Used by my Therapist
The soft, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the office had always been a source of immense comfort for Alice.
For the past two years, this room had been her ultimate safe haven.
The walls were painted a warm, muted sage green, the air always smelled faintly of lavender and chamomile tea, and the plush, overstuffed floral armchair she sat in felt like a permanent hug.
At 21, Alice was a creature of habit, deeply sensitive, and naturally shy.
She possessed a quiet, delicate beauty—long, wavy chestnut hair that fell past her shoulders, soft hazel eyes, and a petite frame that she usually hid beneath cozy, oversized knit cardigans and modest denim skirts.
Opening up to people had never been easy for her, which was why her relationship with her therapist, Jennie, was so incredibly precious.
Jennie was in her late fifties, a wonderfully plump, grandmotherly woman with silvering hair kept in a loose bun, wire rimmed glasses resting on the tip of her nose, and the absolute sweetest, most patient demeanor.
To Alice, Jennie wasn’t just a clinician; she was a maternal anchor who had helped her navigate the confusing waters of early adulthood.
But today, the atmosphere in the cozy office felt heavy, laced with a bittersweet sadness.
"I know this is sudden, Alice, and I am so, so sorry for the timing," Jennie said softly, her voice dripping with genuine empathy as she leaned forward, resting her soft hands on her knees.
She wore a comfortable, colorful shawl over her shoulders, looking every bit the nurturing soul she was.
"But my daughter just gave birth to twins, and with my husband already retired, we made the decision to move across the country to be closer to our grandkids. I need to be there for my family."
Alice swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat, her fingers tightly twisting the hem of her oversized gray cardigan.
She felt a sudden, sharp pang of anxiety twisting in her belly.
"I understand, Jennie. I really do. I'm happy for you. It's just... the thought of starting over with someone else... it terrifies me. It took me six months just to look you in the eye."
"I know, sweetheart. I know," Jennie cooed gently, her eyes crinkling with warmth.
"Which is why I was incredibly selective about who I chose to take over your file. I didn't want to hand you to just anyone. I wanted someone brilliant, patient, and capable of giving you the dedicated care you deserve."
Jennie reached over to her side table, picking up a sleek, professional folder and opening it.
"His name is Dr. Jonathan Vance," Jennie explained, sliding a professional profile across the coffee table toward Alice.
"He’s thirty-seven, highly qualified, and has a spectacular track record. He’s actually taking over my entire practice here. He specializes in transitional anxiety, and I honestly think his approach might be wonderfully refreshing for you."
Alice leaned forward, her hazel eyes scanning the paper. Attached to the top corner was a small, professional headshot, and the moment Alice’s eyes locked onto the image, her breath caught slightly in her throat.
The man in the photograph didn't look anything like the grandmotherly, comfortable presence of Jennie.
Jonathan Vance was a staggering specimen of masculine sophistication.
Even in a simple headshot, his sharp, angular jawline was prominent, darkened by a perfectly trimmed, rugged shadow of stubble.
He had piercing, deeply set dark eyes that seemed to look right through the camera lens, and thick, dark hair styled neatly back.
He wore a crisp, dark charcoal suit with a silver tie, projecting an aura of intense competence, wealth, and effortless charm.
He was undeniably, dangerously sexy.
Alice’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink just looking at the photograph.
A strange, unfamiliar flutter bloomed deep in her lower abdomen—a sharp contrast to the familiar, safe comfort she usually felt in this room.
Thirty-seven was a mature, confident age, and looking at Dr. Vance, Alice suddenly felt incredibly young, small, and acutely self-conscious.
"He looks... very professional," Alice managed to whisper, her voice trembling slightly as she pushed the folder back toward Jennie.
"He is," Jennie smiled, completely oblivious to the sudden, chaotic rush of nervous energy pulsing through her young patient.
"He’s very warm, Alice, I promise you. I’ve already briefed him extensively on your history, your progress, and your preferences. Your sessions will remain exactly the same—every Thursday evening at seven o'clock. He’s looking forward to meeting you next week."
Jennie stood up, signaling the end of their final session. Alice rose from the floral armchair, her knees feeling strangely weak. When Jennie wrapped her in a tight, maternal hug, Alice squeezed back, blinking away a few tears.
"You're going to do wonderfully, Alice," Jennie whispered into her hair, pulling back to give her a reassuring smile. "Trust the process. And trust Dr. Vance. He’s going to take excellent care of you."
As Alice walked out of the clinic and into the cool evening air, her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
She was losing her safe haven, yes, but as she thought about the sharp jawline and piercing dark eyes of the man who would be sitting across from her next Thursday night, her anxiety was slowly, completely eclipsed by a deep, electric sense of anticipation.
Thursday evenings were about to change forever.
The following Thursday at precisely ten minutes to seven, Alice stood outside the heavy oak door of the clinic, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
The comforting scent of Jennie’s lavender and chamomile was entirely gone, replaced by the faint, sharp smell of expensive wood polish and fresh paint.
She had spent over an hour getting dressed that afternoon, agonizing over every choice before defaulting to her usual armor: a high necked, ribbed black turtleneck and a long, pleated wool skirt that fell past her shins.
She had pinned her wavy chestnut hair into a neat, tight clip at the back of her head.
She looked completely proper, entirely covered, and utterly terrified.
When the clock on her phone chimed seven, Alice took a deep, trembling breath and knocked softly.
"Come in."
The voice that filtered through the wood was a deep, velvety baritone that vibrated straight through Alice’s chest. Her hand shook as she turned the brass knob and pushed the door open, stepping inside.
The room had been completely transformed.
The soft green walls were gone, repainted in a dark, sophisticated navy blue.
The floral armchair had been replaced by an expensive, sprawling Chesterfield sofa in deep chocolate brown leather.
The overhead lights were turned off; instead, the room was bathed in the warm, atmospheric glow of a heavy brass desk lamp and a few low-burning amber sconces.
Outside the window, a gentle evening rain had begun to fall, the soft pit-pat of droplets against the glass adding to the intensely intimate, enclosed atmosphere of the room.
Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was Dr. Jonathan Vance.
Seeing him in person was a total sensory shock.
He was far more imposing than his photograph.
He was 37, tall, with broad shoulders that perfectly filled out an impeccably tailored three piece charcoal suit.
His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his silver silk tie loosened just a fraction, revealing a hint of the thick, dark hair at the base of his throat.
His sharp jawline was shadowed by a flawless, rugged stubble, and his dark, piercing eyes locked onto Alice the exact moment she entered.
"Alice. Welcome," Jonathan said, standing up from his leather chair. He carried himself with an effortless, masculine authority that instantly commanded the room. He walked around the desk, extending a large, well-manicured hand. "I’m Dr. Vance. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Hi, Dr. Vance," Alice whispered, her voice sounding small and breathy. She tentatively extended her hand.
The moment her small, cold fingers brushed against his palm, a violent jolt of pure electricity shot straight up her arm and coiled tightly in the very lowest part of her belly.
Jonathan’s hand was massive, warm, and slightly calloused.
His grip was firm and possessive, enveloping her hand completely for a beat too long before he let go.
Alice’s cheeks instantly flushed a burning, deep crimson.
"Please, have a seat," Jonathan murmured, gesturing toward the plush leather Chesterfield sofa.
Alice sat down, her knees pressed tightly together, her hands clutching her small purse over her lap. The leather crinkled under her weight, releasing a rich, masculine scent of expensive hide that mixed intoxicatingly with Jonathan’s cologne—something smoky, woody, and intensely male.
Jonathan sat opposite her in a matching leather armchair, leaning back and crossing one thick, long leg over the other.
He picked up a sleek leather notebook, resting it on his thigh, but his dark eyes never left her face.
He tracked the nervous movement of her hands, the flush on her neck, and the way her hazel eyes darted around the room.
"Jennie spoke very highly of you," Jonathan began, his deep voice smooth and incredibly soothing. "She told me you’re a bit shy about opening up to new people. I want you to know there's absolutely no pressure here, Alice. We can go at whatever pace makes you comfortable."
"Thank you," Alice murmured, staring down at her lap. Her throat was tight. She felt painfully exposed sitting in front of a man this attractive, mature, and dominant. "It's just... hard. Jennie felt like family. This feels... different."
"Different can be good," Jonathan replied, a subtle, devastatingly handsome smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees, shortening the distance between them.
The warmth of his body seemed to radiate across the small gap.