Chapter 18 - Keira
I was going to lose my mind.
A week in the penthouse, and I'd read six books, watched more television than I'd watched in the past year combined, and memorized every inch of the view from every window.
I'd organized the kitchen cabinets, rearranged the books in Rodion's study by subject instead of author, and done yoga in the living room until my muscles screamed for mercy.
None of it helped.
I was a woman who worked. Who had purpose. Who spent her days helping people navigate their darkest moments. Now I spent my days waiting—for news, for danger, for something to happen. The inactivity was slowly driving me insane.
Rodion noticed, of course. He noticed everything.
"You're pacing again," he said from the doorway of the study, where I'd been walking the same circuit for the past twenty minutes.
"I'm thinking."
"You've been thinking for an hour. The carpet is starting to show wear patterns."
I stopped, forcing myself to stand still. "I need to do something. Something real. I can't just sit here and wait for the Petrovics to make their move while my life falls apart."
"Your life isn't falling apart."
"My practice is." The words came out sharper than I intended. "I've spent ten years building something, Rodion. Helping people. Making a difference. And now I'm just... here. Useless. While my patients wonder what happened to me and whether I'm ever coming back."
He crossed the room and took my hands, stilling their restless movement. "You're not useless."
"I feel useless."
He studied my face, his dark eyes searching. "What do you need? Tell me, and I'll make it happen."
"I need to work. Even if it's just a little. Even if it's not the same as before." I pulled one hand free to gesture at the room around us. "I know I can't go back to my office. I know I can't see patients in person. But there has to be something. Some way I can still do what I'm trained to do."
He was quiet for a moment, thinking. I could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes—security protocols, risk assessments, the logistics of what I was asking.
"Video sessions," he said finally. "Encrypted, untraceable. We could set up a secure connection, route it through multiple servers, so no one can track your location."
"Would that work?"
"Yegor would know better than me. But I don't see why not." He squeezed my hand. "It would have to be limited. A handful of patients, carefully vetted. Nothing that could lead back to you."
"I don't need to see everyone. Just the ones who really need me. The ones I was most worried about when I left." I felt something loosen in my chest—the first real hope I'd felt in days. "You'd really do that? Set all of that up?"
"I'd do a lot more than that to make you happy."
The sincerity in his voice made my throat tight. I'd spent so long being self-sufficient, handling everything alone. Having someone offer to help—and mean it—was still foreign. Still uncomfortable in ways I couldn't quite articulate.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me yet. We still have to convince Kirill it's not a security risk."
"And if he says no?"
"Then I'll overrule him." Rodion smiled, a hint of his old charm breaking through. "It's my building. My wife. My decision."
Wife. The word still sent a strange flutter through my stomach every time he said it.
***
Kirill said no. Then he said no again. Then he spent an hour explaining all the ways a video connection could be compromised, traced, exploited by enemies who were actively hunting for me.
Then Rodion overruled him.
"This isn't negotiable," he said flatly. "She needs this. We'll take every precaution, but we're doing it."
Kirill's pale eyes moved from his brother to me and back again. Whatever he saw made his jaw tighten, but he didn't argue further.
"Fine," he said. "But I'm supervising the technical setup personally. And if there's even a hint of compromise, we shut it down immediately."
"Agreed."
It took two days to set everything up. Yegor handled most of the technical work—VPNs, encrypted servers, a laptop that couldn't be traced to any of Rodion's known assets. Kirill reviewed every step, adding layers of security that I didn't fully understand but trusted were necessary.
By Wednesday, I was ready.
My first patient was Julia, a woman in her forties who'd been struggling with anxiety and depression since her divorce three years ago. She'd been one of my most consistent clients, and one of the ones I'd worried about most when I disappeared.
Seeing her face on the screen—older than I remembered, more tired—made something crack open in my chest.
"Dr. Walsh." Her voice was thick with relief. "I didn't think I'd hear from you again. Margaret said there was a family emergency, and I thought—"
"I'm here," I said. "I'm sorry I couldn't reach out sooner. Things have been... complicated."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm okay. I promise." The lie came easier than it should have. "Tell me how you've been."
She talked for an hour. I listened, asked questions, guided her through the techniques we'd developed together over years of work. By the end of the session, some of the tension had left her face, and I felt like myself for the first time in weeks.
This was what I was meant to do. Who I was meant to be.
After Julia, I saw Benjamin—a young man battling addiction who'd been clean for eight months when I left. He was still clean, he told me, but it had been hard. The uncertainty of not knowing what happened to me had triggered cravings he'd had to fight through alone.
The guilt of that nearly crushed me.
"I should have found a way to contact you sooner," I said. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault." He shrugged, but I could see the hurt beneath the casual gesture. "You had your own stuff going on. I get it."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"Maybe not. But I'm still here. Still sober." He smiled, a fragile thing. "That's what matters, right?"
"That's what matters," I agreed. But I made a mental note to check in with him more frequently. He was more fragile than he wanted to admit.
By the time I finished my third session—a woman named Patricia who was navigating a difficult relationship with her adult daughter—I was exhausted. The kind of bone-deep tiredness that went beyond physical fatigue.
I closed the laptop and leaned back in the chair, rubbing my temples. The headache that had been building all day was now a steady throb behind my eyes.
"How did it go?"
I looked up. Rodion was standing in the doorway, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Good. Hard." I stood, stretching muscles that had gone stiff from sitting. "I forgot how much energy this takes. Holding space for other people's pain."
"Is that what you call it? Holding space?"
"It's a therapy term. It means being present with someone's emotions without trying to fix them or make them go away. Just... being there." I moved toward him, drawn by some gravity I didn't fully understand. "It's harder than it sounds."
"I believe you." He pulled me into his arms, and I went willingly, pressing my face against his chest. "You look tired."
"I am tired. But it's a good tired." I closed my eyes, letting his warmth seep into me. "Thank you. For making this happen."
"I told you. I'd do anything to make you happy."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
We stood there for a long moment, wrapped around each other in the fading afternoon light. Outside, the city hummed with its endless energy. Inside, there was only this—his heartbeat against my cheek, his arms around my waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"I'm glad you came to my office," I said quietly. "That first day. Even with everything that's happened since—I'm glad."
"So am I."
"Even though I was a terrible therapist?"
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "You were an excellent therapist. That was the problem. You saw too much."
"I saw what you wanted me to see. Eventually."
"No." He pulled back to look at me, his expression serious. "You saw what I was afraid to show anyone. That's different."
I reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "You're not what I expected. When you first walked in, I thought you were just another rich man with money and problems and no real interest in changing. I've seen dozens of men like that."
"And now?"
"Now I think you might be the most complicated person I've ever met. And I've met a lot of complicated people."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." I smiled. "The compliment is that I like complicated. It keeps things interesting."
He kissed me then, soft and slow, and I felt something settle in my chest. Not happiness, exactly—the situation was too precarious for happiness. But something close. Something that felt like the beginning of a life I hadn't known I wanted.
***
That night, he cooked dinner—actually cooked, not just threw together pasta like the first time. Salmon with herbs, roasted vegetables, a salad with homemade dressing. I sat at the island and watched him work, sipping wine and asking questions about the recipes.
"My mother taught me this one," he said, carefully seasoning the fish. "She used to make it for special occasions. Birthdays, holidays, the first day of spring."
"The first day of spring?"
"She believed in celebrating small things. Said life was too short to only be happy on the big occasions." He slid the salmon into the oven and turned to face me. "I didn't understand that when I was young. Thought it was silly. Now I think she was the wisest person I've ever known."
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was." His expression softened with memory. "She would have liked you."
"You think so?"
"I know so. She always said I needed someone who would challenge me. Keep me honest." He smiled. "You definitely do that."