Chapter 2 #2
"Almost twenty-six," she says, batting her eyes and flipping the hourglass over again.
The timeline contradicts the birthdate listed in the folder. Blue just turned twenty-five.
Inconsistency one.
I call her out on it. "Didn't you have a birthday last month?"
Blue blinks, expression unchanged. "Yes."
"So you aren't almost twenty-six."
"That's semantics. Besides, I'm an old soul. Definitely not a child." She brushes her hair behind her ear with a soft stroke, then lowers her voice. "Well, I have the positives of a younger woman with the wisdom of an older one." She drags her eyes over me.
Heat floods my balls. It's the first time it's ever happened with a patient.
What the fuck.
She's playing you.
She flips the hourglass but it falls out of her hands. It crashes to the floor. Sand and glass fly everywhere. "Oh no!" she cries out, genuinely upset. She crouches on the floor and slides her hands across it.
I lunge toward her, grabbing her hand. "Stop. You're going to cut yourself."
"I broke your hourglass," she frets.
"It's fine."
"I'm-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," she says, tearing up.
"It's okay. Please. Go sit. I'll take care of this later."
She blinks harder.
I firmly state, "Blue, please go sit."
She nods and finally obeys.
I ignore the mess and sit across from her. I add, "I'd like to understand who you are."
Her eyes lock onto mine. She widens them. "You do?"
"That's the goal of therapy."
"Not what I asked."
If I were only in a bar and not my office.
I sidestep the bait. "We're here to explore your experiences. Help you decipher what you really want in life versus what you think you might."
"You want to know the truth, Dr. Mercer?" She draws out my name slowly, and my pulse ticks up. Then she adds, "Or can I call you Red?"
"Dr. Mercer is best."
"Okay, Dr. Mercer," she says in the same tone.
Jesus Christ.
Switch gears.
I offer, "Why don't you tell me why you think you're here."
She sighs, playing the wounded ingénue. "I'm here because everyone suddenly wants to act like I'm unhinged."
"Tell me why they might think that."
Her gaze sharpens. "Why don't you tell me? You have your fancy notes."
I keep my tone even. "I have your parents' perspectives. I don't have yours."
Blue reclines slightly, her chin lifting with the faintest air of defiance. "People love to exaggerate when they're embarrassed."
"And your parents were?"
"Yes."
"Why would they be embarrassed?"
She pouts. "Because Brax showed up angry. And he made everything sound much worse than it was."
"Let's talk about Brax."
Her eyes brighten too quickly with eagerness. It's not a surprise. She's been waiting for that name to enter the room. She starts, "Brax is misunderstood. He thinks he knows everything, but he doesn't understand the situation."
"What situation?"
"He thinks I'm obsessed with him." Her voice softens. "But sometimes people tell themselves ridiculous things because admitting the truth scares them."
"What is the truth?" I ask.
She speaks so quietly, I have to lean closer. "That love isn't balanced. One person always gives more. One person always wants more. That doesn't make it unhealthy."
I state, "Many people would disagree."
She shrugs, and her tone turns defensive. "Most people don't know what love is. Do you know what devotion is, Dr. Mercer?" Her fragility from earlier evaporates. She watches me, sharp and assessing.
"Yes."
"Then tell me your thoughts since you're the expert."
"We'll get to that another time. Tell me, what do you want from Brax?" I ask.
She stares at my tie, then at my throat. She finally locks her gaze into mine, full of confidence. "Everything he won't admit he wants from me."
"And what does he want?"
She drags her eyes over me in a wicked way.
I force myself not to move, but my heart races too fast.
Her expression does a one-eighty. She shrugs again. "Why does it matter? He chose someone else. Not because he loves her. Because he has issues."
"Issues?"
"Yes."
I point out, "Because he's married?"
Blue's eyes narrow. "That too."
"What are the other issues?"
She throws my words in my face. "We'll talk about that at another time." She smiles widely, her obsession thick enough to taste in the air between us.
I push, "I want to understand what brought you here."
She scoffs. "I told you my parents made me come."
"You're twenty-five. They can't make you do anything. You're an adult," I declare.
She laughs, then puts her hand over her mouth, laughing some more.
"What's so funny?" I ask.
She leans closer, pushing her cleavage toward me, and with an innocent expression, questions, "Do you know who my family is?"
I don't flinch. It's no secret the Ivanovs hold power in Chicago. Some even say they're Mafia. I only give her, "I've heard of them and their real estate success."
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. "Don't lie to me, Red. Sorry. Dr. Mercer." She purses her lips together and bats her eyes.
My cock hardens.
God dammit.
"No one can make you be here," I claim.
She huffs, "I'm Adrian Ivanov's daughter. There are rules. Trust me. I only have so many choices in life."
"Like cutting your arm and claiming Brax's wife did it?" I ask.
Her hand twitches near her bandage. Her eyes darken, but not with shame, anger, or disappointment. It's something I don't have a label for and sends a chill down my spine.
Her voice cracks, and her sweet victim expression returns. "I didn't deserve any of this." She blinks hard.
I gently push, "Blue, did you injure yourself?"
Her gaze becomes a quiet warning. She says, "You're supposed to be neutral."
"I'm asking a clinical question."
"You're accusing me."
"Not accusing. Clarifying."
She uncrosses her legs, leans forward, and rests her elbows on her knees, almost like she's posing for a photo shoot for a high-end magazine. Her perfume reaches me again, faint and warm. She whispers, "You think I'm a crazy stalker."
I reply, "I don't like to use the word crazy."
She rolls her eyes. "Of course you don't. But you also think I'm manipulative, right?"
Yes.
I reply, "I think you're in distress."
She studies my expression, searching for cracks. "You don't believe me."
"I believe you're struggling."
"I believe you're judging me," she counters.
I fold my hands. "I'm not here to judge. I'm here to help you untangle what's causing conflict in your life."
"You want to untangle me?" she murmurs.
My cock aches. I slowly exhale through my nose in a way she can't see.
This session is sliding sideways, a slow drift away from structure into a psychological dance she is orchestrating far more deliberately than her mother hinted at.
Her blue hair glints under the lamp, each strand deliberately styled. Her nails gleam with topcoat. Her skirt is positioned to hint rather than reveal, but the intention vibrates beneath every choice she made before stepping through my door.
She's presenting a very specific version of herself. One she's decided to show me, and for a reason. My job is to crack through it, but it's not going to be today.
I ask, "Why don't we change the topic. What would you like to talk about next?"
"You."
"That isn't how therapy works."
She tilts her head. "So talk about me."
"What part of you would you like to explore?"
For the first time, she smiles without pretense. A real smile. It's bright, startling, and utterly dangerous for any man. She claims, "There are parts of me you'd like more than others. Even if you're not ready to admit it."
I straighten in my chair. "This type of comment crosses boundaries."
She doesn't apologize. She doesn't even blink. Instead, her gaze drops to my collar, then trails up to my jaw, tracking each centimeter like she's mapping the texture of my restraint.
"I haven't crossed anything yet," she whispers.
I firmly state, "You need to understand something. This space is therapeutic, not personal."
Her lips part. "It's about me. How is this not personal?"
"Your internal experience is personal. Our dynamic must remain professional."
"That's not how attraction works."
I stop breathing for a second.
Attraction.
She wants a reaction with confirmation. She's grasping for power, but she doesn't understand the gravity of the word she just weaponized.
I reiterate, "This conversation is inappropriate."
Blue shrugs. "You asked what brought me here."
"I asked for clarity about the circumstances, not an invitation into your fantasies."
"Is that what you think this is?" she asks, eyes gleaming. "A fantasy?"
"Blue—"
"You didn't answer my question earlier."
"Which one?"
She lifts her hand, twirling a bright blue curl around her finger. "Do you like my hair?"
"No," I say too fast.
Her smile spreads slowly. "Interesting."
"We're ending here for today," I say, standing.
She doesn't move. Instead, she watches me rise, her eyes crawling upward with steady, calculated precision.
When she finally stands, she steps closer than she should.
Her face tilts slightly upward, and the curve of her lips softens.
She murmurs, "You know, I thought this would be boring. But it isn't."
Not in the least.
"It was nice meeting you, Blue. Please schedule your next appointment with Shirley and come prepared to be honest in our next session." I open the door.
She walks past me, her shoulder brushing mine. It's another deliberate contact. Another test she wants me to fail, and I struggle not to react to.
At least outwardly. Inside, something's lit I've not felt in a long time.
She pauses in the doorway and glances back with a smile that could rewrite the weather outside. "See you next week, Dr. Mercer."
The air in the office stretches thin as she disappears and shuts the door.
I press my hand against it. An afterimage of her presence lingers in the room, not from anything she touched but from the way she watched me, as though she was memorizing not my words but my weaknesses.
Can she see them?
Don't let her get to you.
I should refer her to someone else.
No. I've dealt with delusional patients before.
I sit at my desk and open the session notes.
My handwriting looks normal even though my pulse still races. I write my notes.
Patient: Blue Ivanov
Session One Observations:
Intelligent. Calculated. Disarming.
Uncertain distinction between truth and narrative.
High potential for manipulation.
Significant fixation tendencies.
Concerning sexual overtures.
Therapeutic boundaries must remain rigid.
I stop writing.
Rigid boundaries.
I close the file and glance at the chair she sat in. I rise and pick a perfectly straight strand of blue hair resting on the arm of her chair.
It didn't fall there by accident. I'm certain she left it intentionally.
I lift it, hold it between my fingers, then drop it into the wastebasket.
This girl is not stable or predictable. She's going to test every boundary I've ever built.
She's not like my other patients. Most of them bore me. They're too easy to diagnose and treat. But Blue...
She's more complex than I anticipated. It's going to be difficult to make progress with her. It'll be more work and slower than any others.
I glance at the broken glass and sand. I go to the closet, grab the broom and dustpan, and sweep up the mess. I barely register the sentimental value of my great-grandfather's heirloom. All I can do is try to breathe through my excitement.
Blue Ivanov might just be the patient I've been waiting for my entire career.