Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blue
Three days feel like a lifetime when you're counting every breath.
I sit in my car outside Red's building with my hands wrapped around the steering wheel, engine off, phone face down on the seat beside me like it might burn me if I look at it. I haven't texted him, driven by his building, or done anything he told me not to do.
Every night, I stare at my phone, wanting him to text me and give me credit for my strength, but it never comes. Around midnight, I take the sleeping pill Red had a messenger deliver after I left his place, then reread the note before I drift off.
Blue,
Take one each night until our next session. You need to be fully rested.
Dr. Mercer
No love. No Red. Nothing but clinical formality, but I always remind myself he has to care, or he wouldn't have sent them. So as much as I hate taking medication, I do it to obey him.
Each morning, I wake up, and the disappointment of the blank texts hits all over. Yet I somehow made it to today, where Red can no longer avoid me since we have our session.
I smooth my skirt, check my reflection in the mirror, then get out of the car. I make my way into his office, but the air feels different. It's quieter, tighter, like the space itself remembers what happened.
Red's door hangs open. He's seated behind his desk, posture straight, jacket on, tie neat. There's no coffee cup or looseness. The man who kissed me, invited me into his home, and looked at me like I was something he wanted to devour and destroy at the same time, is nowhere.
Still, the sight of him hits low and sharp.
He just wants a challenge.
His voice comes out even and controlled. "Blue, come in."
I step inside and close the door behind me, softer than usual. I take my seat on the couch, crossing my legs carefully.
He doesn't ask how I've been, comment on the gap between sessions, or soften. He's just like when I first met him, all clinical. He says, "I need to be very clear before we begin."
My stomach tightens. I nod, like a good patient.
He continues, "This session is either a legitimate therapy session, or it's our last."
The words land heavy and final. My insides shake. I blink once. "That's dramatic."
He nods. "It's necessary. What happened three nights ago crossed multiple boundaries. I take responsibility for my part in that. But it cannot continue."
My chest warms and aches at the same time. My part. He admits it. Even framed clinically, it matters.
I lean back, tilting my head. "So what... You're firing me?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "I'm giving you a choice. If you want to continue working with me, we do so professionally. That means no sexualized behavior. No testing boundaries. No contact outside sessions unless it's clinically appropriate."
"And if I don't want you only as a professional?" I ask softly.
His Adam's apple bobs. "Then I refer you to another therapist."
The threat slices me. I laugh quietly, because the alternative is crying. "You make it sound so simple."
He answers, "It isn't. But it's clear."
Silence stretches, but I let it. Silence makes people uncomfortable. It makes him uncomfortable, even if he won't admit it.
I cross and uncross my legs, slower this time.
His jaw tightens and then twitches.
He's still human.
He still wants me.
I ask, "So you're pretending nothing happened?"
He corrects, "I'm acknowledging that something happened, and that it can't happen again."
I state a fact. "You kissed me."
"Yes."
"You invited me upstairs."
"Yes."
"You didn't stop me until you decided to."
His eyes darken for half a second. "This is exactly what I mean."
A spark flares in me, vindictive and electric. "What? Telling the truth?"
"Using truth as provocation," he says evenly.
I smile. "You always did say I was perceptive."
His gaze sharpens. He warns, "Blue."
The distance and finality hurt. My smile fades.
I want to push harder and see if he'll crack. I'm not sure if this control is real or just another lie adults tell themselves when they want something they're not supposed to have.
But the quieter, rawer side of me is exhausted. I've spent three days replaying his voice telling me to go home, then imagining what would've happened if I hadn't. I lost count of the hours I spent obsessively wondering whether he thinks about me when the office is empty, and the lights go dim.
He demands, "Make a choice, Blue."
I don't want to lose him, not like that. So I exhale slowly. "Okay."
He stills. "Okay?"
I shrug. "We'll do a real session if that's what you want."
He watches me closely, like he expects me to take it back. When I don't, his shoulders ease a fraction. He can't hide the relief in his voice. "Thank you."
He does love me, or he would want me to say no so he can transfer me to someone else.
That thought keeps me going.
He glances at his notes, then back to me. "Let's start with what the last three days have been like for you."
I hesitate. Old instinct tells me to deflect, joke, and redirect him back to us.
He narrows his eyes.
I sit straighter, then admit, "They've been...loud... In my head."
"Because of what happened?"
"Yes." I pause. "And because of what didn't."
His pen stills.
I swallow. "I keep oscillating between feeling embarrassed and feeling angry. At myself. At you."
"That makes sense," he says.
"I don't like that you get to decide when we talk. I don't like feeling..." I look down at my hands and tug at my fingers, wishing I had a pin.
"Feeling what, Blue?" he gently asks.
I meet his gaze. "Cut off."
He nods slowly. "Loss of access can feel destabilizing."
I snort. "That's a clinical way to say it."
"It's an honest one."
I study his distance and restraint. He holds the line like it's the only thing keeping both of us upright.
I blurt out, "I didn't hurt myself."
His gaze lifts sharply. "That's good, but I didn't ask. Is there a reason you just told me that?"
"I thought you'd want to know."
"I do. Thank you for telling me. Did you want to hurt yourself since I last saw you?"
I nod and say, "No."
He peers closer. "So that's really a yes?"
My heart races faster. I confess, "Not with a knife. I wanted to push pins in my hip, but I thought you wouldn't approve, so I didn't."
His forehead wrinkles. "Have you pushed pins in yourself before?"
"Yes."
"You stopped yourself on your own?"
"Yes."
A tiny smile lights up his face. He praises, "That's good, Blue. How did it make you feel when you didn't do it?"
"Honestly?"
"Yes. Pure honesty," he replies.
I take a deep breath. "I felt like I was going crazy."
"But you didn't go crazy, did you?" he points out.
I shrug. "Felt like it."
"You didn't," he reiterates with pride in his voice.
Warmth spreads through me from his approval in an immediate and dangerous flow. I curl my fingers into my palm to ground myself.
He asks, "What stopped you?"
I think about his voice telling me to sleep, his note, and the way he said my name in the lobby, sharp, furious, and concerned. I admit, "You did."
Something flickers across his face. I can't tell if it's guilt or more pride. He carefully states, "We'll talk more about that, but I want to be clear. Your safety can't hinge on me."
I nod, even though the idea makes my chest ache. "I know."
"Do you?" he asks gently.
I don't answer right away.
He lets the silence work until I'm about to explode.
I sigh. "I'm trying."
"That's good. Why don't we dive into some other topics?" he suggests.
"Like?"
"Let's talk about your family."
My stomach flips. "What about them?"
Red doesn't flinch. He sets his pen down carefully, like he's removing a weapon from the table. "Your support system, the pressure points, and the expectations you live under."
I laugh, short and brittle. "You make it sound like a PowerPoint."
"Most families have those three things," he replies.
I sink back into the couch, crossing my arms. "My family isn't the problem."
He sits back and presses his fingertips together. "I didn't say they were a problem, but they definitely influenced you. It's especially true when someone struggles with control."
I scoff.
Red arches his eyebrows and waits.
More silence builds between us.
I offer, "My father likes order, structure, and rules."
"And how does that land on you?" he asks.
I shrug. "It's just how things are."
Red watches me until the silence feels heavier than talking. He breaks first this time, softly asserting, "Blue, people don't poke themselves with safety pins because everything is fine."
My throat tightens. I look away, toward the window and the familiar blur of the city that's safer than his eyes.
He prompts, "Tell me about your father. Is he affectionate?"
I hesitate, then lock eyes with him. "Adrian Ivanov isn't warm to everyone, but he is to his children and others he loves."
"How is he to those he doesn't love?"
I huff out a breath. "He's powerful. He doesn't like unpredictability, embarrassment, or anything that makes him look like he doesn't have control of his family."
Red's gaze sharpens just a fraction. "Does he try to control you?"
"He calls it protecting me," I answer quickly, then add, "He's involved."
"Involved how?"
I roll my eyes. "Background checks on friends. Making sure I don't do certain things."
"Like what things?"
I count the seconds between breaths, then lose track somewhere in the middle. I answer, "There are rules when you're an Ivanov. It's not just my father. My uncles are the same. Nothing is written down, but you learn the family rules fast."
"What are the rules?" Red prods.
"Don't ask questions. Don't contradict him in public. Don't make waves."
"And if you do?"
My lips press together. "You feel it."
"In what way?" he asks.
I shrug again, but this one is smaller. "Disapproval. Distance. Silence."
"Withdrawal," he says.
My chest feels tight, like something old is being tugged loose. I nod. "Yeah."
"And your mother?" he asks.
I snort. "Skylar Ivanov doesn't have time for withdrawal."