The elevator mirror doesn't flatter her.
Isavelle stands too straight, shoulders squared like she's bracing for impact. Her hair is pulled back with more care than usual, not for vanity but for armor. She keeps her eyes on her reflection as the numbers descend, watching for cracks.
She doesn't like what she sees.
Her phone vibrates in her palm. She doesn't look at it. She already knows who it isn't. No lawyer has called her back. No reassurance has arrived overnight. Silence has weight now. It presses against her ribs.
The elevator stops.
She steps out into the marble lobby of the law building, the echo of her heels too loud, too exposed. Conversations float around her normal ones. Casual. Someone laughs near the security desk.
She walks past them like she belongs here.
"Ms. Croix."
The receptionist barely looks up. "You're expected."
Expected. Not welcomed.
Isavelle nods and follows the hallway to Conference Room B. The door is already open. Inside, three people sit around a polished table.
Her professor, Dr. Ellington, folds his hands as she enters. Beside him is a woman she doesn't recognize, tailored navy suit, legal pads stacked neatly in front of her. The man on the other side scrolls through a tablet, jaw tight.
Isavelle stops just inside the doorway.
"Have a seat," Dr. Ellington says.
She does.
No one speaks for a moment. The silence is deliberate. Measured.
Finally, the woman in the navy suit clears her throat. "Isavelle Croix. I'm Dana Whitmore. University legal counsel."
Isavelle nods once. "Why am I here?"
Dr. Ellington exhales. "This isn't easy."
"I didn't think it would be," Isavelle says with a very calm tone.
Dana slides a folder across the table. "We've been notified of an ongoing legal matter involving your father's estate."
Isavelle doesn't touch the folder. "I'm aware."
"The university has to consider reputational risk," the man with the tablet says without looking up.
Isavelle's fingers curl in her lap. "I didn't commit a crime."
"No one is saying you did," Dana replies smoothly. "But perception matters."
Dr. Ellington finally meets her eyes. There's regret there. Real, uncomfortable regret. "Your scholarship is under review."
There it is.
Isavelle nods slowly. "For how long?"
"Until the investigation concludes."
"That could take years."
"Yes," Dana agrees. "It could."
Isavelle leans back in her chair. She feels oddly calm. Like something inside her has already accepted the blow.
"So I'm guilty by association," she says.
"No," Dr. Ellington says quickly. "You're… affected."
"By my name."
No one corrects her.
She stands. "Am I suspended?"
"Not at this time."
"Then I'll see you in class."
Dana hesitates. "Isavelle"
"I'm done," she says. Her voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. "If you need anything else from me, put it in writing."
She leaves before anyone can stop her.
Outside, the air feels thinner. Like the city has shifted slightly out of alignment.
Her phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
She answers because she's tired of being hunted.
"Yes?"
"Ms. Croix," a man says. His voice is low, even. Not threatening. Worse controlled. "This is Ronan Ashcroft."
Her stomach tightens. "Should I know you?"
"No," he says. "But I know you."
She stops walking. People brush past her, irritated. She steps aside, presses her back against the stone wall of the building.
"What do you want?" she asks.
"To give you advice."
She lets out a short laugh. "That's new."
"Listen carefully," Ronan says. "You're being isolated. Professionally. Socially. Legally."
"I've noticed."
"Good," he replies. "Then you'll understand that fighting it head-on will cost you more than you think."
"Are you threatening me?"
"No," Ronan says. "I'm warning you."
She closes her eyes briefly. "On whose behalf?"
There's a pause. Not long. Just enough.
"Kaelen Viremont's."
The name lands heavier this time.
"What does he want?" Isavelle asks.
Ronan exhales. "That's not my place to say."
"Then why call me?"
"Because," he says, "you deserve to know when you're walking into a storm."
The line goes dead.
Isavelle stares at her phone until the screen dims.
She doesn't cry.
She walks.
By late afternoon, her options had narrowed to one name circled twice in her notebook. A smaller firm. Less prestige. But they answered.
The office smells like burnt coffee and desperation. The attorneyMark Jensen listens without interrupting as Isavelle lays everything out. The notice. The calls. The silence.
When she finishes, he leans back and rubs his temple.
"This is Viremont Global," he says finally.
"Yes."
"You understand what that means?"
"It means I'm losing."
He doesn't disagree. "It means they don't make mistakes. If they're moving now, it's intentional."
"Can you represent me?" Isavelle asks.
Mark hesitates. Just for a second. It's enough.
"I can advise," he says carefully. "Representation might… complicate things."
"Because you're afraid," she says.
"Because I'm realistic."
She nods. "Then advise me."
He studies her. "If they reach out again listen."
"That's it?"
"That's survival," he replies.
She leaves with more questions than answers and a hollow feeling under her ribs that won't go away.
By evening, the city feels hostile. Every reflection in every window looks like a witness.
Her apartment door clicks shut behind her. She leans against it, eyes closed, breathing through the tightness in her chest.
Her phone rings.
This time, the number isn't hidden.
She answers slowly. "Yes."
"Ms. Croix," Maëlys Viremont says. "I was hoping you'd take my call."
"I didn't have a choice."
Maëlys smiles into the line. Isavelle can hear it. "You always have choices."
"That's not what your people say."
"My people?" Maëlys asks lightly.
"Ronan Ashcroft," Isavelle says. "He warned me."
A pause. A real one.
"Ronan shouldn't have done that," Maëlys says.
"So you admit he works for you."
"He works for Mr. Viremont."
"Then tell him to stop watching me."
Another pause. Longer.
"He watches everyone," Maëlys says. "It's not personal."
"It feels personal."
"Yes," Maëlys agrees. "It does."
Isavelle walks to the window, looks out at the city darkening below. "Why are you doing this?"
Maëlys doesn't answer immediately. When she does, her voice is softer. "Your father took something that didn't belong to him."
"He's dead."
"Debts don't die," Maëlys says. "They transfer."
"To me?"
"To the estate," Maëlys corrects. "You are part of it."
Isavelle grips the curtain. "If this is about money"
"It isn't," Maëlys interrupts gently. "Not entirely."
"Then what?"
Maëlys exhales. "Mr. Viremont prefers to handle matters directly."
Isavelle's throat tightens. "I'm not meeting him."
"You will," Maëlys says. "Sooner or later."
"And if I refuse?"
There it is again. That careful silence.
"Then," Maëlys says, "things will continue as they are."
Isavelle laughs, brittle. "You've already taken everything."
"No," Maëlys replies. "Not yet."
The call ends.
Isavelle lowers the phone slowly.
Her apartment feels smaller now. The walls are closer. She sinks onto the couch, elbows on her knees, head bowed.
For the first time all day, her control slips.
Her hands shake.
"I didn't do anything," she whispers to the empty room.
Her voice breaks on the last word. She presses her fist to her mouth, breath hitching once before she forces it down. No tears. She won't give them that.
She straightens.
On the coffee table, her father's old watch lies where she left it months ago. She picks it up, turns it over in her palm.
"You should've told me," she says quietly.
The watch is cold. Silent.
Her phone buzzes one last time.
A message this time.
Unknown Number:
Mr. Viremont will see you when you're ready.
Isavelle stares at the words.
When you're ready.
Her jaw tightens.
She types nothing.
She sets the phone face down.
But the question settles deep in her chest, heavy and unavoidable
What happens when she isn't?