Chapter 23
BELLA
Dr. Monroe’s office - Manhattan, New York
Therapy Homework Assignment
Name: Bella Blackwood
Date: 528 days since my brother was murdered.
Session #: Who the fuck knows. Too many.
1. How have you been feeling since our last session?
Shitty. We lost to the Brazilian bitches at Worlds. Got second fucking place. Total bullshit. We saved some kids, took down some bad guys like always. I fucked Laing, again. I know what you are going to say but the damn dragon tattoo doc. Gets me every time!
2. What would you like to focus on in our next session?
Honestly, I think we should dive deep into why my coping mechanisms make you more uncomfortable than me. Or we can just sit in awkward silence while you write notes about my “avoidant behavior.” Dealer’s choice.
???
Dr. Monroe flips the paper slowly, expression unreadable behind his glasses. He lets out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and a resigned exhale.
“Well, Bella, I see you put a lot of heart into this.”
I cross my arms and kick my legs up on the edge of the couch. “Thought I’d spice it up. Keep things fresh.”
“Of course you did,” he says, calm and clipped. “Start at the top then, let’s talk about Worlds.”
I don’t answer.
He glances up over the rim of his glasses. “Bella.”
Still nothing.
He leans back in his chair. “Look, I’m getting paid whether you sit here and glare at me or sit here and talk to me. It’s your money. Dealer’s choice, remember?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I feel like I let them down.”
Dr. Monroe doesn’t respond. Just waits patiently.
“Second fucking place. Trifecta worked our asses off. We gave everything and it still wasn’t enough.”
He nods once like he’s waiting for more.
“Javi keeps saying it’s a huge deal just to get to Worlds. Says Wexley’s never even made it that far before and we should be proud, blah blah rah-rah bullshit.”
I pause. “But, I wanted it. I really fucking wanted it.”
Silence.
“I don’t think the girls blame me. But I do. I was center. It was my routine. My choreography. And I couldn’t win us the damn thing.”
Dr. Monroe taps his pen against the clipboard once, then looks up. “Sounds like you’ve got a bit of a savior complex.”
“Oh great, here we go.”
“You choreographed the routine. You lead the team. But you don’t perform alone, Bella. There are three of you. Four, if we’re counting Javi. Hell, six if you count Rico and Knox. And then there’s a panel of biased, probably underpaid international judges you have zero control over.”
I don’t say anything.
“You didn’t lose Worlds,” he says. “You placed second at the highest level of competitive dance in the world. That’s not failure. That’s pressure distorting your perspective.”
I scoff. “It’s not pressure. It’s expectations.”
“No,” he says, setting the clipboard down with a quiet finality. “It’s grief. In a leotard.”
I just stare at him.
He shrugs. “You’re not mad about second place. You’re mad that something you led didn’t fix what’s broken. You thought winning would make it all make sense. That it would silence everything else.”
I don’t respond.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says calmly.
I look away and cross my arms. “Rico would shit his pants if we showed up in a leotard.”
Dr. Monroe lifts a brow.
“His designs are way too fashionable,” I add, tone dry. “Think couture mesh, rhinestones, and dramatic back cutouts. Not a single boring-ass leotard in sight.”
He gives the faintest huff of amusement. “So what I’m hearing is, grief but make it runway.”
“Exactly.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Also, quit deflecting.”
I roll my eyes.
“Okay fine, no more dance talk. What was next? You said you saved some kids. That’s good.”
My eyes drift to the window behind him. It’s blue-sky bright outside, but all I see is red. Miami. The blood pooling underneath my little brother’s body. Zeke’s rage. All fucking red.
My fingers move to my wrist like they always do. I start rubbing the inside where the ink lives, tracing each line like it holds me together. Dylan. Same as Zeke’s. Same as it’s always been.
“Bella?” Monroe’s voice is softer now. Careful.
I don’t look at him. My leg’s bouncing. My stomach turns and everything inside me starts to hum.
“He looked just like Dylan,” I finally say, barely above a whisper.
Silence.
“The kid. Ollie.”
I blink fast, trying to shake it, but it’s too late. I’m already there again. Miami. Carlos and Mariela’s bedroom. The scream in my throat that never made it out.
“All I see is Dylan’s little body,” I say, staring straight ahead. “Eyes, open but gone in a pool of red.” My voice snaps off, breath catching. “He didn’t move. His body was so small.”
“Bella,” Monroe says quietly. “Breathe.”
I try. But it’s like there’s glass in my lungs. The kind that cuts going in and out. Where the fuck is Knox when I need him?
He waits. Doesn’t push.
I swallow the burn in my throat. Try again. “I know Ollie’s not him,” I manage. “But I held him and my brain didn’t know the difference. Not right away.”
“You were triggered,” Monroe says, gently now. “That’s not weakness. That’s memory. Remember that trauma doesn’t ask permission.”
I clench my hands into fists but the tremble won’t stop. “He wouldn’t let go of me,” I say. “Just wrapped his arm around my neck. And he didn’t speak until we were already in the ambulance.”
“What did he say?” he asks.
I glance down at my wrist again. My voice breaks on the name. “Just that his name was Ollie.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s home,” I whisper. “With his real parents. Alyssa tracked them from Santa Monica. He’s safe now.”
Monroe nods. “You helped save him.”
I shake my head. “We did. The team did. It wasn’t just me.”
He watches me for a moment, then says gently, “But you’re the one that Ollie held onto.”
“Next.” I say sharply. “I’m done talking about the mission.”
“Fine. You said you fucked Laing.” He looks up, deadpan. “I’d say I’m shocked, but I’m not, Bella. More… disappointed.”
I shrug, unapologetic. “I’m not. Laing’s great in the sack.”
“You need more than that. You need real emotional connection. Not just sex. Not just a warm body after a mission. You need someone who sees you.”
I cross my arms. “I have the girls. We talk all the time. Ellie, Hal—”
“Nathaniel says you’re pretending with the girls,” Monroe cuts in.
My jaw tightens.
“He says you smile, you perform. That you’re hiding behind this version of yourself that looks fine on the outside, but is rotting underneath.”
“Well, Nathaniel apparently needs to learn to keep his fat trap shut.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve built walls so high even the people who love you can’t reach you anymore. You compartmentalize. You sleep with Laing and then go dance, smile, and play house with your best friends like none of it touches you. But it does.”
I look at the window, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“Sex isn’t the problem,” he says. “The problem is you’ve convinced yourself it’s the only thing you’re allowed to feel. Like if you let yourself love someone, really love someone, you’ll lose them.”
I glance at him. Quiet. He’s not wrong. He’s never wrong. Fucking hate that about him.
“You think if you love someone, they’ll die,” he says gently.
I don’t respond.
“Zeke. Dylan. Elise.”
Still nothing.
“Bella, if there was someone out there who could give you both—the release and the connection—wouldn’t that be worth letting in? Even just a little?”
I scoff, dry and sharp. “If they exist, I’ll send them a thank-you card. But no. I’d still probably run.”
He waits.
I meet his gaze. “Emotions get messy. Attachments get broken. Look, I’ve buried half the people I’ve ever loved. The ones I fuck seem to be the ones who survive.”
He exhales, long and quiet. “Bella,” he says, “you’re using sex like a tourniquet. It might stop the bleeding temporarily, but it won’t heal the wound.”
“Good thing I’m not trying to heal,” I mutter.
“Then what are you trying to do?”
I glance away. Again, I don’t answer. Because if I say it out loud, it makes it real. And I don’t think I’ll survive that.
Dr. Monroe just watches me. Silent. Patient. Like he’s waiting for the crack to finally split wide open.
“Bella.”
And it does.
“I’m trying,” I snap, breath catching. “I’m trying to find the fucking person responsible for taking my family away.”
The words rip out of me before I can stop them. Sharp. Shaking. “The person who killed my brother. The person who… who ripped Zeke away from me like he was nothing. The person who turned me into this cold bitch everyone loves to whisper about behind my back.”
My chest rises, tight and shallow, eyes burning as I shove up from the chair, pacing now like my skin’s on fire.
“I’ve got my mission,” I spit. “That’s it. That’s all I fucking have. I wake up, I train, I dance, I kill, I fuck, and I keep moving. Because if I stop. If I let myself feel anything for too long, I’ll fall apart again and I’m afraid that even Knox won’t be able to bring me back this time.”
I stop moving. Just stand there. Frozen. Shaking.
Tears sting but I refuse to let them fall.
Dr. Monroe’s voice is steady, low. “You can’t keep holding yourself together with rage, Bella. It’s not armor, it’s acid. And it’s eating you alive.”
???
By the time I make it back to Wexley my head’s pounding and my tolerance for human interaction is at zero. The second I step into the Rosethorne Mansion suite, I kick off my heels and sigh.
Since Haley’s great-great-great-something grandmother founded Rosethorne Mansion, the university basically treats her like royalty, which means The Trifecta got a serious upgrade Sophomore year.
And when I say upgrade, I mean master suite.
Not the oh wow, this dorm has a private bathroom kind of master. I’m talking a full three-bedroom, two-bath, walk-in closet, velvet sectional, skyline-view type situation. Hardwood floors, chandelier lighting, and a full marble bar for “hydration.”
Technically it’s still considered campus housing, but it’s giving luxury penthouse with a side of estrogen frenzy.
Knox loves it because he has a key and an excuse to crash without guilt.
Ellie loves it because the revolving door of Wall Street wannabes gives her a new ego boost every weekend.
Honestly, I’m shocked she hasn’t been referred to Dr. Monroe yet.
I’m sure he’d have plenty to say about her ever-evolving emotional exploration phase.
I toss my purse on the dresser and stretch, ready to take a hot shower and maybe pretend I didn’t just almost cry in front of a therapist when my phone buzzes.
@LucaWasHere
No mention of me in your little chat?
Tsk, Izzy. We both know better than that.
Keep pretending, keep playing brave,
But I’ll be the thought you can’t quite shave.
Therapy won’t fix what’s already mine.
You’ll bleed the truth to me, in time.
Your doctor listens, takes his notes,
But I hear more between your quotes.