Chapter 23 IVY
IVY
The Truth Unravels
My phone buzzes with a text from King as I'm walking into the hearing room that will decide my entire future.
King:
You've got this. You're stronger than you know.
I silence my phone and slip it into my bag, trying to stop my hand from trembling as I step into the Metropolitan University hearing room and sit. Five faculty members sit across from me at a long mahogany table, their expressions ranging from sympathetic to impassive.
Dr. O'Connell sits beside me, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back severely. She has a fierce, determined look on her face.
Dean Whitfield clears his throat and adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. He's in his fifties, with a weathered face and tired look.
"Dr. Chandler, thank you for coming. We've spent the past week reviewing the allegations against you." He folds his hands on the table. "Before we share our findings, is there anything you'd like to add to your defense?"
My throat is dry. Taking a sip of water from the plastic cup in front of me, I breathe in deeply to remain calm.
"Yes." My voice comes out steady, thankfully. "That video was manipulated. Someone edited it to destroy my credibility and my research."
I slide a thick folder across the table. Dean Whitfield opens it, and the other committee members lean in.
"Inside, you'll find the original security footage from the Raptors facility.
The timestamps don't match what was in the viral video.
They're off by hours in some places." I point to the second section.
"There's also an audio forensics report. An independent expert analyzed the sound and confirmed it was spliced together from different recordings. Finally, there’s a written statement from our own digital media expert, confirming the video is fake. "
The dean goes through the files and passes on to the committee member seating beside him.
They keep passing it on until every member has gone through the papers.
Dr. Imani Raymond, a bio mechanics professor I've admired for years, goes through the papers again.
She flips through the pages, her expression shifting from skeptical to surprised.
"This is very thorough, Dr. Chandler."
"I had to be. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make me look guilty." I keep my voice level despite the anger simmering beneath.
Dean Whitfield studies the forensics report, his frown deepening.
"We also had your research data independently reviewed by external experts. Your methodology is sound. Your baseline cognitive assessments are scientifically rigorous."
Intense relief floods through me. "So I'm cleared?"
"Yes." Dr. Raymond's tone softens. "We're reinstating you immediately. You have full academic standing. Your record will reflect that these charges were false."
I close my eyes briefly, letting the words sink in. After weeks of hell, I'm finally cleared.
"However," Dean Whitfield continues, "given the media attention and negative publicity this has generated, we think it's best if you step away from the Raptors project."
The relief evaporates.
"You just said my research is solid. The video was fake. I didn't do anything wrong."
"We're not saying you did." His voice is maddeningly calm, the tone of someone delivering bad news they've already decided on.
"But the relationship between the university and the Raptors organization has been damaged.
There are concerns about optics and credibility.
We think a fresh start is best for everyone. "
"A fresh start." I repeat the words slowly, tasting the bitterness. "You want me to abandon months of work because someone lied about me?"
"We'll help you transition to a new research focus," Dr. Raymond offers gently. "It’s something equally compelling…"
"Equally compelling?" I lean forward, voice rising despite my efforts to control it.
"Do you have any idea what you're asking me to give up?
I have baseline data on twenty-five professional athletes.
Cognitive assessment protocols that took a year to develop.
Injury pattern analysis that could change how teams handle concussions.
None of that can be replicated. It's gone. "
Dr. O'Connell places a warning hand on my arm. I force myself to sit back, swallowing the rage burning in my throat.
Dean Whitfield's expression doesn't change. "I understand your frustration, Dr. Chandler, but this is the committee's decision. You're cleared of all wrongdoing. We'll issue a formal statement by the end of today. But the Raptors project is closed."
The other committee members nod in agreement. Case closed. Problem solved. Except the problem in my life just got wider.
"Is there anything else?" Dean Whitfield asks.
"No," I reply.
"Then this hearing is concluded."
They dismiss me like I'm a minor inconvenience they've finally dealt with, not a person whose career they just gutted.
Outside the hearing room, Dr. O'Connell pulls me aside.
"I know you're angry."
"I'm furious."
"You have every right to be." Her dark brown eyes soften. "But you're cleared, Ivy. That's what matters."
I snort, shaking my head.
"Is it?" I cross my arms. "Because it doesn't feel like winning."
"Sometimes surviving is winning." She squeezes my shoulder. "Take some time and process this, then we'll figure out your next steps."
I nod, but I don't believe her.
Marcus calls several times that afternoon. I send him to voicemail. He shows up at Sloane’s apartment that evening, knocking until I answer.
"Ivy, please. Let me in."
"I'm fine, Marcus."
He walks in. "You're not fine. The hearing went well, right? You're reinstated."
"Yeah. I’ve been cleared of all charges, and they killed my research project because of bad optics. So, I'm great," I say, choking out the last sentence.
He pulls me into a hug. "Ivy..."
A sob escapes my lips, cutting him off. He pulls me closer. I break down into great, wracking sobs, my chest heaving.
Marcus says nothing. I wish King, or even Declan, was holding me right now. Loving me. But for the first time, my brother’s presence is reassuring as he comforts me. We stay that way for several minutes until I’ve let everything out. Then I step back.
"I need to be alone right now."
He hesitates, sighing.
"Okay. But call me if you need anything. I mean it."
I nod and close the door.
Thankfully, Sloane arrives home late. She’s caught up in a project and can’t spend time fussing over me like she has the past few weeks.
I spend the next day in the university lab, buried in data that no longer has a purpose. Late at night, I'm still at the lab when my phone buzzes.
King:
How did the hearing go?
I stare at the message, an uncanny feeling settling over me. Discomfort grows in my chest. I haven't told King about the hearing yet.
Ivy:
How did you know I had a hearing today?
King:
You mentioned it earlier. I've been thinking about you.
Did I mention it? I scroll back through our messages. I said something vague about "dealing with the university" but never specified a hearing or a date.
A chill runs through me. This isn’t the first time King has known something about me he shouldn’t. I remember how he knew about my not being home the day I went to meet Declan at the museum gala.
Ivy:
It went okay. I'm cleared, but they scrapped my research project.
King:
I'm so sorry. You worked so hard on that. They should have fought for you.
As we continue texting, the words are comforting. But something about them feels... familiar.
King:
You deserve better than this. Anyone who doesn’t see your worth is an idiot.
I read the message several times.
Declan said something similar once when we were in his penthouse. I confessed my fear of always being second-best to Marcus.
He pulled me close and whispered, "Anyone who doesn't see your worth is an idiot."
My heart starts to race. I scroll back through weeks of conversations with King.
King:
You're brilliant, Ivy. Don't let anyone make you doubt that.
King:
You matter more than you know.
King:
I see you, Ivy. The real you.
Then I open my text thread with Declan and scroll back to before everything fell apart. To when we were still... whatever we were.
Declan:
You don't need to prove anything to anyone. You're already enough.
Declan:
I see you, Ivy. All of you.
The phrasing. The cadence. The way both of them use my name is similar.
My hands start to shake.
No. It's a coincidence. People say similar things. It doesn't mean...
But then I remember the timeline. King appeared the same day I met Declan and lost my phone. King was silent when Declan's phone was taken. He reappeared right when the phone was returned.
My stomach turns.
I grab my bag and leave the lab, the fluorescent lights buzzing behind me. By the time I get back to my new home, Sloane is sprawled on the couch in an oversized band t-shirt, flipping through a magazine with a glass of wine balanced precariously on the armrest.
"Whoa." She sits up. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I need to ask you something about King." I drop my bag and sit across from her, my pulse hammering. “Describe him to me again."
She frowns. "Why?"
"Please, Sloane. Just describe him."
She sets down her magazine, lips turning down.
“I don’t remember what he look like.”
“Try to remember, for my sake.”
She stares into space for a long time.
"Uh, he was tall. Like, over six feet. Dark hair… kind of messy but in that intentional way, you know? And it had some reddish tones in certain light."
My chest tightens.
"What else?"
"Green eyes, I think? Nope, maybe hazel. Green or hazel eyes. He was wearing expensive workout clothes. Under Armor or something. He had this really nice watch." She pauses. "Oh, and tattoos on his right arm. I didn't see the whole thing, but it looked intricate."
The room tilts. I grip the couch cushion.
"Sloane." My voice comes out strangled. "Did he look like he could be one of Marcus's teammates?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "I mean... yeah. Now that you mention it, he definitely had that athlete vibe. Why?"
I don't answer. Instead, I pull out my laptop with trembling hands and open the Raptors website. The team roster loads slowly, too slowly, and I click through to the player profiles.
Faces scroll past. Jake Morrison. Misha Volkov. Tyler Chen. Connor Hayes.
Then Declan Hawthorne.
Six-foot-three. Dark brown hair with auburn highlights. Piercing green eyes. Right arm covered in a hockey-themed sleeve tattoo.
I turn the laptop toward Sloane, my hand shaking so badly I almost drop it.
"Is this him? Is this King?"
She leans forward, squinting at the screen. Her face goes pale.
"Ivy. That's... yeah. That's him. Your Declan is the guy who gave me your phone and said his name was King."
The laptop slides from my grip onto the couch cushion.
“I should have asked to see him. To check him out and make sure he’s legit,” she says weakly. “I just thought that since you were having such a wonderful relationship, I shouldn’t butt in.”
But I’m not listening to her. Everything has clicked into place with brutal clarity.
King appeared the day I met Declan. I probably left my phone in that therapy room where he was lying naked, smirking at me like I was a game to be won. Not outside the facility like he claimed.
He took my phone. Called Sloane. Invented an entire persona to text me, to get close to me, to learn my secrets while I thought I was confiding in a stranger.
Every vulnerable moment. Every confession about feeling invisible, inadequate, scared. Every time I told King things I couldn't tell anyone else.
I was talking to Declan.
Always Declan.
He watched me fall for King while pursuing me as himself. Watched me struggle between two men who were the same person and let me tear myself apart trying to choose.
"Ivy?" Sloane's voice sounds far away. "Are you okay?"
I'm not okay. I'm hurting.
Rage flares in me. Sharp. Hot. All-consuming. My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms hard enough to hurt.
He played me. For weeks, he played me like I was nothing more than a puzzle to solve, a challenge to conquer.
I grab my phone, open the messages to King. My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing six words that feel like throwing a grenade.
Ivy:
I know who you are, Declan.
I hit send.
To hell with him!