Chapter 21 IVY
IVY
It’s Over
The video has been viewed over two million times.
I know because I've refreshed the page obsessively for the past six hours, watching the numbers climb while my life disintegrates. The footage is grainy but damning—me at my computer in the research lab, supposedly altering cognitive assessment results.
The timestamp says 'last Thursday at 11:46 p.m.' The caption reads:
“Metro Raptors researcher caught manipulating concussion data to protect star player boyfriend.”
It's a lie.
I wasn't even at the facility last Thursday at eleven forty-six p.m. I was at Dr. O'Connell's house helping her prepare a grant proposal over wine and takeout. I have evidence and her testimony to prove it.
But no one's asking for proof. They're too busy destroying me in the comments.
The gold digger is trying to protect her meal ticket
This is why women don't belong in sports research
Bet she's sleeping with half the team
Marcus Chandler's sister using nepotism to falsify data. Why am I not surprised?
Each comment cuts through me.
My phone buzzes for the hundredth time. It's another unknown number. I silence it without looking, adding it to the pile of media requests, hate messages, and concerned calls from colleagues who are really just fishing for gossip.
The only person not calling is Declan. It's been days since the world started crumbling, yet there has been radio silence from the man who said he loved me. Who made promises about figuring things out together and swore I mattered.
I've texted and called numerous times, leaving voicemails that started out professional and devolved into desperation.
There's been no reply as if the past two months were fiction. Like he got what he wanted and disappeared the moment it became inconvenient.
My laptop dings with an email notification. The subject line makes my stomach drop:
“SUSPENSION NOTICE - METROPOLITAN UNIVERSITY”
The text is bureaucratic and cold:
Pending investigation into ethical violations, your postdoctoral research position is hereby suspended without pay. Your facility access has been revoked. All ongoing research projects are frozen until the ethics board reaches a conclusion.
Postdoctoral position. The words should sting less because I already have my doctorate and Dr. Ivy Chandler exists regardless of what happens next.
But this position was my future: publishing opportunities, grant funding, the foundation for a tenure-track career.
Without it, I'm just another PhD swimming in an over-saturated market with a scandal attached to my name.
My phone rings. Dr. O'Connell's name appears on the screen.
Not wanting to hear the disappointment in her voice, I almost don't answer. But she's been my champion since I was an undergraduate intern in her lab, and I owe her at least this.
"Ivy." Her voice is tight with fury. "Tell me you got the email."
"I got it."
"It's rubbish. Anyone with basic video forensics skills can see that the footage is edited. The lighting's wrong and the timestamp doesn't match facility logs." She's breathing more rapidly than usual, as if she's pacing. "I've already contacted two independent experts. We'll prove it's fake."
"How long will that take?"
There's a long pause.
"Weeks. Maybe months. The ethics board moves slowly, and the university is more interested in protecting its reputation than..." She stops. "I'm fighting for you. But you need to prepare for the possibility that this gets worse before it gets better."
Worse?
This is already rock bottom. I'm hiding in my apartment while reporters camp outside. My landlord has been sending increasingly urgent emails about 'the disruption to other tenants,' while my career burns and Declan stays silent.
"Thank you for fighting," I say dejectedly.
"Always. You're the best researcher I've ever mentored. I'm not letting them destroy you without a war." Another pause. "Have you heard from Declan?"
Sharp pain fills my chest. "No."
"That bastard. After everything, he just disappeared?"
The venom in her voice is startling. Dr. O'Connell is normally composed, professional, the calm eye in any academic storm.
"Yeah," I say weakly, feeling resigned while tears fill my eyes.
"Men." She spits the word like a curse. "Listen, you need to get out of your apartment. The media presence isn't going to die down, and you can't live under siege. Have you chosen where to go?"
I'm about to say no when someone pounds on my door, making me jump hard enough to drop my phone.
"Dr. Chandler. Just a few questions about your relationship with Declan Hawthorne," a man says. Although his voice is muffled through the wood, it still sounds aggressive.
"How long have you been manipulating research data?" a female voice that's equally hostile asks.
"Is it true you're involved with multiple players?"
"Did Marcus Chandler help you get this position?"
The questions pile on top of each other, a feeding frenzy of accusation disguised as journalism. I press my back against the door, my breathing shallow, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone.
"Ivy?" Dr. O'Connell's voice is tiny through the speaker. "What's happening?"
"There are reporters outside my door."
"Get out of there. Pack a bag; Sloane is coming over to pick you up. I'll call campus security to clear them from the building, but you can't stay there."
She's right. But the thought of opening that door and facing cameras and people who have already decided I'm guilty makes my stomach turn.
A softer knock makes me glance up.
"Ivy, it's me. Open up."
Sloane.
Relief floods through me so suddenly my knees nearly buckle. I open the door wide enough for her to slip through, and she immediately positions herself between me and the hallway like a human shield.
Her hazel eyes blaze with protective fury.
"Back off!" she snarls at the reporters. "She's not making a statement. And if any of you step foot on this property again, I'm calling the cops for harassment. Actually, I'm calling a lawyer for stalking."
She slams the door hard, locks it, then turns to me.
"Pack. Now. You're not staying here another night."
"Ivy," O'Connell says. I realize I'm still holding my phone.
"Dr. O'Connell?"
"Is that Sloane?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"Good. Go with her. I'll handle the university. You handle surviving."
The call ends. I stare at Sloane, who has already pulled my suitcase from the closet and is grabbing clothes from the drawers.
"I can pack my own things."
"You can sit there looking shell-shocked while I pack, or you can help. Either way, we're leaving in fifteen minutes." She tosses a stack of T-shirts into the suitcase. "Where's your laptop?"
"Sloane..."
"Laptop, Ivy. And your research backup drives. Pack everything important because you're not coming back here until this blows over."
"What if it doesn't blow over?"
She stops, turning to face me fully.
"Then we deal with that when it happens. But right now, you need to get somewhere safe without reporters camped outside." Her voice softens. "You can stay at my place for as long as you need."
The offer cracks something open in my chest. Tears spill from my eyes, and I wipe them with the back of my hand.
I've spent so much of my life trying to prove I don't need help that asking for it feels like failure.
But standing here in my apartment-turned-prison, watching my best friend pack my life into boxes because reporters are hunting me like prey, I realize independence is a luxury I can't afford right now.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Thank me by moving your ass. We've got ten minutes before I start throwing your stuff in garbage bags."
We pack in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the hallway. Sloane handles the reporters each time they knock.
Her responses are colorful, creative, and would probably constitute threats if they knew her well enough to take them seriously.
By the time we're ready to leave, she's threatened legal action three times, promised bodily harm twice, and suggested one particularly persistent reporter do something anatomically improbable.
"Ready?" she asks, hand on the doorknob.
I hoist my laptop bag over my shoulder, gripping my suitcase handle.
"As I'll ever be."
She opens the door, and cameras flash immediately. Microphones thrust forward. Questions designed to provoke a reaction come from all directions, overlapping and aggressive.
"Dr. Chandler, did you falsify data?"
"How long have you been sleeping with Declan Hawthorne?"
"Does your brother know about your relationship?"
"Are you involved with other players?"
Sloane becomes a bulldozer, physically pushing through the crowd while keeping herself between me and the cameras.
"Move. Now. Or I swear I'll start throwing hands." We shove our way through the reporters, Sloane leading the way, until we get to her car. She puts my suitcase in the trunk while I collapse in the passenger seat, my heart hammering so hard I feel sick.
She doesn't try to make conversation as she drives, just turns on music loud enough to drown out thought and drives with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for emergencies. Which, I suppose, this is.
Sloane drives through many intersections until we lose the reporters, then she continues to her house. By the time we pull into her building's parking garage and turns off the ignition, the only sounds I hear are my ragged breathing and the engine ticking as it cools.
"Come on," she says gently.
I follow her upstairs, moving through the motions without processing them. I feel displaced, like I'm watching my career burn from someone else's couch.
She deposits my suitcase in her bedroom, then points me toward the bathroom. When I emerge, she's got tea brewing and her laptop open.
"I've been monitoring the news," she says without preamble. "It's bad, babe. The video is everywhere. Every sports blog, gossip site, even some mainstream news outlets are picking it up."
"I know."