Selene’s POV
The review board meets on a Wednesday, and I'm not allowed to attend.
"Standard procedure," my supervisor explains over the phone. "They'll review the evidence, interview relevant parties, and reach a determination. You'll be notified of the outcome within forty-eight hours."
Forty-eight hours. Two days to learn whether my career survives or ends. Two days of limbo while strangers decide if I'm fit to practice the profession I've dedicated my life to.
I spend the first day cleaning. Not because the house needs it—though with three toddlers, it always needs it—but because I need something to do with my hands. I scrub floors and organize cabinets and rearrange the pantry that Axel already organized, all while my mind churns through worst-case scenarios.
Mateo finds me reorganizing the spice rack for the third time.
"You're spiraling," he observes.
"I'm organizing."
"You're spiraling while organizing. Multi-tasking." He takes the cinnamon from my hand. "Come sit down. You're making the spices nervous."
"Spices don't have feelings."
"These ones do. I can tell by the way they're cowering."
I let him lead me to the couch. Let him pull me against his side, his arm warm around my shoulders. The babies are napping—a rare synchronized event—and the house is quiet in a way that feels heavy rather than peaceful.
"What if they revoke my license?" The fear comes out as a whisper.
"They won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." He turns me, to face him. "You didn't do anything wrong. The paperwork timing was administrative, not ethical. Every colleague who's testified has supported you. Carmen Reyes gave a statement saying the therapeutic relationships ended appropriately before anything romantic began."
"The board might not see it that way. They might decide that the appearance of impropriety is enough."
"Then they'd be wrong. And we'd figure out what comes next."
"What comes next if I can't practice? This is all I know how to do. All I've built my identity around." I hear the echo of Mateo's injury crisis in my words and almost laugh at the irony. "I sound like you. After the knee."
"You do." His smile is gentle. "And I'm going to tell you the same thing you told me. You're more than your job. You're a mother, a partner, a brilliant person who could succeed at anything you tried. Losing this wouldn't erase who you are."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I learned from someone." He kisses my forehead. "The board will make the right call. And if they don't, we'll fight it. But you don't have to carry this alone. That's what family means."
Day two is worse.
Every time my phone buzzes, my heart stops. Every email notification sends a spike of adrenaline through my chest. I check my inbox compulsively, refreshing until Axel physically takes the phone from my hands.
"You're going to give yourself a heart attack," he says.
"I need to know."
"You'll know when they tell you. Refreshing every thirty seconds won't make that happen faster."
"It might."
"It definitely won't." He pockets my phone. "Come. The babies are awake. Aria's been asking for you."
The distraction helps. Aria wants to show me her new skill—stacking blocks exactly three high before dramatically knocking them down. Elio has discovered that if he makes a certain face, everyone laughs, so he makes it constantly. Sören is engaged in some complex internal project that involves arranging toy cars by color and then staring at them with intense concentration.
Normal life. The life I've built. The life that exists regardless of what some review board decides.
"Mama play?" Aria hands me a block.
"Mama play." I sit on the floor with her, letting her chaos wash over me. Whatever happens tomorrow, this is real. This is mine. No bureaucratic decision can take it away.
The call comes at 3:47 PM.
I'm in the backyard watching Mateo attempt to teach Elio how to kick a ball—a project doomed to failure but hilarious to witness—when my phone rings. The number is the organization's main line. My hands shake as I answer.
"Dr. Marlowe? This is Patricia from HR. I'm calling to inform you that the review board has reached a determination."
"Yes?"
"The board found no evidence of ethical violations or professional misconduct. The administrative delay in paperwork processing has been noted but does not rise to the level of disciplinary action. You're cleared to continue practicing without restriction."
The world tilts. I sit down hard on the porch steps, the phone pressed to my ear.
"Dr. Marlowe? Are you there?"
"Yes. I'm here. I just—" I take a breath. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me know."
"Of course. The formal letter will arrive by mail within the week. Congratulations."
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone in my hand.
"Selene?" Mateo's abandoned the soccer lesson, crossing the yard toward me. "What happened? What did they say?"
"Cleared." The word comes out strange. Unreal. "No violations. No misconduct. I'm cleared."
His whoop is loud enough to startle the birds from nearby trees. He scoops me up off the steps and spins us both, laughing, while Elio watches with confused delight.
"I told you!" He sets me down but keeps hold of my arms. "I told you they'd make the right call!"
"You did."
"And you didn't believe me."
"I wanted to believe you. That's different."
Axel appears in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. "What's happening?"
"She's cleared!" Mateo's still grinning. "The review board cleared her. No violations. No restrictions. It's over."
Axel's relief is quieter but no less profound. He crosses to us, pulling us both into his arms, the three of us standing in the backyard while the babies play and the autumn sun slants golden through the trees.
"It's over," I repeat, letting the words sink in. "This part, at least. It's actually over."
Months of fear. Months of uncertainty. Months of watching my professional reputation get dragged through the mud while I waited for strangers to decide my fate. And now—
Now I get to keep being who I am.
"We should celebrate," Mateo says. "Big dinner. Good wine. Maybe cake. Definitely cake."
"Cake!" Aria agrees from across the yard, because she's learned to recognize that word.
"See? The people have spoken." Mateo grins. "Cake it is."
That night, after the cake is demolished and the babies are asleep and the wine has loosened the last of my tension, I sit on the couch between my partners and let myself feel something I haven't felt in months.
Peace.
Not the fragile, temporary kind that shatters at the first sign of trouble. Real peace. The kind that comes from surviving something terrible and coming out the other side. From knowing that the worst has happened and you're still standing.
"What are you thinking?" Axel asks, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my knee.
"That I'm grateful. For both of you. For the babies. For the fact that we made it through all of this without falling apart."
"We came close," Mateo admits. "A few times."
"But we didn't. That's what matters." I lean into them both. "Whatever comes next—the league pressure, Cassian's threats, whatever new crisis decides to find us—we can handle it. Because we've already proven we can."
"Together," Axel says.
"Together," Mateo echoes.
Outside, the Seattle night settles soft and quiet around our house. Inside, the family we built keeps choosing each other.
And for now—for this one perfect moment—that's more than enough.