaze didn't waver. "This will be tailored specifically to you. Your strengths. Your weaknesses. Your goals."

I stared down at the dense text, feeling the weight of it—both literal and metaphorical.

"It's going to push you harder than anything at Beacon Hills ever did," Steven warned.

He leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk, eyes locked on mine.

"So I need to ask you directly, Miss Ellis." His voice was steady. Serious. "Are you afraid?"

I lifted my chin and met Professor Steven's gaze head-on.

"No," I said clearly. "I'm not afraid."

I paused, feeling something fierce and unshakable settle into my chest.

"I can do this."

For a long moment, Steven just looked at me. Then his face broke into a smile—genuine and warm, the kind of smile a mentor gives a student they believe in completely.

"Good," he said quietly. "I'm looking forward to seeing what you become, Rainey."