13
Violet
C arter’s home office is just like him: dark, immaculate, and well organized. A stark contrast to the messy chaos inside my head. Dark wood paneling lines the feature wall giving the room a shadowy ambiance.
The furniture is minimalist, all sharp angles and clean lines in shades of almost black wood with the occasional splash of white or gold. A large window dominates the far east wall, letting in natural light and softening the eerie vibe.
Stepping over the threshold, my muscles tense painfully. Despite the room’s generous size, a claustrophobic feeling settles into my bones when I spot an elegantly dressed man occupying a leather chair in the corner of the room: Thomas Wicker. My therapist.
There’s more than forty feet between us, his presence almost an afterthought in this space, but the thought of being here alone with him turns my legs to jelly.
“Good morning,” he says, glancing over the rectangular rims of his glasses. His voice is calm, modulated like he thinks any sudden change in tone could set me off. “Take a seat.” He gestures to a loveseat positioned close to the exit.
I relax a touch because he’s deliberately seated himself at a distance, giving me plenty of space and a clear path out. It looks like he might know what he’s doing.
“Leave the door open,” he adds when I step forward.
Another subtle gesture that makes me feel less confined.
With a deep breath for courage, I do as I’m told, sinking into the cool leather seat. Most of the furniture around Carter and Hailey’s mansion is leather, always cold.
Tom’s face is a mask of professional calm, hard to read, so naturally my mind immediately spirals. I wonder if he’s judging me, assessing how damaged I am, calculating how many sessions it’ll take to make me normal .
I’ll never be normal. I’m damaged beyond repair , the oppressive little whisper wails inside my head. I squash it because it’s wrong. No one’s damaged beyond repair. The key to moving on is trying hard and long enough.
Easier said than done.
I square my shoulders, waiting for Tom to break the quiet and muffle my inner pessimist.
But he doesn’t speak, just looks at me, like he expects me to start. Maybe if I had the faintest clue what to say, I would. Unfortunately, as much as I cling to hope, the idea of therapy helping seems laughable.
Six months of captivity, rapes, battering, and bruises can’t possibly be unraveled by talking.
How am I supposed to put what happened into words? The fear, the pain, the sense of being damaged. I might not believe I’m broken beyond repair, but the truth is I am a mess. My emotional chaos seems too big, too monstrous to fit into sentences.
This is pointless.
Maybe... but I hope Tom proves me wrong.
After what feels like an age, but was probably less than a minute, he speaks.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready to talk. We can start whenever you want.”
His tone is soothing, but it grates on my nerves. I don’t want soothing. I want to scream, cry, laugh, and break something, but I sit quietly, eyes fixed on the dark wooden floor, turmoil brewing inside.
He said we can start whenever I want... I don’t think that’s today. My head’s spinning I’m so... I don’t even know what I am. Confused? Scared? Ashamed? A little bit of everything and a fair dose of defensive.
He can’t save me. No one can. I just have to tell him what he wants to hear, get through this, and pretend it’s helping.
That’s a lousy idea. What purpose would it serve? Who’d benefit? No one. Not me, not the people who rescued me, not Tom, and not Broadway, who organized these therapy sessions so fast.
Everyone expects I can be fixed and move on but there’s no moving on from something that still haunts me every waking moment.
I grind my teeth, hating everything about that pessimist inhabiting my mind. Pretending I’m better will help absolutely no one. Least of all me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how talking about what happened is supposed to help.”
Tom nods, his expression still professional. I bet he hears similar confessions every day. “We don’t have to talk about what happened. We can talk about anything you want, Viera. There’s no right or wrong way to do this.”
Therapy can’t change what happened. It won’t erase the nights of terror, the feeling of being watched, the visible and invisible scars.
God, I wish that part of me could choke to death on all her negativity.
Tom leans back, maintaining a respectful distance. It’s as if he’s trying to take up as little space as possible, so he doesn’t appear intimidating. I like that.
Another thing I like is that he doesn’t fill the silence unnecessarily. He gives me space to collect my thoughts and decide if I want to speak.
After months of having no control, of every aspect of my life being dictated by someone else, these small, respectful gestures feel monumental.
Tom is a pro through and through. I can’t be the first rape victim he’s worked with. He knows exactly how to act.
“I don’t... I don’t know where to start,” I say, twisting my fingers in my lap.
“That’s understandable. Like I said, we don’t have to dive into the deep end right away. Sometimes it helps to start with the present, how you’re feeling today.”
Like I have a split personality disorder. Like my thoughts can’t be controlled. I’ve been a captive for months but now I’m free, I’m still trapped. Limited by my own head.
I could tell him that every time I close my eyes, I’m back in the bedroom Blaze kept me in, the walls moving closer and closer. That I can’t sleep.
I could tell him that, despite all this, I’m growing more and more confident around Carter and his men. It’s all thanks to Hailey. Or rather thanks to seeing how protective toward her they are. How attentive.
Unknowingly, they show me that not all men are like those Noretto rented me to. Unknowingly, they’re earning my trust, even if I still tense whenever they enter the room.
Well... unless Broadway’s around. On the outside, he’s lethal. Dark, tall, foreboding, but his eyes tell a different story whenever they meet mine. No man ever looked at me with concern for my well-being... until Broadway.
I almost had a panic attack last night when I lay awake in bed and caught myself reliving that moment Broadway hauled me into his arms outside the auction house...
A tightness grips my throat and I shrug at Tom, nonverbally letting him know I still can’t find the words.
Tom nods again, as if expecting this. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk at all if you’re not ready. Just by coming here you took a step forward. This is your safe space, Viera. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”
◆◆◆
I wish I could say I was ready the next day, but the sad reality is that for the first four days we sat mostly in silence. Daily therapy is far from standard practice, but when I asked Tom about it, he just said it was Broadway’s wish for him to be available every day for the near future.
And I’m thankful, because even sitting in Carter’s office, gearing up the courage to talk, I’ve been making progress. Thinking through the hurt, wondering where to start and what eats at me most helped me catalog my thoughts. When I opened my mouth to speak this morning, it felt like I was in control for the first time in months.
Tom left three hours ago, and I’ve been sitting in the garden ever since, enjoying the freedom and replaying our session.
The evening sky is a canvas of deep purples and soft oranges, the air crisp and carrying a faint scent from the jasmine blooming in the garden.
The soft whoosh of the sliding glass door draws my attention. Hailey steps out of the house, two steaming cups in hand, a cautious smile on her lips.
I’m surprised she’s left me this long. Since I arrived here, she’s been like my shadow, always popping up to chat about the most mundane things.
At first, it felt intrusive, but she has this natural charm about her that draws me in. She quickly became a ray of sunshine through the darkness that plagues my mind and now, spending time with her helps me feel... normal .
One day, I want to be just like her. Happy, kind, and positive. That’s the goal.
“Hot cocoa,” she says, handing me a cup before settling down on the garden couch opposite mine, every move gracious. “How are you feeling today?”
Like dying.
I suppress the urge to hit the back of my own head to silence that stupid voice. I don’t feel like dying. But I do hate that question. I hear it all the time from Hailey, Carter, Koby, Ryder, even the maids. They’re all walking on eggshells around me.
“I’m fine. A bit chilly, so this is great,” I raise the cup. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. The boys are having some last-minute meeting inside and Carter made it clear I should make myself scarce.” She rolls her eyes, unappeased. “As if I don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“I can’t pretend I know Carter well,” I say, blowing off the sweet-scented steam. “But it’s clear he does everything with your safety in mind. He’s trying to protect you.” I take a sip, hissing under my breath when my tongue stings. “All four of them are very protective over you.”
Hailey chuckles, nodding in agreement. “That they are. They’re protective over you too, you know?” A soft, knowing smile curls her lips. “One of them in particular.”
My cheeks heat and my grip tightens. “I—um... I don’t think—”
“Relax. You don’t have to say a thing, but humor me and listen, okay?”
No. Men are evil. All men are fucking evil. No exceptions.
Not all men are evil. In fact, if there’s any balance in this universe then I’ve already encountered my life’s share of monsters and, from now on, I’ll meet decent men.
I nod at Hailey, that hopeful part of me growing curious.
“It was his idea to get you cocoa,” Hailey says. “If it were up to me, we’d be halfway through a bottle of Chardonnay by now, but Broadway insisted on this.” She waves her cup around. “A liquid dose of serotonin.”
The happiness chemical chocolate releases in the brain.
Considering the smile curling my lips, it’s definitely working.
“Broadway’s a great guy,” she continues, curling her bare feet under her butt. “After they took me from Blaze, we were all locked together in a safe house for weeks. I didn’t trust them, least of all Carter, but Broadway kept me sane. He may have a tough exterior, but inside he’s a big, cuddly teddy.”
“He’s kind,” I agree. “And the only one who doesn’t set off my fight or flight response.”
He’s also the one I feel safest with. It’s strange, almost unnatural to feel this way about any man, but there’s a softness about him that instantly puts my mind at ease.
Maybe because he doesn’t look at me like I’m broken. There’s no pity in his eyes, just... wonder.
Carter, Koby, Ryder, even Hailey... they all treat me like a weakling. Like a baby animal that needs constant nurturing and protecting. Like a tiny bird with broken wings, but not Broadway. He doesn’t look at me as if I’m less. Doesn’t talk to me as if he’s afraid I’ll run away and hide under the bed.
He believes I’ll be okay while everyone else expects me to fall apart on the spot.
Because that’s imminent.
Hailey pinches her lips to fight back a smile, but her big, blue, twinkling eyes give it away. “He asks about you every day.”
My heart picks up pace and my cheeks warm further. I glance at my cocoa, the steam mingling with the cool evening air. “You said he kept you sane at the safe house,” I say, my curiosity piqued. “What did he do?”
“Nothing and everything, really. It was an intense time. I didn’t know who I could trust, everyone wanted me dead, and my mind was plagued by memories of the ballroom. Broadway made those weeks bearable. It was nothing special, but he sat with me for hours, playing board games and talking about anything and everything to keep me distracted. He has this way of making you feel safe, even when everything’s falling apart.”
Picturing Broadway hunched over a board game, a smile on his face as he tries to outmaneuver Hailey, comes easily. “Sounds like he cares about you.”
“He and Carter are like brothers, so I guess you’re right. The bromance is real, believe me,” she laughs into her cup. “It wasn’t just the games, but the way he listened to everything I had to say. He never made me feel a burden, never made me feel weak for being scared.”
That’s one part of her story I can relate to. He didn’t know me at all when he helped me outside the auction house. Yet he grabbed the electrified collar with his bare hands. He whispered in my ear, held me close, and despite my fragile state, despite the obvious fact that I am smaller and weaker than him, I didn’t feel less.
The more I learn about him, the more intrigued I become. There’s a depth to Broadway I didn’t expect. A depth I wish I could explore.
The sliding door opens again, and all four men step into the garden. Carter exits first, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and two empty wine glasses in the other. His eyes immediately find Hailey, his gaze full of affection, protectiveness, and something hot.
Broadway’s right beside him with a bottle of white wine. Our eyes clash across the garden and my breath catches in my throat. For a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of us, connected by an invisible thread.
A pleasant shiver slides down my spine. I know that look... the same protective, caring intensity Carter exudes whenever he stares at Hailey.