Chapter 121 121

Chapter 121 121
\[Selena's POV\]

The rejection changes something in Alessandro that I can see but can't quite name.
He doesn't talk about Stanford directly—not anymore, not after that first raw conversation where he laid out his suspicions about Vanelope. But I catch him staring at his phone sometimes, scrolling through emails with a furrow between his brows that speaks of obsession rather than casual interest. He makes calls in the other room, his voice too low for me to hear the words but loud enough for me to catch the tone—frustrated, probing, seeking answers that seem to stay just out of reach.
It's been five days since the rejection email arrived, and the apartment has taken on a strange tension that wasn't there before. Not between us—if anything, Alessandro has been more attentive, more present, as if he's compensating for the uncertainty in his professional life by doubling down on his personal one. But there's an undercurrent now, a shadow lurking at the edges of our carefully constructed peace.
"You're worrying," Caden says, finding me in the nursery doorway again. It's become my habit, standing here and staring at the empty room that will soon hold our daughter. The sage green walls seem to glow in the morning light, and I've arranged and rearranged the few items we've allowed ourselves to buy—a small stuffed elephant, a mobile of silver stars, a rocking chair that Caden assembled with methodical precision.
"I'm always worrying," I reply without turning around. "It's my natural state."
"You're worrying about Alessandro specifically." He comes to stand beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. "About what he's doing."
I finally look at him, searching his face for his own feelings on the matter. Caden has been characteristically measured about the whole situation—acknowledging Alessandro 's suspicions without fully endorsing them, supporting the investigation without letting it consume him. It's a balance I envy and don't quite understand.
"He's been on the phone with three different colleagues this morning," I say quietly. "He barely touched his breakfast. He's spiraling, Caden. I can see it happening, and I don't know how to stop it."
Caden is quiet for a moment, considering my words with the careful attention he brings to everything. The morning sun catches the planes of his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes that tell me he hasn't been sleeping well either.
"Maybe he needs to spiral," he says finally. "For a little while, at least. If someone really did sabotage his career, that's not something he can just... let go of. He needs to know the truth."
"And if the truth is that Vanelope is out there, actively working against him? Against us?" The fear that's been building in my chest for days finally finds voice. "What do we do then?"
"We face it together." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with the ease of familiarity. "The same way we've faced everything else."
I want to believe him. I want to trust that our fragile, unconventional family can withstand whatever external pressures come our way. But there's a part of me—the part that packed a suitcase and wrote goodbye letters—that knows how quickly things can fall apart when the world decides to push back.
Meghan kicks, a flutter of movement against my palm where it rests on my stomach. Four months along now, and she's making her presence known with increasing frequency. Each kick feels like a reminder—we're not just fighting for ourselves anymore. We're fighting for her too.
"I should talk to him," I say, straightening my shoulders with a resolve I don't entirely feel. "He's been protecting me from the details, trying not to stress me out. But I need to know what's happening. I can't help if I'm in the dark."
"Do you want me there?"
I consider the offer, weighing the benefits of united support against the potential for Alessandro to feel cornered or overwhelmed. We're still learning how to navigate these conversations as three people instead of two—when to present a unified front and when to give each other space for one-on-one connection.
"Not this time," I decide. "But stay close. In case I need backup."
Caden nods, pressing a kiss to my temple before stepping back. "I'll be in the kitchen. Reorganizing something, probably."
"You reorganized the spice rack yesterday."
"The tupperware cabinet is a disaster."
I almost smile. Almost. "Your coping mechanisms are showing."
"Yours too," he counters gently. "Standing in doorways, staring at empty rooms."
He has a point. We're all dealing with this in our own ways—Alessandro with his investigation, Caden with his organization, me with my vigils in the nursery. Maybe that's okay. Maybe that's what family looks like when it's under pressure.
I find Alessandro in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with his laptop open and his phone pressed to his ear. He looks up when I enter, something flickering across his face—guilt, maybe, at being caught in the middle of another call.
"I'll call you back," he says into the phone, then sets it aside and closes the laptop with deliberate care. "Hey. You okay?"
"That's my line." I settle beside him on the bed, close enough that our shoulders touch. The mattress dips under my weight, familiar and grounding. "Talk to me, Alessandro . Really talk to me. Not the edited version you've been giving me."
He's quiet for a long moment, his jaw working as he wrestles with whatever internal debate is playing out behind his eyes. I wait, giving him the space he needs, fighting my own urge to fill the silence with reassurances he hasn't asked for.
"I've been making calls," he admits finally. "Old colleagues, mentors, people who might have heard something. Trying to figure out if there's actually a whisper campaign happening or if I'm just being paranoid."
"And? What have you found?"
His laugh is hollow, edged with something bitter. "Nothing concrete. A lot of people being very careful about what they say. A few mentions of 'concerns' that have been raised about my 'stability' without anyone willing to tell me what those concerns actually are."
The word lands heavy between us. Stability. It's such a clinical term for what they're really asking about—whether the man in the unconventional relationship, the one who left his prestigious position for personal reasons, can be trusted to commit fully to a new institution.
"That sounds like something Vanelope would say," I observe quietly. "She always talked about you like you were a flight risk. Like loving me made you less reliable somehow."
Alessandro 's hand finds my knee, squeezing gently. "That's exactly what it sounds like. But I can't prove it. She's too smart to leave fingerprints. All I have is circumstantial evidence and a gut feeling that won't go away."
"What does your gut say?"
He meets my eyes, and I see the certainty there—the conviction that's been building since that phone call interrupted his interview. "My gut says she's been watching. Waiting for an opportunity to remind me that there are consequences for choosing my personal life over my professional obligations. My gut says Stanford was that opportunity."
The implications settle over me like a cold fog. If Vanelopeis truly determined to punish Alessandro for leaving Columbia—for choosing us—then Stanford won't be the last battlefield. She has connections throughout academia, relationships built over decades. If she wants to close doors, she has the power to do it.
"What do we do?" I ask, the question echoing the one I posed to Caden just minutes ago.
Alessandro 's arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close. I feel his breath against my hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he gathers himself to answer.
"We don't let her win," he says firmly. "We don't let her make us afraid. We build our life, have our daughter, and show her that whatever she throws at us, we're still standing."