Chapter 122

\[Alessandro 's POV\]

The call comes on a Tuesday, from a number I almost don't recognize.

I'm in the middle of helping Caden assemble a bookshelf for the nursery—a task that should be simple but has somehow devolved into a philosophical debate about instruction manuals and whether they're actually necessary—when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. The area code is familiar: New York. The number itself triggers a vague recognition that I can't quite place.

"Go ahead," Caden says, gesturing toward the phone with a screwdriver. "This shelf isn't going anywhere without proper alignment anyway."

I pick up the phone, stepping into the hallway for privacy. "Hello?"

"Alessandro . It's Marcus Chen."

The name clicks into place immediately. Marcus was a colleague at Columbia, one of the few people I genuinely respected during my time there. We'd collaborated on a paper years ago, shared drinks at conferences, maintained the kind of professional friendship that exists primarily in email form but feels genuine nonetheless.

"Marcus. It's been a while." I keep my voice neutral, curious. "What's going on?"

There's a pause on the other end—the kind of weighted silence that tells me this isn't a casual check-in. Something crawls up my spine, a premonition of incoming information that I'm not going to like.

"I need to tell you something," Marcus says finally. "And I need you to understand that I'm taking a risk by making this call. If anyone finds out I reached out to you..."

"I understand." My grip tightens on the phone. "What is it?"

"It's about Vanelope. About what she's been saying."

The confirmation of my suspicions should feel vindicating. Instead, it just makes me tired—a bone-deep exhaustion that comes from having your worst fears confirmed. I lean against the hallway wall, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

"Tell me everything."

Marcus takes a breath, and then the words come in a rush, like he's been holding them back and can't contain them anymore. "She's been making calls, Alessandro . Discreet ones, to search committees and department chairs. Nothing official—she's too careful for that. But she's been 'expressing concerns' about your judgment. Your reliability. She mentions your 'complicated personal situation' without going into specifics, lets people draw their own conclusions."

The phrases are familiar—echoes of what I'd already suspected, now given concrete form. Complicated personal situation. A euphemism for Selena, for Caden, for the family we're building that doesn't fit neatly into any conventional box.

"How do you know this?" I ask.

"I ran into her last week at a history symposium downtown—that annual conference on American immigration policy. She's not at Columbia anymore, but she still attends these things, still networks like her career depends on it." Marcus's voice drops lower, as if he's afraid of being overheard. "She cornered me at the reception, asked if I'd heard anything about your Stanford application. I played dumb, said I didn't know anything about it. But the way she asked... it wasn't casual curiosity. She wanted to know if you were trying to rebuild your career. And she didn't seem happy about the possibility."

My free hand clenches into a fist at my side. Even after resigning from Columbia, Lisette Vanelopewas still working to destroy me. She'd given up her position but not her vendetta. The rage that's been simmering beneath the surface for weeks threatens to boil over, but I force it down. Anger won't help. Information will.

"Is there any way to prove this? Documentation, witnesses, anything that would hold up if I tried to make a formal complaint?"

The silence that follows is answer enough.

"It's all whispers, Alessandro . Innuendo and implication. She never says anything actionable—just plants seeds and lets them grow. By the time anyone realizes what she's done, she's moved on to the next conversation." Marcus sighs, the sound heavy with frustration. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."

"It's what I needed to hear," I correct him. "There's a difference."

We talk for a few more minutes—Marcus sharing what little additional detail he has, me asking questions that mostly lead to dead ends. By the time we hang up, I have a clearer picture of what I'm dealing with, even if I don't have a solution.

Vanelopeisn't just angry about my departure from Columbia. She's actively working to ensure I can't escape the consequences of that choice. Every opportunity I pursue, every door I try to open—she'll be there, whispering poison into the ears of anyone who might help me. Even without her Columbia position, she still has decades of connections, still attends the conferences and symposiums where academic reputations are made and broken.

It's a campaign of professional destruction, executed with surgical precision by someone who has spent decades mastering the art of academic politics.

I return to the living room to find Caden still wrestling with the bookshelf, though he's made significantly more progress in my absence. He looks up when I enter, reading my expression with that uncanny perceptiveness he's developed.

"Bad news?"

"Confirmed news." I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "Vanelopeis behind it. She's been making calls, raising concerns about my 'judgment' and my 'complicated personal situation.' Nothing provable, nothing actionable—just enough to poison the well whenever I try to move forward. She's not at Columbia anymore, but she's still showing up at conferences, still working her network."

Caden sets down the screwdriver and comes to sit beside me. His presence is steady, grounding, and I find myself grateful for it in a way I wouldn't have been capable of six months ago. We've come a long way, the two of us—from rivals circling the same woman to something that might actually be called friendship.

"So what's the plan?" he asks.

"I don't know yet." I run my hands through my hair, frustrated by my own lack of answers. "Everything I can think of either won't work or will make things worse. If I confront her directly, she'll deny everything and I'll look paranoid. If I try to file a formal complaint, I don't have enough evidence. If I just ignore it and keep applying for jobs, she'll just keep sabotaging me."

"What about going public? Exposing what she's doing?"

I shake my head. "Academia is a small world. Even if people believe me, they won't want to get involved. And Vanelopehas decades of political capital built up. I'd be the one who looks vindictive, not her."

Selena appears in the doorway, having clearly heard at least part of our conversation. Her hand rests on her stomach, protective and unconscious, and the sight of her—of them—reminds me what's really at stake here.

"There has to be something," she says, moving to sit on my other side. "Some way to fight back that doesn't involve playing her game."

"Maybe that's the answer," Caden says slowly, his analytical mind clearly working through the problem. "You can't beat her at her game—she's been playing it too long. So you don't play. You build something new. Something she can't touch."

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet. But there have to be options outside traditional academia. Consulting, writing, independent research. Ways to use your expertise that don't require going through the same gatekeepers Lisette Vanelopecontrols."

It's not a complete solution, but it's a direction—a possibility that doesn't involve bashing my head against the same walls Vanelopekeeps building. The seed of an idea begins to form, still too fragile to articulate but present nonetheless.

"You might be onto something," I admit.

Selena takes my hand, her fingers warm and certain. "Whatever you decide, we're behind you. This is our family, our future. We'll figure it out together."