Chapter 3 #2
Valentina stands behind the register, holding her yoga mat, her practiced smile in play. Her dark ponytail shines under the overhead lighting. She's beautiful in a clean, classic way that Red will probably respect.
Men like him prefer understated women.
Correction. Men like him think they prefer understated women until someone like me walks into their life and rearranges their pulse with a glance.
A familiar black SUV pulls to the curb. My breath catches, but this time, it's not out of emotion. It's out of strategy.
Brax gets out, tall, broad, arms covered in ink, and wearing that perpetual scowl I've memorized.
I straighten subtly, shifting my weight so he won't catch the outline of my face too easily.
He checks the sidewalk, then steps inside the studio.
A few minutes pass. Then Valentina appears in the doorway with him. He places his hand on her back, guiding her in that overprotective way he has. She looks up at him like he hung the moon or some equally nauseating romantic symbolism.
My chest tightens. I push past it and snap a photo of them. It's hip-level, angled discreetly.
Brax helps Valentina into the SUV, then gets inside next to her. It takes off.
I swallow the anger and make my way to my apartment, determined to make both Red and Brax beg for my attention.
I'm going to need to know Red's schedule.
I pull up LinkedIn and send Red the photo of Brax and Valentina.
I plan out what I'll tell him on Friday when he asks me about it.
I saw them together. It reminded me of what wanting someone does to a person. I don't want that pain again, Dr. Mercer. Not with you.
He'll swallow hard. His throat will tighten. He'll shift in his chair, fighting the instinct to close the distance between us. And I'll watch every second of that unraveling.
I stop walking long enough to open my notes app and add a line under Session Two Tactics.
Make him jealous. Subtly.
Then another:
Ask him why jealousy happens if a connection is not personal.
He'll know what I'm doing. I'll pretend he doesn't. But men like him cling to their professionalism until it bursts at the seams.
I slip my phone away again and walk toward the train station, weaving between crowds without breaking my pace. A man bumps my shoulder and mutters an apology, but I barely register it. The city's electric hum surrounds me, but nothing penetrates the singular purpose coiling inside my spine.
Dr. Red Mercer.
He thinks he can analyze me without consequence. Yet he has no idea he stepped into a game he'll never control.
I reach home, swing the door open, and drop my purse on the counter. My kitchen lights reflect softly across the polished marble. I move toward the mirror in the entryway, glance at my hair, and lift a lock between my fingers.
He says he didn't like it, but he did. I saw it.
I let the strand fall and whisper to my own reflection, "I'll make you break first."
Then I head upstairs to choose the skirt I'll wear on Friday. I skim through my closet rack, talking out loud as I flick through each one. "Too tight. Too obvious."
I revisit each skirt, try a dozen on, then return to my closet, frustrated.
Nothing carries the right message. There needs to be enough to ensure his discipline strains the moment I cross my legs in front of him.
It needs to scream I'm innocent if he wants me that way or dangerous enough to ruin his ethics in under five minutes.
I return to flicking through my skirts, talking to myself again.
"I need one that will make him say he should worry about how often he thinks about me."
I push a hot-pink skirt past me, then several more, then groan. Nothing whispers touch me, and your license won't be the only thing you lose.
I cross my arms, staring at my closet with more irritation. If I'm going to walk into Red Mercer's office and unspool the threads of his discipline, I need something crafted with intent, not something bought off a hanger or made for a previous occasion.
So I march straight to my sewing station in the corner of my family room. The sunlight hits the white tabletop, turning it into a glowing stage. Fabric bolts stand in a neat line against the wall, arranged by color the way most people arrange books they pretend to read.
I remove the bodice I was working on from the dress form. Then I pull down the bolt of lightweight black sateen. It glides between my fingers with a soft whisper, exactly the kind of fabric that shifts when a man's eyes drift to where they shouldn't.
I toss it across the table and grab my sketchpad, flipping through pages of unfinished designs until I stop on one that hits me instantly. It's a soft A-line, mid-thigh, and cut on the bias so it moves like water.
"Perfect," I mutter.
I pull a pencil from the jar and refine the sketch, raising the hem two inches and shaping the curve inward at the side seams. I add a slit just far enough to promise something if I bend the wrong way, but subtle enough that Red will pretend he's not staring when the fabric shifts.
My heart pounds with excitement as I pin the pattern to the fabric. The quiet rasp of scissors slicing satin fills the room. I cut each piece with long, confident strokes, aware that every inch of this skirt is part of a psychological trap.
Men underestimate clothing, but Red won't. Once he sees what I made for him, he's not going to be able to stop thinking about me.
I move to the machine and thread it with bright red. The needle taps out a steady rhythm as I stitch the panels together with thick seams, shaping the skirt with slow patience.
Hours pass, and I feel calmer than in a long time. The sound of the machine always centers me. It's the one thing in my life that listens without arguing, judging, or categorizing me.
When I finish the outer seams, I lift the skirt to examine it. I stare at it for a while. It's not perfect yet. Something is missing.
I press the hem, then slide the finished skirt onto the dress form. The slit hits the exact point I imagined. The thicker red seams add a flair that's hard to look away from.
I circle the form once, then twice, letting the vision of Friday unfold behind my eyes.
I'll sit with my legs crossed when I start talking about Brax. Then uncross them when Red tries to redirect me.
Then I'll tilt my head just slightly when he asks why I'm telling him all of this, widening my legs a bit farther to showcase my crotchless red panties.
When his eyes lower for half a second, it'll be just enough for him to betray himself. And I'll deliver the line that will pin him in place.
You're the only person I trust with the truth.
I mumble, "If that doesn't loosen another piece of his foundation, nothing will."
I continue studying the skirt and decide nothing is missing from it. A visual temptation is only one strategy. There needs to be a visceral one.
Red needs to be confronted with something he can't ignore. Something he has to address, even if his professionalism fights him.
My gaze drifts toward the drawer where I keep razors and blades I use for trimming stray threads when fabric frays too close to a seam.
A slow, steady pulse moves through me. I glance at my arm.
Not again. Too obvious.
It needs to be somewhere I won't show him, and he accidentally sees. I glance between the skirt and my body and freeze.
There's only one choice. The soft, delicate, hidden part of my thigh is exactly the kind of place a man notices only if proximity demands it. If Red sees blood there, he'll ask questions. He'll have to. And he won't be able to pretend it doesn't affect him.
I walk to the bathroom. The light above the mirror hums quietly. My reflection stares back, blue hair tumbling around my shoulders, eyes bright with anticipation.
"You want his attention?" I whisper to the girl in the glass. "You want him to lose control?"
She nods back at me, as if her certainty is separate from my own.
I lift the hem of my skirt, slide my panties down, step out of them, and toss them into the laundry basket. The air kisses my bare skin, awakening a shiver that climbs up my spine.
I press the flat part of the razor's cool metal lightly against the inside of my thigh, high enough that it's hidden unless I want it revealed. I take a deep breath and gently press the tip against my skin, then slide it across.
Bright red blooms under the razor. Pain darts outward in a sharp ribbon, but it fades quickly, replaced by a deep, grounding thrum.
I grab a washcloth, put it under running water, then hold it to my thigh, watching it turn maroon.
Red will see it. He'll assume it means something is unraveling inside me. He'll ask why and how. He'll want to know every detail.
I'll look at him with glossy eyes and whisper something that tightens his chest and ruins his objectivity for good.
It has to be vague, raw, and the kind of bait a therapist can't resist.
I press my thumb into the wound, ensuring that a bruise will form by Friday, ensuring he won't miss it. And when he addresses it, I'll pull my skirt higher.
This is perfect.
I grab my first aid kit, add the same type of glue my father put on my arm, and once it's dry, I pull the skirt from the dress form. I step into it and return to the mirror.
It hugs my hips softly, flaring just the way I wanted. I slide the waistband to determine where the slit should lie. Then I grab a chair, put it in front of my reflection, and sit, trying out different poses until I find the perfect one.
Satisfaction fills me more than it has in a long time. I stare at myself, a work of art, ready for war. Then I run my hands over my thighs and whisper to my reflection, "He doesn't stand a chance."