Stella
I didn’t know how much my parents were paying him, but he was worth every penny.
As I walked down the steps and onto the pavement, a cascade of questions tumbled through my head, tripping over one another.
Why had I let everything—and everyone—bury me?
Why hadn’t I done my own research into developmental stages instead of swallowing guilt wholesale?
Why had I believed literal strangers on the internet over my own lived experience?
Well. Them, friends, and family.
The cool evening air brushed against my face, crisp and clean, and I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs without thinking twice about it. My shoulders felt lighter. My chest too. Even my stride had changed—longer, looser, less apologetic.
The soft fabric of my trousers brushed between my legs as I walked.
And for once, I didn’t give a damn.
If I looked at an arse or the outline of a dick, was it illegal?
No.
Maybe rude at best.
Men did it all the fucking time to women, and the world hadn’t collapsed yet.
I reached the end of his road and paused at the corner, pulling my phone from my bag and typing his name into the search bar. Curiosity hummed beneath my skin now, bright and insistent instead of anxious.
Hmm.
A big-shot psychologist.
My eyebrows lifted as I scrolled, interest sharpening when I hit the gossip section. My eyes widened further as photos loaded—actual celebrities caught entering or leaving his office, sunglasses on, heads down, unmistakable even in grainy shots.
Well.
That was… interesting.
I slipped my phone back into my bag, a smile tugging at my lips as I started walking again, the city suddenly feeling less hostile, less watchful.
Maybe these sessions really would change things.
Maybe I wasn’t doomed after all.
?
?
?
That night I lay in bed, showered, wearing fresh pyjamas and inhaling the fabric softener from my clean bed linen. I dug my phone out from beneath my pillow and pulled it closer, the screen lighting softly as I brought up his photo.
Maddox Lexington.
It wasn’t his waistband I was looking at, but the clarity in his eyes. No one could do a job like his without a certain degree of empathy. My gaze lingered on those long fingers. Even his nails were perfectly buffed.
It was such a pity that he was my therapist.
I felt we connected.
Ugh.
Or I was a psycho stalker.
My next session was on Wednesday.
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Three hours a week.
Three hours of his undivided attention.
I waited until the house was quiet. Until the lights were out and the familiar stillness settled around me. Only then did I flick through my phone to find his best picture on the soft, glowing screen before slipping my hand down my waistband.
Sadly, it was over in seconds.
I’d learned to breathe through the pleasure so I didn’t utter a sound.
I tiptoed to the bathroom to clean up before going back to bed again.
Only this time, I brought the wet wipes with me.
Two orgasms later, I fell asleep with a smile on my face.
I dreamt of those hands, the curve of his lips, and the broad shoulders beneath his shirt.
When I woke up the following morning, I waited.
And waited.
But the guilt and shame didn’t come.
?
?
?
For the first time in eighteen months, I smiled on the way to work.
Not a polite smile. Not the rehearsed version I kept in my pocket for customer calls. A real one.
I interacted with people I usually ignored in the office.
I asked about someone’s weekend. I laughed at a joke that wasn’t even that funny.
My eyes didn’t linger where they shouldn’t, and there was no inappropriate flirting of any kind.
I ignored the speculative looks when they came. Let them wonder.
I felt… steady.
I was happier speaking to my clients, even the ones who were sharp or downright rude. Their irritation didn’t stick to me the way it usually did. I listened properly. I responded without defensiveness. I closed two policies before lunch.
My numbers were up.
By midday, I decided to take a walk through the park close to the office instead of eating at my desk like usual. The sun shone through the trees, warm but not suffocating. Birds chirped somewhere overhead, and the air smelled faintly of cut grass and city heat.
I sat on a bench, unwrapped my sandwich, and actually tasted it.
I enjoyed the view.
No racing thoughts. No background hum. Just a quiet, manageable awareness.
My light dimmed slightly when I got home.
Not extinguished. Just lowered.
My feet dragged a little as I slowed at the gate. The familiar brickwork. The familiar windows. The familiar weight settling on my shoulders.
I prepared my mask before I opened the door, smoothing my expression into something neutral and agreeable.
But even they were a touch more bearable than before.
Their voices didn’t scrape.
Their glances didn’t pierce.
Something had shifted.
And it wasn’t them.