Chapter 19 #2
"Or what?" His tone stays conversational. "You'll hit me? In your own home? With two women thirty feet away who will hear every sound?"
"I don't need to hit you to end this conversation."
His sharp smile appears. "No. You don't. But you also don't have the leverage you think you do."
I step closer. "Blue's file is personal. It's not to be spoken of, but why don't we talk about other important facts?"
"Like?"
"Does Demi's father know about you two?"
He freezes.
I hold his gaze and state, "I assume if he did, you'd be answering questions in a basement somewhere."
Mikhail shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe he's letting me handle it. Quietly. Discreetly. The way powerful men handle problems that might embarrass the family name."
"Except you're the problem. And it's his daughter. So I assume he doesn't know about you two?"
Light flickers in his pupils. "You're putting your reputation on the line, Dr. Mercer."
My pulse kicks with calculation. "You're threatening my career."
He steps so close, I can smell the faint cedar of his cologne.
"I'm stating facts. One call from me and your license is ash.
One whisper to the board, one carefully worded complaint from a 'concerned colleague' who heard rumors about boundary violations, and do you think they'll care about timelines?
Or whether she was technically still your patient when you kissed her?
They'll see headlines. 'Prominent Psychiatrist Preys on Vulnerable Young Patient.
' Your practice dies. Your reputation dies.
And Blue?" He lets the name hang. "She'll be the tragic footnote.
The girl who was taken advantage of. Again. "
Rage coils tight in my chest, but I keep it leashed. "You're good at this."
"I've had practice."
I nod once. "So have I."
He waits.
I grunt. "You think I haven't run every scenario? You think I haven't lain awake calculating the exact second this could blow up in my face? I have. Every night since I realized I couldn't walk away from her. And you know what I keep coming back to?"
He doesn't answer.
My voice drops, and everything I've tried to avoid believing comes rushing out.
"She's worth it. Every risk. Every threat.
Every fucking phone call you might make.
She's worth watching my career burn. So if you're waiting for me to beg, or bargain, or hand her over like some prize I'm willing to forfeit, you're going to be disappointed. "
He gives me a look like a predator gives another when it realizes its teeth are real.
"You really believe that?"
"I know it."
Silence stretches past ten seconds.
Then Mikhail exhales through his nose. "Interesting."
He repositions his stance. "I could still make the call."
I don't move. "You could. But you haven't yet. Which means you're not sure what outcome you want."
His mouth quirks. "Observant."
"I'm a psychiatrist. It's my job."
He studies me for another long moment. Then, quietly asserts, "She trusts you. Completely. That's dangerous for someone like her."
I counter, "She trusts you, too. Enough to let you near Demi and into my house tonight."
He doesn't deny it.
I press the advantage. "So maybe you're not here to burn me down. Maybe you're here to decide whether I'm worth the mess I'll make if you try."
Mikhail tilts his head. "And if I decide you're not?"
My voice stays calm. "Then we'll have a different conversation. One that doesn't end with words."
He laughs. It's short and surprised. "You'd fight me. For her?"
"In a heartbeat. And the next time you want to threaten me, make sure you're not looking into the same mirror," I warn.
He arches an eyebrow.
"I know how to make phone calls and send emails, too."
Something shifts in his posture. His lips twitch. "Noted."
He turns toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "One more thing."
I wait.
"Their fathers don't know anything yet. But eventually they will. And when the time comes, this little arrangement you've built? It either survives scrutiny, or it collapses. Your move, Doctor." He gives me a final stare, then opens the door.
I call out, "Mikhail."
He stops.
"If you hurt her—if you hurt either of them—I won't wait for permission to return the favor."
He gives a nod, as if he respects my threat, then walks out.
I stay where I am for three full breaths, with my heart hammering. Adrenaline sings in my veins. I straighten my cuffs, smooth my shirt, and follow him back to the living room.
Blue looks up the second I appear. Her eyes search my face, anxious yet hopeful.
I give her the smile I keep only for her. "Everything's fine, Bluebird."
She exhales, and her shoulders drop.
Demi pours wine and announces, "The appetizers are done."
Mikhail takes a seat across from me, his posture casual, and raises his glass.
I lift mine in return.
"To more double dates!" Blue gushes, her expression sparkling.
Unable to not be happy since she is, I clink my glass against hers and the others.
Demi tosses her hair over one shoulder and raises her own glass high. "Okay, no one is allowed to be weird tonight. This is a celebration dinner. Blue's finale dress is basically the Met Gala of—" she gestures vaguely, "—whatever fashion people do."
Blue laughs, cheeks bright, and swats at her arm. "Stop. It's not the Met Gala."
"It is," Demi insists. "It's your moment. And since I am your best friend, I will be making it about me. Naturally." She leans toward me with a grin. "Red, you're going to be front row with us, right? Like, actual front row. No hiding behind a plant?"
Blue's gaze flicks to mine, and I catch her plea.
My chest tightens. I keep my expression easy. "Of course. Front row."
Her whole body loosens like she's been holding her breath for hours. "You promise?"
"I don't make promises I don't plan on keeping," I tell her, wondering how we're ever going to talk to her parents so they're okay with our situation.
They won't be.
Demi slaps her palm against the counter.
"One more toast. To Blue and the finale dress.
May there be hundreds of interviews and photos, and everyone finally seeing what I've been screaming about since sophomore year.
To my best friend, becoming the hottest, most terrifying, most talented woman alive. "
Blue bites her lip, embarrassed and pleased in equal measure.
I tug her into me, proud of her big accomplishment.
Demi tips her glass toward me. "And to Red for—" she squints, pretending to think, "—being…weirdly supportive. Like a scary rich dad who also might kill someone, but in a good way."
Blue snorts.
I chuckle. "Ha ha funny."
Blue lifts her glass last, her voice softer than Demi's but steadier than it used to be. "To—" she glances at me, then at Demi, and Mikhail like she's including all of us whether we deserve it or not, "—to new things, not hiding, and doing what scares you."
It lands like a punch under my ribs.
Mikhail and I meet each other's gaze and take drinks.
We make small talk, eat shrimp cocktail, cheese, and crackers. By the time we sit for dinner, I'm internally relaxing.
Demi plates warm bread, butter, and something lemony on the side like she's running a restaurant out of my kitchen. She sets the beef roast, fingerling potatoes, and roasted root vegetables down. Then she grabs the salad bowl and heaps a pile into our bowls.
Blue sits at the table next to me, holding my hand.
Demi keeps the conversation moving at the speed of light, filling every gap before it can turn sharp.
"So," she says through a grin, pointing her fork at Blue, "tell us how you got your dress in the finale."
Blue's eyes light up again, the way they did when she walked through my door.
"I thought it would look good with the collection.
I only expected it to be added as an online purchasable item.
But when Mom saw my dress, well, she fell in love.
" Blue leans closer to the table and lowers her voice. "I almost threw up. In a good way."
Demi nods, already halfway to tears for dramatic effect. "She made it from scratch. Like, every stitch. Like a witch. A couture witch." She snaps her fingers.
Blue giggles, then turns toward me, eyes shining. "It's not perfect."
My mouth opens on instinct to tell her it is, but I stop myself. Praise that doesn't see her is useless. So instead, I say, "Perfect doesn't exist in art. I'm sure it's creative, and that's why it's going to stand out."
She blinks a few times, then beams brighter. It's like I just pressed her bruise and it gave her the rush she craves.
Mikhail pours more wine into Demi's glass without asking. It's smooth, familiar, and possessive in a way no one would clock unless they were trained to see territory disguised as manners. He shifts the bottle toward Blue next.
I cover Blue's glass with my hand. We established in therapy that more than two glasses put her at risk of tailspinning when she's alone. I don't plan on leaving her alone tonight, but I don't want to take any chances. So I state, "She's good."
Mikhail's gaze flicks to mine, flat and unreadable, but he withdraws the bottle with a faint nod like he's acknowledging the boundary.
Blue picks up her water and takes a sip.
I squeeze her thigh.
She leans closer.
Demi keeps talking, oblivious or pretending not to notice the silent exchange. "Okay, outfits for the show. Blue, I'm doing black. Obviously. But like slutty black. With an open leather jacket so I look important."
Blue laughs. "You always look important."
"I do," Demi agrees without hesitation. "But this time I want to look important and like I might start a fight."
Blue's shoulders shake with her laughter. "Please don't start a fight."
"I can't make promises," Demi says, then turns to me. "Red, what are you wearing?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I've never been to a fashion show. I guess a suit?"
She makes a face. "Boring."
Blue touches my knee under the table like she's reminding me she likes boring and stability. Then she tilts her head toward them, eyes glittering with mischief. "What about you? What are you wearing, Mikhail?"
Demi's smile turns sharp. "Mikhail wears whatever I tell him to wear. But I haven't decided if I'm allowing him to go yet, have I?" She arches her eyebrows at him, smirking.
Mikhail settles his hand on the back of her chair, fingers resting like a claim. He grinds his molars, eyes wide.
Blue glances between them, biting on her lip. "What exactly are you two?"
Demi declares louder than necessary. "He's basically my after-hours chauffeur slash bodyguard slash—" she pauses, eyes dancing down his body, "—accessory."
"Accessory," Blue repeats, amused.
Mikhail locks his gaze on Demi, and something private and loaded passes between them. Then Demi breaks eye contact and takes a long sip of wine.
Why does it seem like she's the one in control?
Demi pivots like a pro. "Okay, okay, enough about me. I want details." She points at me and Blue like we're exhibits. "How did you two even—" she makes a vague gesture, "—happen?"
Blue chokes on her drink.
I keep my face neutral, like my heart isn't hammering, because I know Mikhail is watching every answer for weakness.
"It just happened," I comment.
Demi's eyes narrow. "Wow. Incredible. Groundbreaking. Pulitzer."
Blue puts her hand over her face, half laughing.
"We ran into each other outside of the office. I believe you were at the restaurant on one occasion," I offer, knowing I need to give her something to shut her up.
Demi's expression softens despite herself. "Okay. That's actually kind of cute."
Mikhail studies me as if he's trying to decide whether my answer was rehearsed or real.
Demi announces, "Okay, next plan. After-dinner walk, then photos. Maybe we should go to the rooftop bar downtown. Blue needs content, and so do I."
Blue laughs, breathless and happy. "Yes. Let's do it!"
The sound slices through me. I set my wineglass down carefully. "Bluebird..."
Her laughter fades as she tilts her head back to look up at me.
I state, "We shouldn't go anywhere tonight."
Her brows knit. "What? Why not?"
I keep my voice low and steady, the same tone I use when we're alone, and the world gets too loud.
"Your parents don't know about us yet. If someone sees us out together, or a photo of us hits someone's feed, it won't be good.
Everything we've been careful about unravels before you even get the chance to explain it on your terms."
She searches my face, the excitement dimming into something smaller and more fragile. "What about just a walk?"
I slide one hand down her arm, lacing our fingers together, and tug her gently to her feet so we're facing each other.
"I want that rooftop bar. I want the photos, the night air, and you in that dress under city lights.
I want all of it. But not at the cost of your parents finding out the wrong way.
Not when we're this close to telling them. "
Demi sits up straighter, sensing the change. "Red, come on. We can be discreet. Hats, dark corners—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend.
Demi's eyes widen.
I glance at Mikhail. "Want to help me out here since you're in the same boat?"
His arrogance flares across his expression. "I think you're doing a good job for both of us."
I scowl at him, then soften for Blue. "I'm not saying never. I'm saying not tonight. Let's talk to your parents first. Then we'll walk every rooftop in the city if you want. I promise."
Her eyes shimmer with frustration and disappointment, but also understanding. She exhales slowly, the way I taught her, four counts in, six out. Then she leans forward and presses her forehead to my chest, groaning, "I hate waiting."
"I know." I wrap my arms around her, my chin resting on her hair. "But you're worth every second of it."
Behind us, Demi groans dramatically and flops back against the cushions. "Fine. Indoor after-party it is. But I'm queuing the cheesiest playlist, and you owe me a slow dance in the living room." She points at Mikhail.
He says nothing.
Blue pulls back just enough to look up at me again. "You're really sure?"
I nod. "I'm sure about you. Everything else can wait."
"Okay." She turns toward Demi with a forced-bright smile. "Okay. Indoor after-party. But you're still taking photos. I didn't get all dressed up for nothing."
I kiss the top of her head, breathing in her jasmine-and-wine scent, and feel relief. The night narrows to the four walls, with only our small circle of people, and the woman in my arms who I fall deeper in love with every day.