Chapter Nineteen #2
“I want to stay grounded,” I say at last. “To fight this properly. To choose the path that honors the work—not the one that keeps powerful people comfortable.”
Flavius absorbs that, posture sharpening. “Then tell her only what you choose to tell her. Take your own pace.”
It’s good advice—steadying, clarifying.
A beat of silence. Then I realize there’s something else I need to address, something I should have said already.
“Your testimony,” I say.
He straightens immediately. “I am ready. When you need me.”
I reach for his hand. “Your memory has already helped me build this case. In every conversation we had—you corroborated dates, phrases, the order things happened. That’s all documented now.”
“Good,” he says. “So when they call me to testify—”
“I’m not going to ask you to.”
He goes still. “But I want to help.”
“You already did.” I squeeze his fingers. “And now I need to prove this myself. With my evidence. My documentation. Not because you couldn’t—but because I need to know I can.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face. Then something shifts—understanding, maybe. Or pride.
“This is your arena,” he says quietly. “Not mine.”
“Yes.”
“Then you fight your way.” He lifts our joined hands, presses a kiss to my knuckles. “I stand beside you. Not as a witness.”
The ache in my chest expands. “Thank you. For understanding.”
“I am learning,” he says with a small smile. “What you need is not always what I want to give.”
I lean forward and rest my forehead against his briefly. Just breathing.
When I pull back, another thought hits me, sharp and clarifying.
“I need to tell Laura,” I say.
Flavius nods slowly. “Yes. She should know.”
“And the men.” My stomach twists. “Thrax, Cassius, Quintus—all of them. This isn’t just my framework that got stolen. It’s their stories. Their expertise. Their trust.” I meet his eyes. “They deserve to know what Blackwell did with what they shared.”
“They will want to help,” he says quietly.
“I know.” The thought steadies me instead of overwhelming me. “And I need their help. I can’t fight this alone—not against a tenured professor with institutional power. The Sanctuary’s backing will help, and Laura needs to know how this research was conducted… honestly, according to the rules.”
“You ask her today?”
I nod. “After I send Blackwell a response. I’ll tell Laura everything—show her the timeline, the evidence. If the Sanctuary supports the complaint officially, it’s not just me against Blackwell. It’s institutional misconduct.”
Flavius’s expression sharpens with something like pride. “Smart. You build army, not fight alone.”
“Exactly.” I take a breath. “I’ll talk to her this afternoon. Then I’ll meet with the gladiators—anyone whose work contributed to the framework. They should know before this gets official.”
He reaches out and cups my face gently. “They will stand with you. All of us.”
The certainty in his voice emboldens me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For reminding me I don’t have to do this alone.”
His thumb strokes my cheekbone once. “Never alone. Not anymore.”
I lean into his touch for one more breath, then straighten. “Okay. First things first.”
I draft a brief acknowledgment to Dr. Blackwell, nothing more. No details. No explanations. Just a boundary.
Dr. Blackwell, I received your email. I’m focusing on my fieldwork and will be in touch when I have updates to share.
Best, Sophia
When I hit send, something in my chest loosens.
The path ahead is clear now. Gather evidence. File the complaint. Fight.
The thought should terrify me.
It does.
But it also feels… clarifying.
“What now?” Flavius asks.
I blink. “Now?”
He spreads his hands. “You wrote ideas. Sent email.” His eyes search my face. “What do you need next? More planning? Rest? Distraction? Food?”
I consider.
The old version of me—the one from before all this, untouched by ice-melted gladiators and goddesses and ethical theft—would say work. Dive deeper into documents, policies, strategies until I collapse.
The version of me here, now, in this log cabin with this man and this fight ahead… knows that’s not sustainable.
“I need…” I surprise myself again. “A shower. Breakfast that isn’t panic toast. A walk. Then I’ll come back and make a proper list for the complaint.”
His mouth curves. “Good plan. Balanced. Very scholar-warrior of you.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
He moves toward the door, finally snagging his shirt from where it landed last night.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I give you privacy,” he says. “For shower. For thinking.” He waits without performing, without filling the silence with charm. “Unless you want me to stay.”
“I…” I glance at the bathroom, at the bed, at the open laptop with FORMAL RESEARCH ETHICS COMPLAINT glaring from the screen. “I’d like you to stay,” I say. “But not… hovering.”
“I can be not-hovering in the courtyard,” he says. “Or in your little kitchen, making real food.”
The idea of having him within reach but not underfoot settles something in me.
“Kitchen,” I say. “Real food sounds good.”
He nods, then pauses.
“Sophia?”
“Yeah?”
For a moment, the performer is completely gone. No charm, no grin, no teasing. Just Flavius—man, not Jester. The one who sat with me in silence while I shook, who watched as I wrote dates on a whiteboard while I reassembled my reality.
“I am proud of you,” he says simply. “For choosing yourself. For choosing truth. For choosing to fight.”
My eyes sting.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He gives a small, almost shy nod, and then he turns to rummage in the fridge.
I stand in the quiet of my little bathroom, the morning light painting lines across the floor. In the other room, my laptop waits. The complaint document sits open, bare-bones but real. The path ahead is terrifying and unclear.
But for the first time since I saw Blackwell’s name at the top of my work, the hollow in my chest isn’t just loss.
It’s also space.
Space I’m going to fill with my own choices. My own fight. My own name.
I turn on the water and let the steam and heat chase yesterday’s residue from my skin. As water drums against tile, I think of the line I drew this morning between before and after.
Before: small, safe, strategic.
After: scared, yes—but standing.
By the time I’m dressed and padding barefoot back into the main room, the scent of eggs and toast perks me up.
I glance at the laptop one more time.
FORMAL RESEARCH ETHICS COMPLAINT – DRAFT.
Not submitted.
Not finished.
But begun.
Tomorrow, and the next day, I’ll flesh it out. I’ll pull policies, compile evidence, cross-reference dates with merciless precision. I’ll become a problem for people who are used to junior researchers staying quiet.
On Monday, I’ll send it.
Today, I eat breakfast with a 2,000-year-old gladiator who believes me without question and is learning to stand beside me instead of in front.
Today, I let that be enough.
I ease behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and whisper too softly for him to hear, “I choose you, Flavius. Every time, I choose you.”