Chapter 22 Daniel
Daniel
The penthouse is too quiet when I get home.
My face throbs where his fist connected. My ribs ache. Every breath reminds me that I deserved worse than what he gave me.
I stand in the doorway for a full minute before I can make myself move inside.
The silence is deafening.
I pour a drink. Don't touch it. Sit in the dark with Trevor's words echoing in my head.
"She told you to figure out WHY you did this. So figure it out."
Bailey had asked me the same thing. Why did I do it? And I couldn't answer.
I still can't.
All I know is that when she looked at me with love in her eyes, terror choked me. When she reached for me, every instinct screamed to run. When she got too close to the fire inside me, I burned her before she could burn me.
But why?
I was afraid. Of what? Becoming my father? Hurting her the way he hurt my mother?
I did hurt her. Did become him. But that's the what, not the why.
Trevor said it best: "You're so broken you destroy people who love you."
The truth of it sits heavy in my chest.
I need to understand this. Not just for Bailey—though God, I want her back so badly I can barely breathe—but because I'm going to be a father. That little boy or girl is going to look at me the same way Bailey did, with trust and love, and I need to know I won't destroy her too.
My phone sits on the coffee table. One call. That's all it would take.
I could apologize. Tell Bailey I'll be better. Promise to change.
But she already told me words won't fix this. That I need to figure out why I'm like this before any apology matters.
She's right.
I set down the untouched drink and open my laptop.
Type and delete several searches. How to fix a relationship. How to apologize. How to get her back.
All external fixes for an internal problem.
Finally, I type what I actually need: therapists specializing in trauma near me.
The results load. Pages of profiles. Professional headshots and credentials and bios that make my chest tight just reading them.
I scroll through options. Most are booked weeks out. Some aren’t taking new patients. I'm about to close the laptop when one profile stops me.
Dr. Amara Chen. Specializes in childhood trauma and attachment disorders. Available for emergency sessions.
I click through to her bio. Read it twice.
"I work with clients struggling to break generational patterns of dysfunction. Many of my clients sabotage relationships out of fear, repeating cycles they witnessed in childhood. If you're ready to understand why you push people away and do the difficult work of change, I can help."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Sabotage relationships out of fear. Generational patterns.
She's describing me.
My cursor hovers over the "Schedule Appointment" button.
Ten minutes pass.
My hands shake. My stomach churns. Every instinct screams to close the laptop and pretend I never saw this.
But Trevor's voice won't let me: "She told you to figure out WHY. So figure it out."
I click the button.
The scheduling system loads. Tomorrow morning, 10 AM. Emergency session—triple the normal rate.
I don't care about the cost.
I book it before I can change my mind.
The confirmation email arrives immediately: First session with Dr. Amara Chen - Tomorrow, 10:00 AM.
I stare at the screen until my vision blurs.
I just made an appointment with a therapist.
I'm going to sit in an office and talk about my childhood trauma and the fact that I'm so fundamentally broken I destroyed the only woman I've ever loved.
The nausea is overwhelming.
But underneath it, something else. Something fragile and terrifying.
Hope.
***
Dr. Chen's office is in a professional building downtown, the kind with generic art on the walls and soft lighting that's supposed to be calming.
I arrive twenty minutes early. And almost leave, twice.
This isn't me. I don't do therapy. I don't admit weakness. I solve problems through control and strategy and sheer force of will.
And look where that got me.
"Daniel?"
I look up. A woman in her fifties stands in the doorway—Asian-American, professional but warm, wearing glasses and a kind expression that makes me want to run.
"That's me."
"I'm Dr. Chen. Come on back."
Her office is smaller than I expected. Bookshelves line one wall. Two chairs face each other—no desk between us, nowhere to hide. A box of tissues sits on the small table between the chairs.
I sit. Try to look composed despite the bruises on my face.
"What brings you here, Daniel?" Her voice is gentle but direct.
I open my mouth to give the corporate answer. The sanitized version about relationship complications and work stress.
She just waits.
The silence stretches. I realize she won't accept surface answers. That if I'm going to do this, I have to actually do it.
"I destroyed the only relationship that ever mattered." The words come out raw. "And I need to understand why."
She nods like this makes perfect sense. "Tell me about your childhood."
The question I've been avoiding for twenty years.
I give her the facts. Parents died when I was thirteen. House fire. Father was abusive—verbally, physically, controlled everything. Mother stayed despite it all.
"How did your father treat your mother?"
My jaw tightens. "Like a possession. Someone to control and break down until she stopped fighting back."
"And she stayed."
"She loved him." The words taste bitter. "Even when he was cruel. Even when he was dangerous. She loved him anyway."
Dr. Chen leans forward slightly. "What did you learn about love from watching them?"
The question stops me cold.
What did I learn?
The answer rises like bile in my throat.
"That love makes you vulnerable. That vulnerable gets you hurt. That people who love you have the ability to destroy you."
"Or that you can destroy them first."
I meet her eyes. She sees me. Completely.
"Tell me about Bailey," she says quietly.
So I do.
I tell her about the bar. The fake dating arrangement. London, when I opened up for the first time in my life. The way Bailey looked at me like I was worth something despite all my damage.
And then I tell her what I did.
"She was trying to tell me something important that night." My voice cracks. "I wouldn't let her finish. Called her a liability. Fired her. Made sure she'd hate me so thoroughly she could never come back."
"Why?"
"Because I was terrified."
"Of what?"
The truth comes out in a rush. "Of becoming my father. Of hurting her the way he hurt my mother. Of losing control and destroying her."
Dr. Chen's expression doesn't change. "You're not your father, Daniel. But you're right that you made his choice."
"What choice?"
"Fear over love. Control over connection. Safety over risk." She pauses. "And in trying to protect her from your damage, you became exactly what you were afraid of becoming."
The words hit like Trevor's fist.
"I destroyed her because I was scared." I can barely speak. "How do I come back from that?"
"You start by understanding that you can't control outcomes. You can only control your choices." She reaches for a notepad. "I'm going to give you an assignment."
I brace myself for some therapeutic exercise that won't change anything.
"I want you to keep a trust journal." She writes as she talks. "Every time you feel the urge to control a situation out of fear, I want you to choose trust instead. Then document it. Write down what you chose, what you felt, what happened. Bring the list to our next session."
"Trust." I say the word like it's foreign.
"Start small. A colleague makes a mistake—trust them to fix it instead of taking over. Someone asks for autonomy—give it. You feel vulnerable—sit with it instead of building walls."
"What if I choose trust and it backfires?"
She looks at me steadily. "Then you learn. But right now, control is backfiring. How's that working for you?"
Point taken.
"This is hard work, Daniel." Her voice is firm. "Change doesn't happen in one session. It takes time. Commitment. Are you willing to do that?"
Am I?
Bailey told me to figure out why I did this. To do the actual work.
Trevor said the same thing.
They're both right.
"Yes." The word comes out stronger than I feel. "I'm willing."
"Good. I have twice-weekly slots available. Tuesdays and Fridays. Ten AM."
I nod. Book them both.
When I leave her office forty minutes later, the sun is too bright and I feel like I've been flayed open.
But underneath the raw vulnerability, something else.
The beginning of a path forward.
***
Back at the apartment, Dr. Chen's words follow me like ghosts. Your mother made you believe you had to earn love through usefulness. That being wanted meant being needed.
I drop my keys on the counter and head straight for the shower, hoping the water will wash away the raw feeling under my skin.
It doesn't work.
I close my eyes under the spray, and Bailey is there. Always Bailey.
The memory comes sharp and vivid—her in my bed three months ago, skin flushed and damp, hair spread across my pillow like dark silk. The way she looked at me when I moved inside her, like I was everything. Like I was enough exactly as I was.
"Daniel." Her voice in my memory, breathy and desperate. "God, Daniel—"
My hand moves without permission, wrapping around myself as the water runs hot down my back. I shouldn't. This feels wrong somehow, taking this when I don't deserve even the memory of her.
But I can't stop.
I remember the taste of her skin, salt and something uniquely Bailey. The sound she made when I kissed that spot below her ear, half-sigh and half-moan. The way her nails dug into my shoulders when she came, her whole body trembling against mine.
The way she whispered "I love you" after, like she couldn't help herself. Like the words were pulled from somewhere deep and true.
I stroke myself faster, chasing the memory. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her mouth, hot against my neck. The perfect slide of being inside her, the way she felt like home—
I come with her name on my lips, one hand braced against the shower wall, and for three seconds I can almost pretend she's here. That I didn't destroy everything. That I could turn around and find her wrapped in my robe, stealing my coffee, giving me that smile that made my chest ache.
Then reality crashes back.
The shower is empty. The apartment is empty. I'm alone because I chose this, because I pushed her away, because I was too damaged and scared to let myself be loved.
I slide down to sit on the shower floor, water beating down on my shoulders, and the grief hits so hard I can't breathe.
It's not just missing her smile or her laugh or the way she understood me.
It's missing this—the intimacy, the trust, the way our bodies knew each other.
The way she let me see her completely vulnerable and gave me the same gift in return.
I lost all of it. Every piece.
By the time I make it to bed, I'm hollowed out. Exhausted. But I force myself to open my Notes app to start the trust assignment Dr. Chen gave me, because I promised I'd do the work.
Day 1, I type, hand shaking slightly. Today Dr. Chen helped me see that I've been confusing being needed with being loved. That I thought I had to earn Bailey by being useful instead of just... being.
I pause, pen hovering over paper.
I miss her. Not just her company or her laugh or her mind—though I miss those so much it physically hurts. I miss HER. Her body. Her skin. The way she tasted. The sounds she made. The way she looked at me when we made love like I was something precious.
I miss being the person she trusted enough to be vulnerable with. I miss being worthy of that trust.
I don't know if I'll ever get that back. But I'm going to keep trying. Because she deserves someone who understands that love isn't transactional. That being wanted isn't about being useful.
She deserves someone who knows his own worth. Who can receive love instead of just performing it.
I exit the app and turn off the light, but it’s not easy to fall asleep.
When I finally do, I dream of her. And when I wake alone in the dark, reaching for someone who isn't there, the ache starts all over again.
***
The next morning, Dr. Chen's assignment is the first thing I think of, reminding me there's work to do.
I sit in my car in the parking lot.
Open the Notes app on my phone. Create a new note: "Trust Journal - Day 2."
The cursor blinks at me.
What am I supposed to write? I haven't made any trust choices yet. I've just admitted I'm broken and need help.
Then it hits me.
Scheduling therapy was a trust choice. Trusting a stranger with my trauma. Trusting that the process will work. Trusting that I can change instead of controlling and destroying everything.
I type: Committing to therapy instead of trying to fix this alone. Choosing vulnerability over control.
I stare at the words.
One entry. One small choice.
But it's something.
***
Back at the penthouse, every instinct screams to contact Bailey.
Call her. Text her. Show up at her apartment and tell her I went to therapy, that I'm changing, that I understand now what I did wrong.
My thumb hovers over her contact.
I could tell her about Dr. Chen. About the trust journal. About how I'm finally doing what she asked—figuring out why I'm so broken.
Then I remember Trevor's voice: "Don't show up before you've actually changed."
And Dr. Chen: "This is hard work. Change doesn't happen in one session."
One therapy appointment isn't change. It's just a beginning.
I have to do the work first. Actually become someone different. Not just announce that I'm trying.
Words won't convince Bailey. Only actions will.
I open the trust journal instead.
Entry #2: Wanted to call Bailey to tell her about therapy. Didn't. Trusting that doing the work is more important than announcing I'm doing the work.
I set my phone down.
The penthouse is still too quiet. Still too empty. Still haunted by everything I destroyed.
But for the first time in three weeks, I'm not drowning in despair.
I'm doing something. Actually doing the work.
It's terrifying and small and might not be enough.
But it's real.
And maybe—maybe—if I keep choosing trust over control, vulnerability over walls, change over comfort, I can become someone worthy of Bailey's trust.
I have to become that person before I ask for forgiveness.
So I'll do the work. In silence. Without performing change or demanding credit.
I'll do it because it's the only path forward.
And if at the end of it, Bailey still won't forgive me—at least I'll know I tried. At least I'll be someone different than the man who destroyed her.
I look at my phone one more time. No messages. No calls.
That's okay.
I have work to do.
And for the first time in my life, I'm willing to do it.