Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Blue
Pain shoots through my hand. I wince and moan, slowly waking up with my face mashed into the pillow, my mouth dry, and my head throbbing like someone took a hammer to the inside of my skull.
For one blessed second, everything is blank before yesterday's event resurfaces.
The broken mirror, lipstick tubes, pins, bloody bandages, and the way I sobbed into Red's chest while he cleaned me up all fly at me.
The last thing I remember is the hospital, lying to the doctor about the dishes, and Red putting me in the car.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering if I don't open them, if I can pretend last night was a dream.
But the mattress dips. Red's awake, and I feel his gaze like heat on my skin.
I crack one eye. He sits up against the headboard, bare-chested, arms crossed, watching me with that steady, unreadable calm that seems like he's able to peel me open.
My stomach lurches. Shame floods in so fast, I taste it. I humiliated myself in front of him again. But it wasn't just the self-harm. The AI photos I made and sent to him pop into my mind, and I cringe, "Ugh."
"You can take another pain pill if you need it," he states, and reaches for me, stroking my back.
"I'm okay," I lie, wanting to fix this. So I roll toward him and force a practiced, suggestive smile that usually makes his pupils dilate. My bandaged hand slides up his thigh under the sheet, curling around his semi. Pain stings, but I fight through it, murmuring, "Morning."
He catches my wrist. "Not now, Bluebird."
The words land like a door slamming. My breath catches. I try again, leaning up, and pressing my mouth to the side of his neck in the spot that always makes him groan.
"Blue. Stop."
I freeze, lips still against his skin. Heat crawls up my throat with fresh embarrassment, rejection, and panic all twisting together.
I pull back, sit up fast, clutching the sheet to my chest like armor.
"I'm fine," I say too quickly. "I just thought—last night was intense, but we're good now, right? We can—"
"We're not fucking right now."
The bluntness stings worse than if he'd yelled. My cheeks burn. I look away, at the wall, at the floor, out the shaded window, anywhere but him. "Okay. Fine. Whatever."
He doesn't let the silence stretch. "You're going to eat first."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be." He kisses me lightly on the lips, then swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, like this is a normal morning, and I didn't just try to buy his forgiveness with my body. He disappears through the door.
I hug my knees, feeling small and stupid. My skin under the bandage on my thigh itches. I scratch it hard, hating how much I like the new pain.
I have to stop this.
Just a little more.
I don't realize how much time passes. Red comes back with a plate full of scrambled eggs, toast, and a banana sliced on the side. He sets a glass of orange juice down.
I freeze mid-itch. Trying to sound cute, I tease, "No coffee?"
"Not today. It makes you jittery when you're raw," he asserts.
I look away, continue to dig into my thigh, and my lips quiver.
He puts his hand over mine. "Blue."
I slowly look at him, insides shaking.
Concern fills his expression. "Stop hurting yourself."
I glance down at our hands and freeze.
Shit.
He sits next to me and tilts my chin. "Time to eat."
"I said I'm not—"
"Blue, this isn't an option," he insists.
Something in his tone hooks under my ribs and pulls. I hate it. I also crave it. I reach for the fork like my arm belongs to someone else.
He crosses his arms and watches me take the first bite. I chew slowly, every swallow loud in my ears. The eggs are warm, fluffy, and salted just right. My stomach growls traitorously, and I hate that he was right.
I eat half the food before I can't stand the silence anymore. "You don't have to babysit me."
He's calm, maddeningly so. "I'm not babysitting. I'm making sure you're taken care of before we talk."
My fork pauses. "Talk."
"Yes."
I set the plate aside, suddenly full. "I'm sorry about last night. I was—stupid. Overreacting. I won't do it again."
He doesn't respond to the apology. Instead, he picks up the plate, carries it to the dresser, then comes back and sits on the edge of the bed, but not close enough to touch me. He plants himself across from me, like we're in session.
The shift hits me like a slap. I snarl, "Intimate to clinical in one heartbeat. So, Dr. Mercer."
"You can be mad at me, but we're resuming therapy and going to return to consistency. I've already blocked times in my schedule."
The ground tilts. "You're serious."
"Deadly."
A short, sharp, ugly laugh comes out of me. "So last night, I bled all over you, and now, I'm back to being patient number whatever? That's it?"
"You're not a number." His voice stays level. "You're Blue. And you're hurting yourself. Again. I can't pretend that didn't happen. I can't fuck you and call it fixed."
My throat closes. "I don't need fixing."
"You need help." He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes locked on mine. "And I can't be both. Not anymore. Not when you're using sex to avoid the hard parts. Not when you're cutting yourself instead of talking to me."
Each sentence is a precise, painful needle. I want to scream, kiss him, and disappear. But I hug my knees tighter, hurling, "You're punishing me."
He shakes his head. "No. I'm protecting you. And me. Because if I keep letting you deflect with your body, we'll both drown in it."
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back. "So what? No sex? No touching? Just boring therapy sessions?"
He doesn't flinch from the question. "For now. Until you're stable and we rebuild trust. And I mean real trust, Blue. Not the kind you try to buy with orgasms."
The rejection slices deeper than the glass ever did, making me exposed, small, and powerless. And underneath the hurt, there's something else nagging me. Maybe it's relief that he's drawing a line and not letting me run the show with my chaos.
I swallow hard. "You're really doing this."
"Yes." He clenches his jaw.
I stare at him, assessing the way he holds himself like he's prepared for me to fight, or cry, or bolt.
I hate it.
But I also need it.
"Okay," I whisper, the word tasting like surrender.
He exhales, and only then do I realize he had been holding his breath. "That's a smart choice, Bluebird."
The praise lands softly and unexpectedly. My chest aches with it.
He tips my chin up with two fingers. "We start tomorrow, 10 a.m. You come to my office just as we did in our previous appointments, and we talk. No deflections or running deals. Understand?"
Tears spill down my cheeks.
He brushes them away with his thumb. "You should eat the rest of your breakfast."
My body trembles. "So you don't love me anymore?"
He scoots closer. "I didn't say that."
I sniffle. "Didn't you?"
"No. I said no fucking. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't set these boundaries. I'd take advantage of you."
"I-I don't understand," I admit.
He leans forward and kisses me.
I grip the back of his head and kiss him with everything I have.
He retreats but stays close, takes my hand and slides it between his legs, against his erection.
He softly states, "If you think for one minute I'm not attracted to you and don't want you, you're wrong.
But we can't have a healthy relationship if you're not healthy.
So I'm putting you first. Does that clear it up? "
I blink more tears, nod, shake my head, then shrug. "I don't know. Kind of."
He picks up my non-wounded hand and kisses it. "It's because I love you. And trust is part of our problem, isn't it?"
I stare at our joined hands until the silence stretches thin enough to snap. The words I've been swallowing since yesterday claw their way up. My voice cracks on the name like it's glass in my throat. "Amy."
Red doesn't flinch. He sits and watches me.
I pull my hand free and wrap my arms around my knees again, spouting, "You never told me.
Not once did you mention you hired a new girl who gets to sit at the front desk like she owns the place!
You let me walk in with your stupid sandwich and see her with her polished, pretty, Southern drawl, calling you Dr. Mercer like you're hers!
And I looked like an idiot. She knew nothing about me!
I was just the desperate girlfriend who didn't even rate a heads-up. "
His calm makes it worse, like I'm screaming into a void.
My laugh comes out bitter. "Were you testing how it felt to have someone efficient and uncomplicated around? Someone who doesn't show up bleeding and crying and making scenes? Someone you don't have to manage?"
Silence and tension continue to grow. Red's expression doesn't change.
"Say something," I snap.
"I'm listening."
Panic spikes sharp under my ribs. "You're not even going to tell me I'm wrong? That I'm crazy?"
He keeps his voice low and measured. "You're not crazy. You're scared."
I hate how right he is, so I lie, "I'm not scared. I'm pissed. You lied by omission. You let me believe I was the only woman in your orbit. And then there she was, and I felt—" My throat closes.
"You felt what, Blue?" he asks.
"Replaceable." Fresh tears well in my vision.
He exhales through his nose. "Amy is my assistant. That's the role and the relationship. She's not a woman in my life the way you are. She's an employee and nothing more."
The words should soothe. They don't. They land like ice water. "So why didn't you tell me about her?"
"I didn't think it was a big deal."
"Not a big deal? Seriously?"
"Apparently, I was wrong, but I didn't intend to keep it from you," he offers.