Chapter 15 #2
My voice rises. "Intent doesn't matter, Red.
Impact does. And the impact was me feeling like I don't even register on your radar enough for a five-second text.
'Hired a new assistant today. Her name's Amy.
See you tonight.' That's all it would've taken.
Instead, I walked in blind and humiliated myself. "
He doesn't look away. "You're right. I'm sorry."
I blink. "What?"
He affirms, "I should have told you. The moment I decided to hire someone new, I should have mentioned it. Not because you control my hiring decisions but because you're part of my life, and changes that affect my day-to-day affect you. I didn't think of it as relevant. That's on me."
My chest caves. I was ready for a fight. I wasn't ready for him to agree.
"Why didn't you think about it?" The question comes out small.
He thinks for a minute, then shrugs. "I compartmentalize stuff."
"What's that mean, Red?"
He scoots closer, so we're shoulder to shoulder, and laces his hand through mine.
"My professional life has always been a separate box.
Patients, staff, schedules, etc., all stay in that box.
You're the only person who has crossed into every box.
So I didn't connect the dots that a new person sitting at the front desk would feel like a threat to you.
I should have. I didn't. That's my failure, not yours. "
The admission should make me feel better. It means he wasn't hiding her. He simply didn't think she mattered enough to mention her. But the sting of secrecy is hard to release. And I messed up. I took something innocent and made it into a molehill.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. "I hate this. I hate feeling like my brain twists everything into proof that I'm going to lose you."
"You're not losing me."
"But I could." The words slip out before I can stop them. "If I keep being this…this mess of a woman... If I keep exploding over normal things, like an assistant, or your boundaries, or you trying to protect your work..."
He's quiet for a long beat.
I turn my head toward him. "Red—"
He puts his finger over my shaking lips. "We're going to work on that together. I'm going to help you learn to separate perception from reality. And I'm going to stop assuming what's obvious to me is obvious to you. How does that sound?" He lowers his hand.
My eyes burn. "Is that possible?"
"Yes. I know we can get there. But it starts with transparency from both of us. I'll tell you about staff changes and other things that touch my daily life. And in return, I want you to tell me when something triggers you before it turns into photos or pins or broken mirrors."
The bargain feels fragile, like glass I'm afraid to touch. But it's also the first real bridge anyone's ever tried to build with me instead of burning it.
I nod slowly. "Okay."
He exhales, and the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction.
Silence settles between us, softer this time. I'm still wrung out and hollow, but, strangely, I also feel seen. Not as the dramatic girlfriend, nor as the patient, but as the whole messy package we both know I am.
I want him to hold me. I want his arms, his warmth, the press of his body saying everything his words can't. I shift closer on instinct, reaching for his hand.
He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't pull me in either. His fingers close around mine, gentle, but he keeps the distance.
My heart stutters. "Red?"
He quietly asserts, "Not yet, Bluebird. We have work to do to get back there. And not because I don't want you as much as you want me right now."
The rejection is soft, but it lands hard. I swallow the hurt and agree, "Okay."
He squeezes my hand. "Soon. When it's not a deflection. When it's just us wanting each other, and not avoiding something harder."
Tears prick again. I don't fight them this time. They slide hot down my cheeks.
He lets me cry and holds me. For once, the emptiness doesn't feel like abandonment. It feels like space to breathe, to rebuild, and to be seen without having to perform.
We sit like that for a long time, his other arm around me, hands linked, breath in sync, and the morning light creeping under the blinds in thin gold bars.
We don't have sex or touch beyond his careful hold. But he's here. And for the first time in days, that's enough.
Red shifts first, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. He murmurs, "I need to make a call. Stay here. I'll be right back."
I nod against him, reluctant to let go, but he disentangles gently and stands. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and steps into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind him with a soft click.
The second he's gone, my eyes drift to the floor and latch onto a plain, black, oversized shopping bag.
What is that?
Did I buy something yesterday and forget?
Fear hits me. It wouldn't be the first time I did something I forgot about while I was in a state of panic.
I slide off the bed, careful of my bandaged thigh, and pad over barefoot. I crouch, ignoring the twinge in my stitches, and peek inside.
My breath catches.
Leather, red satin, and metal glint at me. I reach in with my good hand and pull out stainless-steel cuffs lined in luxurious red satin. The quick-release latch clicks under my thumb.
I return to the bag and pull out a thick black silk blindfold, edged in the same crimson, and a double-sided paddle with hard red leather on one side and softer suede on the other.
A sleek matte-red vibrator set, remote tucked beside it, and a bottle of high-end lube, and ankle restraints come out next.
My pulse kicks hard between my legs. Heat floods low in my belly, instant and electric.
My nipples tighten, and I can already picture the cuffs clicking around my wrists and ankles, the blindfold stealing the world, and Red cracking the paddle against my ass while he tells me he's teaching me a lesson.
Adrenaline zings in my cells like an out-of-control ping-pong ball. I turn the switch on the vibrator. It hums, and I wonder how it would feel inside me while he controls every pulse from across the room.
The toys aren't just toys; they're things Red wants to do to me.
Does he still?
I glance at the date on the receipt. He bought them yesterday, before he found me bleeding and took me to the hospital. Then he drew every line in the sand.
A round of anger hits me. Why do I have to be so stupid and jump to conclusions, then go off the deep end? I could be playing with Red right now instead of on his declared sex hiatus.
He still wants me.
He still wants this.
Hope surges so fast, it hurts. I clutch the blindfold to my chest, grinning despite the tears still drying on my face. This is it. This is how we fix us. Not with words. Not with sessions. With our bodies and surrender.
He can't say no to this.
He can't say no to me.
I slide the red leather lingerie on, tie it, and glance at my reflection. My hair's a mess, eyes red, but something about my out-of-control appearance seems appropriate.
I scoop everything back into the bag and carry it out to the hallway.
Red's voice drifts from the living room, low and professional. "…yes, cancel the full day. Reschedule everyone. I'll stay later if needed."
He's canceling work.
All of it.
For me.
For us.
My heart stutters.
He's standing by the window, phone to his ear, back to me. Sunlight cuts across his bare shoulders, highlighting the faint red marks I left there over the weekend with my nails.
I clear my throat.
He turns, and his eyes drift down my outfit and to the bag in my hands. His eyes flick from my body to the bag. Darkness shadows his expression.
I lift the bag a little, half teasing, half pleading. "You went shopping."
"Thank you." He ends the call without another word, pockets the phone, and crosses the room in three strides. His gaze darts to my exposed nipples, then down to the barely there panties.
My smile falters. "Is there something you had in mind when you brought these here?"
"No." The word is quiet. Final.
I blink. "No?"
"We're not going down any sexual path today." He says it plainly, no edge, no shame, just fact. "Not with toys. Not with anything. Not until we've done the harder work."
The hope in my chest collapses like wet paper. Heat floods my face in a violent eruption of embarrassment, rejection, and the sharp sting of being wrong again. "But you bought them. For me. Yesterday. Before—"
"Before I found you bleeding on the floor!"
"I'm fine now!"
"Do you have any idea what you harming yourself does to me?" he says, voice loud and full of pain.
I jerk my head backward, eyes welling, lips trembling again. I clutch the bag tighter.
He takes the bag from me, sets it on the table, and then leads me to the couch. He sits and tugs me onto his lap, pushes my hair behind my ear, places a blanket over my shoulders, and gently says, "You're shaking."
Words jumble in my head, and I can't speak.
He cups my cheek, his voice turns vulnerable, and he states, "I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore, Bluebird. It's killing me. I love you, and it has to stop. So no, we're not engaging in sexual behavior today. And we're not starting therapy tomorrow. We're going to do it here. Right now."