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Chapter 1

Pushing my black-rimmed glasses up as I stand at the front of the auditorium, the projector behind me flashing images of abused children, I feel the familiar weight of hundreds of eyes on me. It always takes a few moments to settle into these speeches, but I've grown used to it over the years. The audience, at least, is more than welcoming.

"...So no one can simply ignore the consequences of bullying, or how deeply one's soul and mind can be affected. As I mentioned earlier, the physical, verbal, and emotional abuse these teenagers endure daily has led some of them to take their own lives..."

I continue, noting how a few listeners discreetly wipe away tears as the images cycle on behind me. It's a common reaction to my speeches—expected, even. That's the goal: to raise awareness, to open eyes, to drive change. And every now and then, I know I've succeeded. That knowledge lifts me. It humbles me.

Being a psychology professor at one of the top universities in the UK has allowed me to take part in projects that are close to my heart. The anti-bullying campaign I'm privileged to lead for the European Committee has opened doors—doors that lead to working with presidents, prime ministers, and other influential figures across Europe. I've spoken to high school students, academic panels, even parliaments.

My work is a kind of refuge. I enjoy it. It grounds me. To go to bed each night knowing that maybe—just maybe—I've helped make the world a little better... there's peace in that.

Teaching, too, is a passion. The university grounds me in a different way. Being close to my students helps me feel young—keeps me sharp. I'm often amazed at how they think, how they perceive the world. Sometimes they're innocent, naïve. Other times, far too analytical for their age. Either way, they keep me on my toes. And I like that.

I've always liked leaving a mark.
Call it ego. Call it arrogance.
I call it refusing to let others define who I am.

As my speech ends, people begin rising from their seats, one by one, offering a standing ovation. I smile, motioning for them to sit. I've done nothing more than inform, really. I don't deserve the applause—but I'd be lying if I said it didn't please me just a little.

Several approach me as my loyal assistant quietly begins packing up the equipment. I shake hands, smile, answer questions, offer reassurance.

"Ashley," Monet calls gently, as I'm mid-conversation with the student body president about cyberbullying.

"There are some emails waiting for your response—some marked urgent."

"Thank you, Monet. I'll get to them as soon as I'm done here."

Later that evening

Exhausted and emotionally drained, I step into my office and shut the door behind me, sinking into the comfort of my leather armchair. Without hesitation, I dial the number of the most beautiful, intelligent, cheeky person in the world.

"Anzieee!" I yell into the phone the moment she picks up.

"It's Anzette, Mom. You know I hate it when you call me that," she groans, and I can't stop grinning like an idiot at her tone. I can almost see her through the phone—one brow raised, all sass and teenage attitude.

"What have you been up to, baby?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"I'm studying, Mum..." she huffs.

"There's noise in the background, honey..."

"It's not noise. It's music, Mum."

"Okay, okay," I laugh. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Umm... pizza?" she replies, more question than answer.

I agree, of course. My thirteen-year-old daughter would never willingly ask for anything remotely healthy unless forced—either by me or her grandmother. Her dad used to sit beside her for hours, cutting fruit into heart shapes just to coax a few bites out of her. That was years ago. She's too sharp for tricks now.

The thought of him—of Jason—drifts in, uninvited. I catch myself absentmindedly rubbing the wedding ring that hangs from the gold chain around my neck. It's been four years since I lost him, but some habits don't fade.

Without even checking the number, I call Andy's Pizza from memory. Forty-five minutes later, I'm curled up at home in my softest pyjamas, eating greasy pizza in front of the TV, watching Awkward reruns on MTV. And even though I'll pay for it at the gym tomorrow, for tonight—this feels just right.