Chapter 3
Stella
The breakfast table was tense—more so than usual. I stayed quiet and waited it out. They clearly had something to say, judging by the pointed looks they kept exchanging and the unnecessary throat clearing.
Despite the late night, my mother looked immaculate. She always did. Far younger than her age and without Botox. No, Mother believed in discipline—face creams, serums, routines. Effort rewarded with control.
The wall of newspaper came down, and my father glared at me over his glasses.
“Stella, we are good, decent people. It took me years to build a reputation,” he began, just as I buttered my toast.
I didn’t know how the staff managed to keep it at the perfect spreadable consistency.
My mother winced at the thick layer I was applying.
I had lain staring at my ceiling until six a.m., torn between exhaustion and the simple question of whether or not to finger myself.
So yes. Fuck you, Mother. I would eat this entire block of fucking butter, you skinny, repressed little bitch.
I bit into the toast viciously, tearing at it with my teeth.
How the fuck did her cervix ever open wide enough to receive my father’s spunk?
“Do you see this, Tobias?” she muttered, spoon hovering over her soft-boiled egg. “The girl can’t even eat.”
My eyes widened when she called me an animal under her breath.
“Stella, you are to see a psychiatrist about your… problem,” my father said.
And there it was.
Out in the open.
My hideous secret, placed neatly on the breakfast table between the toast rack and the egg cups.
Everything I’d read about never quite fit my situation. I wasn’t traumatised. I hadn’t been sexually abused. I wasn’t lashing out or seeking attention. I simply had a naturally high libido that wasn’t acceptable for society because I didn’t have a cock.
“Fine. Whatever,” I muttered, reaching for the raspberry conserve as though this were just another instruction about curfews or portion sizes.
After breakfast, I’d have a long shower.
Fuck him and her.
No one could fix me.
?
?
?
Three times a week was excessive, wasn’t it?
But here I was.
I stared at the grand house before glancing down at my phone to double-check the address. It didn’t look like an office. The entire street was residential, lined with immaculate facades and perfectly trimmed hedges.
Maddox Lexington
46 Addison Rose Avenue
Damn.
How much did psychiatrists get paid? These houses were anywhere between eight and twelve million pounds. Prime London property.
I supposed it made sense. My parents were affluent. They would have selected someone suitably impressive.
I tapped my finger against the side of my phone, considering how I might get out of these sessions. I could be honest with him, watch him flounder, then say he made me feel uncomfortable. That would be the final nail. Request a female psychiatrist and it would be bye-bye, Mad Maddox.
I chuckled under my breath as I climbed the steps.
Apparently, he’d been at the party, but I couldn’t recall who he was. They all started to look the same after a certain age—polished, confident, and boring.
I pressed the brass doorbell.
Posh.
The lock disengaged, and I forced my mouth into a polite smile.
My smile faltered immediately.
The man standing there had to be in his sixties.
“Miss Byron?” he asked.
I nodded.
There was absolutely no way I could speak freely in front of someone who looked like a grandfather. I’d probably give him a heart attack, and then I’d need another psychiatrist to deal with the guilt of killing the first one.
“If you’ll follow me to the study, Dr Lexington will be with you shortly,” he said, opening the door fully.
Thank God.
I stepped inside, barely registering the interior before realising he was already halfway down the hall. I hurried after him, my shoes tapping softly against the polished floor.
He stopped in front of a closed door. I walked past him without thinking.
The door shut behind me with a soft click, but I kept moving until I reached the window.
The back garden stretched out below—large, deliberate, and immaculately planned.
A small seating area sat beside a stone firepit, steps leading down to another section of lawn.
Other than the stonework, there was nothing but grass.
Perfect grass.
I narrowed my eyes.
Not a single weed. Not one stray leaf.
“Miss Byron,” a voice drawled behind me, smooth and unhurried. “Please take a seat.”
“Would you like me to sit on the couch or lie—” I began, sarcasm dripping off every word, but when I turned to face him, my voice died in my throat.
Oh no.
Was this my parents’ revenge?
He wasn’t old. Not even close. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Baby-blue eyes that assessed without staring. Sexy stubble framing a mouth that looked far too practiced at calm. Thick hair sat on his head like a crown, dark and effortless.
Confidence rolled off him, casual and assured, like it was second nature.
“Whatever makes you more comfortable,” he said, tapping a finger lightly against his lips.
Was he allowed to do that?
“Sorry?” I asked, stupidly.
“Sit or lie down. It’s up to you.”
I edged away from the window and lowered myself onto the dark brown leather couch. He took the chair opposite me.
Oh God.
He spread his legs.
Why were his trousers so tight?
I grabbed my purse and tugged the strap taut, clutching it to my lap as though my cheap bag could form some kind of barrier between us. Protection. Distance. Anything.
I made the mistake of looking at his hair again.
Dark waves threaded with slivers of grey. More pepper than salt in his stubble. Long lashes that softened eyes that absolutely did not need softening.
Unique.
I was cursed.