The morning after the kiss, I wake up at six and lie in bed for exactly four minutes allowing myself to feel it — the specific warmth of something that has been building for three weeks finally existing in the open air — and then I get up and make coffee and open my laptop and start researching lawyers.
This is, I recognize, a very me response to a significant emotional development.
Damian would probably find it funny.
I find it practical.
We have a case to build and a family with significant resources already in motion against us and approximately one week before Cornelius Kingsley finds a new avenue to pursue the enrollment review, and the warmth of last night’s doorway is going to be considerably more sustainable if we’re not expelled before we have a chance to do anything with it.
I’m looking for someone specific.
Not a generalist, not a firm that handles everything from parking tickets to corporate mergers.
I need someone who specializes in institutional accountability — universities, hospitals, organizations with significant resources and a history of managing complaints internally — and who has, specifically, won against a named institution rather than simply settling.
By seven thirty I have three names.
By eight I have sent emails to all three.
By eight fifteen Damian knocks, two taps, and I open the door to find him with two coffees looking slightly more like a person who slept than he did last night and slightly less like someone who has decided to perform composure.
“You’ve been researching since six,” he says.
Not a question.
“Six fifteen,” I say, taking the coffee.
“Sit down.
I have three names.” He sits, and I show him what I’ve found, and we spend the next forty minutes going through the options with the specific efficiency of two people who have discovered they work very well together and are not yet at the stage of being distracted by that discovery when there are things to do.
The name we land on is a woman called Margaret Osei — fifty-three, former federal prosecutor, partner at a firm that has spent the last decade taking institutional misconduct cases with a specific emphasis on documentation-heavy cover-ups.
She has won three cases against universities in the last seven years.
She does not settle unless it serves the client.
Her firm’s website has a quote on the front page that reads: The truth is not a strategy.
It’s a foundation.
I like her immediately.
“She’s in the city,” Damian says.
“Forty minutes from campus.
Celeste can drive.” He looks at me.
“You’ve already asked Celeste.” “I texted her at seven.” I pause.
“She said yes and also that she wants to be in the meeting, which I said was up to you.” “Celeste should be in the meeting,” he says, without hesitation.
“She’s a witness to the email chain and she has access to family records we might still need.
Having her there strengthens what we bring.” He pauses.
“My father’s lawyers are going to argue the emails were obtained improperly.” “Celeste has had access to the family correspondence account since she was added to it two years ago with full permissions.
She didn’t hack anything — she read emails that were shared with her.” I meet his eyes.
“That’s our lawyer’s problem to construct, but the foundation is solid.” “You thought this through at six fifteen in the morning.” “Six fifteen is when I do my best thinking.” The corner of his mouth does the thing.
I look at it for exactly one second before returning my eyes to the laptop, because we are being practical and focused and there will be time for other things when the case is built.
“Margaret Osei,” he says.
“Set up the meeting.” She responds within two hours.
Her assistant schedules us for Thursday afternoon and asks us to bring all original documentation and notes on the chain of custody for any items removed from institutional storage.
Chain of custody.
The photographs on my phone, the forwarded emails on Priya’s encrypted server, the witness statement copy that has been with Damian’s personal lawyer for three years.
I spend Thursday morning organizing everything into a document that traces every piece of evidence from its origin to its current location, and by noon I have something that looks like the work of people who understood from the beginning that how you find evidence matters as much as what you find.
Celeste drives, as offered, and the three of us ride to the city in a silence that is comfortable rather than tense, which I take as evidence that the last week has produced something real among us.
Margaret Osei’s office is on the fourteenth floor of a building that doesn’t need to announce itself, and she is exactly what her website suggested — direct, sharp, with the specific economy of movement that belongs to people who have learned to conserve energy for the things that actually matter.
She reads everything.
Silently.
For twenty-two minutes.
Then she puts the tablet down.
“Tell me about the sister,” she says, directly to me.
“Current situation, willingness to participate, mental health context.” I tell her everything, compressed and organized, with the precision of someone who understands that a lawyer needs information, not narrative.
Margaret listens, makes two notes, and says: “A written statement is workable.
I’d prefer testimony eventually, but a written statement with her name and date is admissible in a civil proceeding if properly notarized.” She pauses.
“This is a civil case.
A criminal statute of limitations has almost certainly passed for the original incident.
What we have the foundation for is a civil suit against the university for institutional misconduct and evidence tampering, and potentially a separate action against the Kingsley family.
The email chain is the spine of the second action.
The missing documents are the spine of the first.” “Can you win?” Damian asks.
“I can build a case that survives motion to dismiss and reaches discovery.
Once we reach discovery, the Kingsley family’s resources become as much a liability as an asset — the more they spend defending, the more they reveal about what they’re defending.” She pauses.
“Families like yours make their worst decisions under discovery pressure.” “Timeline?” I ask.
“Filing in four to six weeks.
Discovery could take a year.
Resolution eighteen months to three years.” She meets my eyes.
“This is not a fast process.” “Fast isn’t the goal,” I say.
“Permanent is.” She looks at me for a moment with the expression of someone recalibrating an assessment upward.
“Then we have a foundation,” she says.
“One more thing.
Are you currently safe on campus?” Damian and I look at each other.
“The situation is active,” I say.
“I’ll send a letter to the university’s legal counsel today,” Margaret says.
“Notifying them that they are a named potential defendant in a forthcoming civil action and that any adverse action taken against a potential witness during the pendency of that action will be added to the complaint.” She pauses.
“That should make the enrollment review considerably less enthusiastic.” Something loosens in my chest that I didn’t fully realize was still pulled tight.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t thank me yet.
Thank me when it’s done.” She extends her hand.
I shake it.
We’re in the elevator going down when Damian’s phone rings.
He listens.
Says three words: “When did it post?” He ends the call.
“Someone leaked to the campus paper,” he says.
“Story’s online as of an hour ago.
Student journalist, been sitting on it waiting for corroboration.
She has the forum thread with Claire’s name, a source inside Student Affairs who confirmed the enrollment review, and a quote from Devlin — on record — calling the whole thing a personal grievance by a troubled student.” The elevator opens.
We walk into the lobby.
“He went public first,” I say.
“He’s trying to define Claire before we can.” “The article doesn’t name Claire.
But it names you.
And it names me as romantically involved with the student making the accusations.” I think about this for the seconds it takes to cross the lobby.
“Call Margaret,” I say.
“Tell her to accelerate the letter.
Then we call Priya — if the article is up, students are already reading it, and I want the people who matter to hear our version from us before they hear Devlin’s from a screen.” “Agreed.” He’s already dialing.
Then, briefly: “Aria.
Whatever he’s started with this — he’s used to controlling information in private.
He’s not used to being on the wrong side of it publicly.” “Then let’s make sure he stays there,” I say.
Celeste, who has been quiet since the elevator, says from three feet away: “I’ve already texted twelve people I trust to give them our version before they read his.
I have a very effective information network.” “I know,” Damian and I say, at exactly the same moment.
She smiles, brief and real, and walks to the car.
We follow.