Chapter 23 #2
"I stayed up late," I reply, already turning back to my work, forgetting I lied to her that I overslept, and add, "Lost track of time."
She lingers, clearly wanting to say more, but she pauses. Maybe it's the energy humming off me. Maybe it's the smile I can't quite suppress. I'm glowing, and I know it, and she doesn't understand why, but I'm not telling her.
She finally caves. "I have a meeting. I'll see you later."
"At five," I remind her, not looking up and returning my focus to the tie.
"Yes," she agrees, and I can feel her leave.
The second she's gone, I exhale. Each stitch tightens the anticipation coiled inside me. I pour meaning into every detail, every decision. The width. The finish. The way the colors meet and part and meet again. It's meticulous. Reverent. Like I'm building something sacred out of silk and patience.
My phone vibrates again.
Red: I need you to take care of yourself, Bluebird. Have you eaten today?
He loves me!
Me: No. I'm not hungry.
Red: The session might get intense. Go eat something. Drink water, too. If you're too worked up, we won't be able to tackle the issues we need to.
I stare at the message, then the tie.
Red: It's not a suggestion. It's an order.
My pussy throbs so hard, I whimper. I reread the text, take a few deep breaths, and put the tie over my shoulders. I go into the break room, grab a bottle of water and a protein bar. I text Red a photo.
Me: Happy?
Red: Not until you eat it.
I take the protein bar out of the package, then take a video selfie of myself licking it before taking a bite. I send it.
He doesn't reply, but it's okay. I want him thinking about it. I want it sitting with him while he pretends to be composed, professional, in control.
I return to my desk and stitch faster.
The hours crawl and race at the same time. People enter my office and speak to me, and I answer automatically, my mind elsewhere. Every time I glance at the clock, the numbers have shifted.
Four ten.
Four fifteen.
I finish the tie and smooth it out on my desk, pride blooming sharp and bright in my chest. It's beautiful, intentional, and ours, even if he doesn't know it yet.
I fold it carefully and tuck it into my purse.
Everything is in place.
As I stand to leave, my heart races, body hums, and one thought rises above all the rest, clear and triumphant.
I've orchestrated this.
I slide my bag over my shoulder and step into the hallway just as my mother rounds the corner, keys already in her hand. She looks relieved to see me and immediately anxious about something else, which has become her default expression lately.
"We'll drive you," she says before I can open my mouth.
I consider pushing back. I could. I have the energy for it. The sharp, restless buzz under my skin could easily turn into defiance. But I don't. I just say, "I figured."
Something about the pressure of what's to come steadies me. It's like the walls are closing in just enough to keep me upright. And instead of hiding from it, I dive right in.
My father is already in the car, hands tight on the steering wheel even though the engine isn't running yet. His jaw flexes when I open the back door and slide in. He doesn't look at me, just gives me a brief glance in the mirror before his eyes snap forward again. "Blue."
"Hi, Dad."
He gives Mom an uncomfortable glance and pulls into traffic. The ride is quiet in a heavy, loaded way where no one wants to be the first to crack it open.
I watch the city blur past the window and think about how different this feels from the inside than how it looks from the outside.
Five o'clock.
It ticks through me like a second pulse.
When we pull up to the building, my father parks too far from the entrance and then corrects himself, irritation flashing across his face. He cuts the engine and exhales through his nose.
No one moves right away.
"Ready?" my mother asks gently.
I nod and reach for the door, jumping out, and holding myself back from rushing forward. And it takes forever to get inside Red's building.
The air morphs thicker with every step, like I'm moving through something viscous and invisible. The familiar smell of polished wood and faint antiseptic hits me as soon as we cross the threshold of his office, and my stomach tightens in response.
My father stiffens immediately.
It's subtle, but I catch it. His shoulders draw back, and his spine straightens so sharply, you could place armor on him. His eyes scan the room, guarded and uneasy, as if something here has already offended him and he just hasn't named it yet.
The receptionist smiles politely. "You must be Blue and Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov. Dr. Mercer is ready for you."
My mother thanks her, all warmth and courtesy, and ushers us forward.
My heart almost bursts out of my chest when I step past the door and see Red.
He stands near his chair, jacket buttoned, posture impeccable. Every line of him is composed, deliberate, controlled to the point of severity. His expression stays neutral, his gaze professional as it moves from my parents to me and back again.
Nothing in his face suggests he knows what my red lingerie looks like, or hints at the way his breath sounds when he loses control. There's nothing to betray the messages still burning in my phone. If I didn't know better, I might believe this version of him.
"Good evening," he says calmly. "Thank you all for coming."
My father nods once, curt. "Doctor."
My mother smiles too brightly. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
"Of course," Red replies. "Please, have a seat."
We move into the room, and the dynamic fractures. My parents sit side by side on the couch, my mother angling her body toward me as if she can shield me just by proximity. My father remains rigid, knees spread, hands clasped, as if bracing for impact.
I take the chair across from them, directly in Red's viewpoint, so every time I cross my legs, he'll have to hold himself back from staring.
He sits last, settling into his own seat with precise economy of movement. He crosses one ankle over the other, folds his hands loosely in his lap, and becomes the calm center around which everything else rotates.
My insides quiver so much, electrified by Dr. Mercer's presence, that I jump up.
"Blue? Is everything okay?" he asks.
I step in front of him, lean over, and reach for the hourglass. I flip it and set it down where I can see it.
"Yep." I sit back down, watching the sand drift while every second stretches thin, humming with unspoken meaning.
My mother glances between us, already trying to bridge gaps that don't have names. "We're just here to support Blue. Whatever she needs."
My father's jaw tightens, his eyes flicking briefly toward Red and then away again. It's suspicion, raw and undefined. He doesn't trust the room, or the process, or the man holding it together. But that's my father in general.
Red inclines his head. "That's good to hear. Family support can be very grounding in moments like this."
His gaze shifts to me then, clinical and cool. No warmth. No recognition. If there's tension there, it exists only because I'm carrying it. He asks, "How are you doing today, Blue?"
I smile. "Better."
My mother exhales softly, like that's the answer she's been waiting for. "She seemed…energized today," she adds, "Focused."
Focused is one word for it.
My father snorts quietly, then stills when my mother shoots him a look.
Red notes everything, his eyes cataloging posture, tone, micro-expressions. He's pretending this is just another session, and nothing more between us, but I know differently.
Red asks my father, "And you? How are you feeling about being here?"
The question lands harder than the last one.
My father shifts in his seat. He admits, "I don't know. This seems…sudden."
Red replies evenly, "That makes sense. Sudden changes often bring discomfort."
Tingles race down my spine. I love everything about his professional cadence and the structure everyone else expects.
My mother nods eagerly. "We just want to make sure we're doing the right thing."
Red glances at me, then back at Mom. "Blue asked for this session. Which tells me she wants you involved."
My mother's hand finds my knee, squeezes gently. She murmurs, "We're here."
If only she knew what kind of stage she'd stepped onto.
The pressure builds as the minutes pass. Everyone carries a different truth into this room, and they're starting to bump into each other, awkward and misaligned.
My father watches Red too closely, his unease sharpening. My mother overcompensates with reassurance and smiles. Red remains an island of control, steady and unreadable.
And me?
I sit in the center of it all, humming with secrets, my bag at my feet heavy with silk and intention. The session hasn't even started yet, and it's already off-balance. It's a psychological mess wrapped in polite conversation and clinical language.
The weight of it settles into my chest, tight and electric.
Five o'clock.
This is what I set in motion.
And now we all have to sit with it.