Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Blue
Not a second went by that coerced me into sleep. The apartment is quiet in that dead, early morning way where the world hasn't decided to wake up yet, and I've been standing here long enough that the mirror has started to feel like an accomplice.
My phone is still in my hand. I don't remember picking it up this time. The video is paused. My thumb hovers over play, as if waiting for permission.
Red.
Dr. Mercer.
The line between those names keeps thinning until it barely exists at all. I press play, then stop it, then rewind ten seconds, like the act of control matters when my thoughts are already running feral.
I've watched it so many times that the edges have dulled, but the center of it still hits every time.
I've decided it's the sound that gets me the most. Something about the way his breath changes and the guttural noise that escapes him at the end doesn't get old.
Then there's the best truth of all.
Red recorded it for me. Even if he never meant to send it, and every rule in his world says he shouldn't have, he still did it. I needed it, and he didn't let me down.
My reflection shifts as I lower the phone, eyes dropping to my own body like it doesn't belong to me anymore.
I turn sideways, then closer, my fingers grazing skin just to check that I'm real, and here.
This is happening, not some elaborate spiral my mind built to survive boredom or loneliness or whatever polite word people use when they don't want to say “obsession”.
It's happening because Dr. Mercer, my Red, loves me.
He's obsessing over having me as much as I'm obsessing over him.
Another rush of adrenaline spikes. I close my eyes, smiling, and imagine his hands where mine are, and that's when things start to slip.
Time stretches, then collapses. The mirror fogs. I don't know how long I stand there, only that my thoughts keep circling the same point, tightening, faster and faster, until my entire world feels reduced to one man and one impossible gravity.
My phone rings, startling me. It slices through my fantasy, sharp and wrong, and I nearly drop it. My heart kicks hard enough that I have to grab the edge of the counter to steady myself. I blink, once, twice, trying to orient. The screen lights up with a name that doesn't belong in this moment.
Shirley.
For half a second, I consider letting it go to voicemail. The urge is animal and selfish. I want to stay suspended right here, in the quiet madness I've been cultivating all night, but I answer.
"Hello?" My voice comes out smooth, calm, a miracle even I wouldn't have imagined I could pull off at this moment.
"Blue, hi, sweetheart." Shirley's warm, gentle voice gives the impression she's smiling even when she's not. "I'm sorry to bother you so early."
"That's okay," I say, stepping away from the mirror. My reflection follows, reluctantly. "What's going on?"
Papers shift, crackling on her desk. She answers, "Dr. Mercer had an opening come up for later today, and he thought it might be helpful if we could get you and your parents in together."
My pulse stutters. "Today?" I ask, even though I already know my answer.
"Yes. Five o'clock, if that works for you. I completely understand if it's too much—"
"It works," I cut in, too fast to be polite. "Five works. That's perfect."
There's a pause on the other end, just long enough for her to smile through the phone. "All right, then. I'll put you down for five with your parents and Dr. Mercer. You sure they will be able to make it?"
Something settles into place inside me with a quiet, terrifying click. "Absolutely."
"Great. I'll see you later today."
"Thanks, Shirley," I practically sing.
The call ends, and I stand there staring at the dark screen like it might say more if I wait long enough.
Five o'clock.
With my parents.
With him.
It has to be alignment. The universe finally stopped pretending it wasn't paying attention.
I don't give myself time to think. I call Mom immediately, pacing, my energy snapping through my limbs.
She answers on the third ring, and her voice is tight before I even say hello. "Blue. Where are you? I've been calling."
I lie, "I overslept. My phone was on silent. I'm fine, Mom. I'm just running late."
She hesitates, then caves. "I'm glad you're okay."
"I am," I insist. Then I soften my tone. "Listen, there's something important. Dr. Mercer called. We need to meet with him today."
"Today?" she asks.
"Yes. Five o'clock."
Another pause, heavier this time. "Your father might not be able to make that."
"He has to," I say, and there's steel in it before I bother hiding it. "This is important. He needs to be there."
"Blue—"
"I'll handle Dad. Just be there at five. Please."
She exhales slowly, like she's already tired and the day hasn't even started yet. "All right. I'm sure he'll change his schedule if he can."
"He will. Thank you." I hang up, and I don't let myself savor the win yet. There's one more move to make.
I text my father.
Me: Five o'clock today. Dr. Mercer's office. It's important. I need you there.
Three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Reappear.
Dad: Okay. I'll be there.
I close my eyes, head tipping back as triumph ripples through me. It's quiet, contained, but potent. Every piece clicks into place, and suddenly the entire night makes sense.
The obsession.
The sleeplessness.
The way my thoughts refused to settle.
This was why.
I open my eyes and look around my apartment, at the faint morning light creeping in past the shades. Everything feels charged now, like I've nudged the world onto a track it can't get off.
Five o'clock.
I did this.
And the realization doesn't scare me at all.
The quiet doesn't last long. My body shifts into motion, the mirror loses its hold on me, replaced by momentum and the hum running just beneath my skin.
I shower fast, with the water hot enough to fog the glass, and the steam feels like it's sealing something in rather than washing anything away.
I'm buzzing, wired, and untethered. When I open my dresser, my hand doesn't hesitate. I go straight for red.
The lingerie isn't practical or even comfortable. But that's the point. It's silk and lace and intention, the color deep enough it borders on dangerous. I slip it on slowly, watching myself this time, aware of how deliberate the choice is.
Red for him.
Red for tonight.
Red for the part of me that refuses to be subtle anymore.
I take a photo before I can second-guess it, not of my face, just my carefully framed body, cropped tight, the red unmistakable against my pale skin.
My thumb hovers for half a heartbeat before I send it.
Me: Can't wait to see you tonight.
The message lands, and my pulse spikes like I've thrown a match onto gasoline. I don't wait for a response, and that seems important too. But then I send more.
Me: I've been up all night thinking of you pushing inside me. I keep hearing your groan, rumbling in your chest while you hold me down to take more of me.
Me: I'm shaking, Red. I'm shaking so badly for you. You aren't even here, and I'm wet and trembling and counting the seconds until I see you, Dr. Mercer.
I dress for work like it's an afterthought, black layered over the secret I'm carrying underneath. The contrast makes my mouth curve when I catch my reflection.
Except for my shaking lips and hands, I look normal. Responsible. Exactly the way everyone expects me to look.
They have no idea.
I'm so wired, I can't drive and don't trust my legs to walk that far. So I jump in an Uber.
The drive to work passes in fragments. Red lights. Green lights. My face-down phone vibrates on the seat, and I slowly pick it up.
Red: I expect full compliance in our session today, Bluebird. Don't waste your opportunity to find clarity with your parents.
My grin hurts my cheeks. My fingers shake so badly that I have to fix several typing mistakes.
Me: I can't wait for you to get into my head, Dr. Mercer.
The car pulls up to the curb, and I quickly go into the building. By the time I get to my desk, I'm practically floating.
Emails blur. Numbers refuse to stick. I open a document, stare at it, then minimize it again when the words won't arrange themselves. Every task I'm supposed to do is distant, like it belongs to a version of me that clocked out sometime last night.
Five o'clock pulses at the back of my mind like a countdown, going way too slow. I try to concentrate again, but nothing works.
I open my drawer for no reason and freeze.
The blue and red woven silk I bought weeks ago stares at me. I pick it up, and the smooth and cool fabric slides through my fingers.
I told myself it was just something to keep my hands busy, something grounding. That was another lie that worked a little too well. Now, I know the real reason I bought it.
I start cutting and stitching. The needle moves in and out with practiced ease, the rhythm calming and obsessive all at once.
Every pass grows more loaded. Blue crossing red. Red crossing blue. Control and devotion tangled so tightly, there's no separating them anymore.
This isn't just a tie. It's everything I can't say out loud. I imagine it around his neck and the way my colors will sit against his throat.
He'll have to carry me with him into every room.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the office air-conditioning.
"Blue?"
I flinch. The needle nicks my finger, and I look up.
My mother stands a few feet away, her brows drawn together as she studies me.
I hadn't heard her approach. "Sorry," I say quickly, sucking the drop of blood away, then add, "I didn't see you there."
She doesn't look convinced. Her gaze drifts to my hands, the fabric pooled there like evidence. "You seem…distracted today."
"I'm fine," I say, too easily. "Just busy."
Her eyes flick to my face, then back again, searching. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"