Chapter 88 Discovered

Chapter 88 Discovered

Violet's POV

The words on the screen stabbed into me like tiny needles, each one sharper than the last.

I was about to scroll down when an irresistible force yanked the phone from my hands.

"Stop." Clifford's voice was firm as he turned the phone face-down on the bedside table, his jaw tight. "Reading that trash will only make things worse."

He turned to the insulated food container on the counter, pulling out dishes and setting them on the tray. He sat on the edge of the bed, scooped up a spoonful of soup, blew on it gently, and held it to my lips.

"Eat something."

I opened my mouth mechanically. It felt like chewing cardboard.

Those vicious accusations kept circling overhead like vultures that would not leave.

"Clifford," I said quietly, "is Professor Vincent being targeted because of me?"

His hand paused mid-scoop. Something dark flickered in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He scooped up another spoonful. "Carl can handle himself. He's been in academia for decades—he's weathered worse storms than this. A few internet trolls won't touch him."

"But—"

"Violet." His tone left no room for argument. "The only thing you need to focus on right now is getting better. Understand?"

I swallowed my words. "Okay."

But agreeing did not stop the guilt from tightening around my chest like barbed wire, pulling tighter with every breath.

The feeling was suffocating.

The moment Clifford left the room, I grabbed my phone and called Joseph.

"Joseph, it's Violet. I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to know—what's happening at the university?"

Silence on the other end. Then, finally, "The rumors are spreading fast. The administration deleted the posts, but that just made people talk more. Earlier today, the department held an emergency meeting. I heard Professor Vincent has been pulled from leading the international academic exchange next month. They also removed him from the shortlist for Distinguished Faculty of the Year." 

He paused. "And they've asked him to suspend all teaching and project supervision until this blows over."

My breath caught, as if someone had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it could not beat.

"How could they do that…"

"Listen, how's your hand? Don't let this mess with your recovery—"

"I'm fine, thanks."

I hung up, my hand trembling around the phone.

I could not just sit here while Professor Vincent's reputation was being shredded. I had to do something.

I had to compete. It was the only way to shut down these disgusting accusations.

I knew Clifford would not agree. But I had to try.

When he came back, I did not waste time. "Clifford, we need to talk about the competition."

"There's nothing to talk about." He did not even hesitate.

"Just hear me out. I've looked at the format—I can submit a design that focuses on tech-assisted analysis and digital rendering. I do not have to rely on traditional handwork. And my right hand is fine, I can—"

"No." He cut me off before I could finish.

"Violet, I've already told you. This is not up for debate. Your injury needs rest. Any unnecessary activity or stress could affect your recovery—or worse, cause permanent damage. I'm not letting you take that risk."

"But the professor—"

"I'll handle Carl's situation!" His voice rose, sharper than I'd ever heard it. "The people spreading lies will pay for it. But that does not mean you get to compete with an injured hand!"

His tone was steel. I knew pushing further would only escalate things.

So I softened, reaching out to tug gently on his sleeve. "Don't be angry. I won't go."

The tension in his shoulders eased immediately.

He sighed and sat beside me, pulling me into his arms. "I know what you are thinking. But nothing is more important than your health. I'll take care of this. You just focus on healing, okay?"

I leaned into him, murmuring a soft agreement like I had been convinced.

Over the next few days, I did not mention the competition again.

But no one knew I had already set everything in motion.

On the day of the competition, Clifford stayed by my side from the moment I woke up. Maybe he sensed something was up. Maybe he just did not trust me to let it go.

The hours crawled by.

Three hours until the competition started.

I was running out of time.

I was about to activate my backup plan when Clifford's phone rang.

He answered, listened for a few seconds, and his expression darkened. "Understood. I'll be there immediately."

He hung up and walked to my bedside, his gaze lingering on me for a long moment. "I have an urgent matter to handle. I'll be back soon." His voice dropped, deliberate. "Stay in bed. Don't go anywhere. Understand?"

"I understand."

I watched him leave.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. A woman in scrubs and a surgical mask stepped inside.

I was already on my feet, pulling off my hospital gown. "Hurry. We're running out of time."

Emma pulled off her mask, and we swapped clothes quickly. "Are you sure this will work? They checked my ID three times on the way in. I've never been this nervous in my life."

"It has to work."

We finished changing. Emma climbed into the bed and gave me a thumbs-up. I grabbed the treatment cart and wheeled it toward the door.

At the threshold, I kept my voice low and professional. "The patient needs rest. No visitors during this time."

The guards nodded.

Under their watchful eyes, I pushed the cart down the hall and slipped into the stairwell.

Celeste's car was already waiting in the blind spot behind the hospital.

I climbed in, yanking off the scrubs and tossing them aside. The car pulled away smoothly.

"Will we make it?" I asked, checking the time.

Celeste glanced at her watch. "It'll be tight. But we'll make it."

"Good."

The car stopped outside the competition venue.

My phone buzzed.

Clifford's name lit up the screen.