Chapter 17 #2
"She's successful," he says.
"She's iconic," I correct, the bitterness surprising even me. "Award-winning. Revered. Everything I do gets measured against her."
"How does that make you feel?"
"Invisible," I say instantly, then wince at how fast it came out. "Or worse. Like a disappointment in couture."
Red nods slowly. "So your father values control. Your mother values perfection."
"Pretty much."
"And where does that leave you?" he asks.
I swallow. "Trying not to fuck up."
The words hang between us, raw and honest.
"That's a lot of pressure," he says.
I laugh again, but this time it cracks. "You have no idea."
He leans back slightly, giving me space without disengaging. "Has there ever been anyone you looked up to besides your mother in your career?"
My chest tightens again, this time with sharp grief. "Yes. Fiona O'Malley. Well, she's a Petrov now."
His eyes flicker. He tries to hide it, but it's too late. He knows the O'Malley and Petrov names, but something about it makes me feel safer with him. He orders, "Tell me about Fiona."
"She's different."
"In what way?"
I shake my foot and grip my knee. "She sees me, not my last name, or my mother. Me. My work. My instincts. She's never tried to reshape me into something prettier or quieter."
Red nods. "And she's gone now."
I stiffen. "She's not an employee anymore."
"Why?" he asks carefully.
I hesitate. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, dangerous and tangled. "It was…complicated."
"Try me."
I exhale slowly. "She married someone my father doesn't approve of."
Red doesn't press, but his eyes sharpen with understanding.
I continue, "He couldn't handle it. Not because Fiona did anything wrong, but because she stopped fitting into the world the way he wanted."
"And that affected your relationship with her?"
My voice tightens. "Yes. She didn't disappear completely. Things are starting to be okay again. But it's not the same. I lost her when I needed her most."
Red studies me. "That kind of loss can destabilize attachment patterns."
I roll my eyes weakly. "There you go with the clinical again."
He declares, "It matters. When someone loses a stabilizing figure, they often look for another anchor."
I stiffen, heat crawling up my neck. "Well, I became obsessed with Brax way before Fiona left."
Red's pen pauses mid-stroke. It's just a hitch, before he resumes writing. His jaw sets a fraction tighter.
He's jealous of Brax!
The awareness sends a quiet thrill through me.
Silence grows thick and uncomfortable as he scribbles across the pad.
He clears his throat and asks, "Did anyone exit your life when you first noticed Brax?"
"It was a long time ago."
"Try to remember. You were sixteen, right?" he nudges.
"Yes." My mind spins through events, and I rattle off, "It was at my sister Mila's graduation party when I took an interest in him. She went to join my sister Daria in Paris to study fashion."
Red leans closer. "You're close to your sisters?"
"Sure. All Ivanovs are close. It's in our blood. Family is everything," I deadpan.
The corners of his lips curve. He scratches something in his notebook, then opens my file. His eyes dart across the page, then he shuts it. "Tell me about your brother. He's the oldest, right?"
"Second oldest. My sister Daria is the oldest. He's number two. You should see his issues with not being number one," I tease.
Red studies me. "What kind of issues?"
"It was a joke."
"Was it?"
My skin prickles. Heat and tension settle in places I can't shake. I sigh, confessing, "Lucas is a lot like my father. He thinks it's his job to protect us."
"And that bothers you?"
I shake my head. "Not always, but sometimes it's annoying. I'm Lucas's favorite, so most of the time it's awesome being his sister. But my entire family never stops reminding me I'm the youngest. They think it's their duty to tell me what to do and shelter me from everything and everyone."
Red's voice drops an octave. "Protection bothers you?"
I lift my chin, lock my gaze into his, and declare, "I'm not a baby, Dr. Mercer. I'm a grown woman capable of making my own choices." I let my gaze drop down his body, before slowly peeling it back to his eyes.
His jaw ticks. He states, "Yes. You are. Was Lucas around when you became obsessed with Brax?"
Anger and hurt fill me. "No. He moved to New York for his girlfriend."
"You don't like her?"
"They broke up."
"So he's back in Chicago?"
I shake my head. "No. He stayed out there."
"Ah. I see," Red mutters, and writes more on his pad.
"What does that mean?" I snap, suddenly itching to stab pins in my fingers. Instead, I dig my nails into my hand.
He catches me and points. "What's going on there?"
"Where?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Blue. You're leaving indents on your hand."
I glance down and slide my palm over my other hand. "I'm not."
"No lying to me," he commands firmly.
Warmth pools in my core, sparking to life and reminding me that Red's meant to be mine. I admit quietly, "Sometimes the pins help."
Red leans forward slightly. "Tell me about that."
I hesitate, then force myself to speak. "It's not about wanting to die, or even bleed. It's about… You won't understand." I look away, and my lip trembles.
He gently claims, "Try me."
I slowly meet his gaze. My insides shake harder, but I blurt out, "If I can decide where it hurts, everything else goes quiet." My cheeks flare with heat.
He says, "That's important. You're not seeking destruction. You're seeking regulation."
I tilt my head. "So I'm not broken?"
He firmly answers, "No. You're coping with tools. But it's the wrong tools and not sustainable."
My breath turns shaky.
He continues, "You mentioned earlier that not doing it made you feel like you were going crazy?"
I nod. "Yeah."
He explains, "You removed a coping mechanism without replacing it. That creates distress."
"So what am I supposed to do instead?" I ask, frustration creeping in. "And don't tell me to meditate. My mind won't silence itself, and when I try, it only makes it worse."
He smiles faintly. "We'll work on alternatives. Ones that don't harm you and don't rely on another person."
The last part stings. I blurt out, "You mean another person like you?" I blink hard, unable to stop my eyes from watering.
He takes a deep breath. "I meant so you can be safe on your own, not reliant on someone else for your safety."
I don't speak, afraid of what I might say.
He puts his pad of paper and pen on the table. "When you think about your brother moving to New York, or your sisters in Paris, what comes up for you emotionally?"
The quiver in my belly deepens. I shift in my chair, admitting, "Panic. Anger. Shame. Like I did something wrong and no one will tell me what it was."
"That aligns with withdrawal patterns from childhood," he claims.
I laugh bitterly. "So it's daddy issues."
He corrects, "It's attachment, and it's understandable. It makes sense why you attached yourself to Brax even though he didn't return your affection."
"I was wrong about him. He's not my everything," I declare. I hold back the ending that Red's my everything.
A tight smile forms on his lips. He praises, "That's good that you realize this now."
I blurt out, "You really would refer me out?"
"Yes," he says without hesitation.
The certainty in his voice hurts more than the threat itself. I ask, "Why?"
"Because if I don't, I become part of the problem instead of part of the solution."
I sigh. "You're not very romantic today."
"This isn't a romance," he says gently.
I study him and hate what I see. There's distance and restraint. He's holding himself back like it costs him something. I ask quietly, "Does it bother you?"
"What?"
My heart pounds harder. "That I'm…like this. That I want you. That I crossed lines."
He takes a moment, then carefully answers, "It concerns me. I care about your well-being."
"That's not an answer," I push.
"It's the only one I can give," he replies.
We sit in silence again, but it's different now. Less charged. More grounded.
After a moment, he asserts, "There's one more thing I want to discuss."
I tense. "What?"
"I'd like to suggest a future session with your parents."
My heart slams against my ribs. "Absolutely not."
He doesn't react. "I'm not insisting."
I scoff, "That's a terrible idea. They'll hate this. They'll hate you. They'll shut everything down."
He agrees, "Possibly. Or it could provide context and support."
I snap, "My father is never going to come to therapy. He isn't weak."
His voice is too calm. "It doesn't make him weak."
I stand abruptly, pacing a few steps before stopping. My skin tightens until I think it might suffocate me. "You don't understand what you're asking."
"Then help me understand."
I turn back to him, breath shaking. "You bring them in, and suddenly this isn't about me anymore. It's about control and who's to blame."
"Who holds that burden now, Blue?"
I freeze.
Me.
Always me.
I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "I don't want to lose what little autonomy I have."
"I hear you. And you won't. We would only proceed with your consent. And at your pace."
I stare at the floor. "I need time."
"That's okay," he says.
The session winds down after that. He gives me grounding exercises, mentions alternative coping strategies, and makes notes I pretend not to notice.
When the time is up, I stand slowly. My body feels wrung out but lighter in a way that doesn't make sense to me. I pause at the door. "You're not mad at me?"
"No," he says.
"Disappointed?"
"Concerned, but I will never get mad at you over what we discuss in therapy," he declares.
I blink hard, locked in my stance.
He gives a small smile. "We'll continue next week."
I hesitate, then ask, "You're not going to disappear?"
"I'm here."
I leave with that echoing in my chest, unsure whether it's a promise or a boundary, but clinging to it all the same.