Chapter 15 - The Girl From the South SideTwo days later, the university called me into the dean’s office.
That was never a good sentence.
The College of Architecture occupied a brutalist building that students loved to insult and secretly defended against outsiders. I had spent three years there learning how cities wounded people politely: through zoning, transit gaps, predatory development, inaccessible design, and public spaces that only welcomed the public approved by money.
Now I walked into Dean Alvarez’s office and found three people waiting.
The dean.
My studio professor.
And a woman from the university’s legal department.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Should I have brought a lawyer?”
The legal woman smiled without warmth. “This is just a conversation.”
“That means yes.”
Dean Alvarez sighed. “Lena, sit down.”
I did.
The professor avoided my eyes.
That told me enough.
The dean folded her hands. “There has been significant media attention surrounding your involvement with the Ward family.”
“I noticed.”
“And while the university is proud of students who engage meaningfully with public design—”
“Here it comes,” I said.
Her expression stiffened.
The legal woman took over. “We have concerns about reputational exposure. Ward Capital is under investigation. Your name being attached to their foundation redesign could create conflict with your grant terms.”
I stared at her.
“My grant pays tuition because I study inclusive urban design. The Ward project is inclusive design.”
“The Ward project is a scandal.”
“No,” I said. “The scandal is what happened before inclusive design was removed.”
My professor finally spoke.
“Lena, no one is questioning your intentions.”
That sentence usually meant everyone was.
I stood.
“Then question my work.”
Dean Alvarez looked up.
“What?”
“Review the plans. Review my notes. Review Rowan’s notes. Tell me the design isn’t worth fighting for.”
The professor looked at the folder in my arms.
“You brought them?”
“I brought copies.”
I spread the documents across the conference table.
For the next forty minutes, I did not talk about Elliott Ward’s money, Derek’s crime, Vivian’s manipulation, or the gossip accounts calling me Cinderella with trauma.
I talked about doors.
Sound.
Sightlines.
Transition spaces.
Restorative gardens.
How children in distress should not be processed through rooms built for donors to admire themselves.
How accessibility was not a ramp added at the end but a moral structure designed from the beginning.
Halfway through, my professor stopped avoiding my eyes.
By the end, Dean Alvarez was silent.
The legal woman still looked worried.
But the dean looked at the plans the way people look when they know the thing in front of them is better than the policy meant to contain it.
“Who produced the sensory maps?” she asked.
“Rowan Ward.”
“He has formal training?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“He paid attention.”
No one spoke.
I gathered the plans.
Dean Alvarez leaned back.
“The university will not block your participation,” she said slowly. “But you will document everything. No private payment structures. No ambiguous credit. No press without approval.”
“Agreed.”
“And Lena?”
I paused.
“Be careful. Powerful families do not become safe because one bad man is arrested.”
I thought of Derek’s eyes on the dock.
“I know.”
When I left the building, three reporters were waiting outside.
One shouted, “Lena, are you dating Rowan Ward?”
Another shouted, “Did Elliott Ward buy your silence?”
I kept walking.
Then a third voice called, “Is it true your father died bankrupt?”
I stopped.
That was the mistake.
The cameras surged.
Before I could move, a black SUV pulled to the curb.
Mercer stepped out.
“Ms. Marsh.”
“I didn’t call you.”
“No.”
The back door opened.
Rowan sat inside, headphones on, notepad in his lap.
He had written one sentence large enough for me to read from the sidewalk.
EXITS ARE EASIER WITH A CAR.
May you like
Despite everything, I laughed.
And got in.
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