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Morrison takes three steps into the room, the security officers flanking him like bookends. "It has come to my attention," he begins, and I can already hear where this is going, "that over this past weekend, you entered into a marriage with one of your students."

Fuck.

"That's correct," I say, keeping my voice level.

His eyebrows lift slightly, like he expected denial. "You're admitting it?"

"I have nothing to hide. Elara Cross and I were married on Tuesday. Legally. At the county courthouse. Everything was done by the book."

"By the book," Morrison repeats, his tone suggesting he thinks I've lost my mind. "Professor Draven—Alexander—you understand that this is a massive violation of university policy. Faculty-student relationships are strictly prohibited, and marriage doesn't somehow exempt you from⁠—"

"It's Veritas business," I interrupt.

The words land heavy in the quiet room.

Morrison's jaw tightens. The security officers exchange glances but say nothing. Everyone at Belgrave knows about the Veritas—or knows enough to know you don't ask questions. The university and the Order have a symbiotic relationship going back two centuries: Belgrave provides cover and legitimacy, and the Veritas provides funding and influence that keeps the institution running.

Most administrators turn a blind eye to what happens in the shadows, as long as it stays in the shadows.

"I'm aware," Morrison says carefully, "of the organization's... presence on campus. And normally, I do stay out of their internal affairs. But Alexander, this isn't happening in the shadows. People know. Students are talking. Faculty are asking questions. There are posts on social media, for God's sake. A student captured footage of you and Miss Cross leaving the courthouse together."

My stomach drops. "What?"

"You were photographed," he says flatly. "Tuesday afternoon. Outside the Belgrave County Courthouse. The image has been circulating since yesterday. Someone ran facial recognition, identified you both, and now half the campus knows that Professor Alexander Draven married a junior in his own class."

I close my eyes briefly. Of course. Of course someone saw us. Of course it's already spread. In the age of smartphones and social media, there's no such thing as a quiet courthouse wedding.

"The university has to take action," Morrison continues. "We have policies for a reason. Ethics standards. Title IX regulations. I can't just ignore this because it involves the Veritas. Not when it's this public."

"What kind of action?" I ask, though I already know.

"Effective immediately, you're being placed on paid administrative leave pending a full investigation into the nature of your relationship with Miss Cross. You'll surrender your university credentials, vacate your office, and have no contact with students—including your wife—in any academic capacity."

The word wife sounds strange in his mouth. Clinical. Like he's diagnosing a disease.

"For how long?"

"Until the investigation is complete. Could be weeks. Could be months." He pauses. "And Alexander, I'll be honest with you—this doesn't look good. Even if everything you did was technically legal, the optics are terrible. You're a thirty-one-year-old professor who married a student fifteen years your junior. The power dynamic alone⁠—"

"Eight years," I correct. "She's twenty-three. And the relationship began before she was my student."

"That's your defense?" Morrison's voice rises slightly. "That you started an inappropriate relationship with a woman who later ended up in your classroom, and somehow that makes it better?"

"I'm saying the situation is more complicated than it appears."

"It always is." He gestures to the security officers. "Gentlemen, please escort Professor Draven to his office so he can collect his personal belongings. Then escort him off campus."

One of the officers steps forward—a younger guy, probably late twenties, looking supremely uncomfortable with the whole situation. "Sir, if you'll come with us."

The walk to my office is a special kind of humiliation. Students press themselves against the walls as we pass, phones out, recording. I can already imagine the headlines: Belgrave Professor Removed from Campus After Marrying Student. By tonight, it'll be trending. By tomorrow, it'll be a cautionary tale.

My office feels smaller with three of us in it. I move mechanically, pulling important books from shelves, sliding folders into a box, packing everything necessary into the leather messenger bag I've carried for eight years. The officers watch without speaking, professional and detached, like they're overseeing a criminal collecting evidence.

"Is that everything you need for now?" the older officer asks. “You will have time to pack your miscellaneous things at a different date when students aren’t here.”

I scan the room one last time, shifting the bag in my hand. "Yes. That is all I need for now."

They walk me out through a back exit—a small mercy, avoiding the main quad where students congregate. My car is parked in the faculty lot, the black Mercedes gleaming in the soft April sunlight.