Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Blue
Shirley looks up from her computer the second the door clicks behind me.
Her pinned gray hair escapes in wisps around her temples like she's permanently surrounded by a comforting halo.
She gives me the kind of smile only a loving grandmother can manage.
It's warm, steady, and entirely unaware of the storm twisting through my veins.
She chirps, "There you are, sweetheart. Let's get your next appointment on the books. "
I return a small, controlled smile, the kind that says I survived something delicate. "Oh…yes. My next session."
She taps at the keyboard with slow, practiced strokes. "Dr. Mercer has openings next Tuesday or Thursday. Whichever works better for you."
Thursday? I'm not waiting that long.
I lean my elbows on the counter, keeping my voice airy. "I thought he wanted to see me sooner than next week."
Her eyes lift, gentle kindness wrapped in soft wrinkles. "Oh. He usually has weekly meetings unless he instructs me otherwise."
Scratch that.
Shirley's a pit bull dressed as a granny.
I scrunch my face. "He said he wanted to see me at the end of this week. Can you double-check, please? After all, I um..." I look away and swallow hard.
"Dear?" Shirley asks.
I glance around the empty waiting room, then bite my lip, focusing on her gaze. I slowly lift my sleeve to reveal my arm. I pretend to let shame flood me. "I-I...um..." I look away and let a tear fall, then wipe it quickly.
Sympathy fills her expression. "I see. All right, dear. How does..." She scans the computer screen. "Friday at four? He keeps that open for emergencies."
Friday night with Dr. Mercer.
He'll have no choice but to think about me all weekend.
Giddiness hits me. I contain my expression, nodding. "That works. Thank you."
Shirley prints on an appointment card, slides it toward me with a smile so sincere it almost makes me laugh. She has no idea the world she's ushering me deeper into. No clue she's scheduling the beginning of dismantling her boss piece by piece.
"Thank you," I repeat.
"There's also emergency numbers on the back of his card. Take care now," she replies.
I glance at the hotline and toss her another grateful nod, then I tuck the card into my purse and walk toward the elevator. The soft click of my heels echoes across the polished floor. Each step stretches something inside me until I'm buzzing beneath my skin.
The moment I press the call button and the elevator doors slide open, everything that happened in that office floods back through me.
Red's eyes.
His voice.
How his body went rigid when I leaned closer.
Now the real work begins.
The elevator closes, and I press my shoulder against the wall. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the afterimage of him fill the darkness behind my eyelids.
Dr. Red Mercer is a problem wrapped in discipline. He's a man whose control strains every time I speak. He thinks he hid the twitch in his jaw when I leaned in. He thinks that short pause in his breathing wasn't noticeable. He thinks he still owns the room when I'm in it, but he doesn't.
He let his eyes slip. It was only once. And his voice deepened when I hit a nerve. But the way his attention landed on my legs longer than he intended was the final crack in his composure I needed to see.
The elevator stops on the ground level, and my legs carry me through the lobby with a delicious tremor. A grin threatens to expose the chaos rolling through me.
I can still hear him telling me we would "end here for today," using that steady, even tone he probably practiced in grad school. It's a tone that won't save him. He couldn't hide the tension creeping up his neck, or the way his fingers wrapped around his pen a fraction too tightly.
Outside, the late afternoon sun throws warm light across the sidewalk. People pass with earbuds in, tote bags slung over shoulders, coffees half finished. It's all mundane, ordinary movement. None of them knows that something far more interesting just shifted inside that quiet office upstairs.
Red suspects I'm in trouble, and I'm glad.
He needs to not underestimate me. My father taught me one thing over the years.
A man who doesn't brace himself never breaks the right way.
I may not have ever witnessed him get violent with anyone, but I sure saw him put enough in their place. Every Ivanov can, and I'm no different.
I walk to a park, sit on a bench, then pull out my phone. I open the browser, typing Red's full name with a rush of anticipation that crackles through my fingers.
There's a sparse LinkedIn profile with an old headshot. I click on it so that he can see I'm researching him. I go to the private messages and type.
Me: It was so great meeting you today. I can't wait to explore more with you.
I exit the platform and click on another link. It's a conference clip where he answered a question about trauma bonds.
His voice floats through the air with authority. "People trapped in trauma bonds aren't weak. They're conditioned. The challenge is teaching them to recognize the difference between a connection that heals and a connection that hooks them."
Maybe I can convince him I have a trauma bond with Brax?
I think hard, can't figure out how to link it, so I shove it in the back of my mind for another time.
I return to the search page, but it's the same as before. There's not a lot about him.
It only excites me more. A man with nothing online is a man with everything worth digging for.
I tuck my phone into my purse and lean back on the park bench, letting the afternoon hum blend into a muted soundtrack around me.
Joggers bounce past. A mother adjusts her toddler's sun hat.
A couple argues softly over a spilled smoothie.
Ordinary life swirls in every direction, but none of it lands on me.
All I can picture is Red's jaw tightening when my skirt rode a little higher on my thigh.
Then there was the subtle shift in his posture when I let silence stretch rather than fill it.
And how could I forget his austere discipline in his expression that cracked only once, just enough to let me glimpse the man he tries so hard to bury.
But he's a man like every other one. He has needs. But he's also a psychiatrist. So I have no doubt he's got dark desires swirling in his veins, waiting for someone like me to unleash them.
He uses professionalism like it's armor. He forgets that metal dents. And I'm going to be the one with the hammer.
I trace the strap of my purse absently, replaying his words from the lecture clip.
"...a connection that heals and a connection that hooks..."
My phone buzzes, a single vibration that jolts my attention back down to the screen.
There's a message alert from LinkedIn. The hairs on my arms rise, and my stomach fills with flutters.
I unlock the screen, but it's not a message from Red. It's just one of my fashion world contacts.
Disappointment hits me.
This is typical. Stop worrying, I tell myself.
Red's too disciplined to respond right away. He'll agonize first, weigh the implications, maybe even draft something he deletes three times before sending a single neutral sentence.
The thought alone sends a charge through my veins.
The best kind of men are the ones who battle themselves before they take on the world. And Red is already wrestling ghosts he doesn't realize I planted.
I cross one leg over the other, letting the movement stretch the hem of my skirt along the top of my thigh. A breeze sweeps through the park, brushing a strand of my blue hair across my lips. I tuck it behind my ear and close my eyes, letting the fantasy roll out slowly.
I'm back in his office, only this time, he doesn't step away when I move closer. His hand doesn't drop from mine so quickly. His eyes dodge where they want to wander.
The air thickens just picturing it. I reach into my purse again and pull out my compact mirror, opening it to check my makeup.
My lipstick still sits in a clean curve, untouched despite the way I'd bitten the corner of my lower lip.
I smooth a thumb against the edge of my mouth, adjusting the faint shimmer.
I take a selfie and send it to his profile, wanting him to study my image all night.
My phone dings again. This time it's a calendar notification for Valentina's yoga class, an alert I forgot I left enabled from weeks ago, back when I still tracked every move she made out of obligation to my obsession with Brax.
A different kind of hunger sharpens inside me. My new project doesn't overshadow my love for Brax. He won't be with his wife forever. Eventually, he'll come to his senses and me.
Red needs to hear about it until all he sees is green.
I snap my compact closed and rise from the bench, brushing invisible lint from my skirt. My heels strike the pavement with a crisp pattern as I head toward the street, threading through the crowd with a momentum that refuses to wane.
Friday at four.
Only three days.
Three days is an eternity when a man starts obsessing in the silence between sessions. I should help him along by giving him something to compare himself to.
I walk toward the boutique-lined side street and turn the corner, where Valentina's yoga studio sits. For the last few weeks, Brax has shown up to escort Valentina home.
Disgust fills me.
He watches her like she's porcelain that will break if he doesn't protect her.
But she's not. I know she is just as ruthless as any Abruzzo.
So I cross the street and position myself against a lamppost, angled perfectly toward the storefront.
My hair drapes like a curtain down one shoulder, bright and conspicuous enough to draw stares but not recognition from anyone who matters.
I lean my hip against the metal pole, scroll idly through my phone, and keep my gaze lifted just enough to catch movement inside.