Secrets & Sofas
Chapter forty-three
Eslin
Isit down on the soft leather couch, already nervous before she even opens her mouth. The space is cozy but intentional—warm lamps, abstract art, a small fountain trickling in the corner like it’s supposed to trick me into feeling calm. It doesn’t. Not when my chest is this tight.
This was the only appointment she had available, so despite the scarf tied over my head and the fact that I look like the second coming of a crackhead, I still show up.
Of all days, it has to be today—the day of the masquerade ball—when my bald spot is begging for divine intervention and a stylist’s miracle.
Thankfully, her office isn’t too far from my building.
Dr. Mikari, as her profile said everyone calls her, greets me with the kind of calm that makes me want to unravel right there. And when she leans forward with that classic therapist question—what brings you here?—I don’t just answer. I spill.
“Here’s the thing, Dr. Mikari,” I blurt, words tripping over each other.
“I am new in town, with a new job, and I’ve met these wonderful people who have become like family, but I’m also keeping a lot of secrets from them.
Including my best friend. And my boss. Because if I tell her I have very real feelings for her father, it could ruin everything!
But I’m also keeping a secret about her from her father and—”
She lifts a hand, calm but firm. “How about you take a breath?”
I clamp my mouth shut, embarrassed, and grab the glass of water she gave me when I first arrived. One long sip, a shaky exhale. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, pressing the glass to my knee. “I think I’ve just been waiting for the opportunity to—”
“Unburden yourself?” she offers, one brow arched.
I’m not discriminatory about who I let guide me from a therapist’s perspective.
Help is help. But there’s something about sitting across from someone who looks like you, who may have walked through similar fires—or at the very least has the empathy to understand them—that hits differently.
It settles into you in a way that feels less clinical and more…
safe. Comforting in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Yes.” I nod furiously, my locs bouncing. “Yes, exactly.”
Her smile is small, patient. “Alright then. Let’s start from the beginning.”
So I do. Vegas. The secret marriages. The mess of emotions that followed. Every tangled piece of it, pouring out in fits and stutters until the words are gone and I’m left slumped against the cushions, raw but lighter somehow.
“I understand how challenging it is to carry around so many secrets, especially when you’re in such close proximity to the very people you’re trying to shield from the truth. For whatever reason. But I also think you might be selling your community short.”
My brows knit. “What do you mean?”
Dr. Mikari clears her throat, her tone measured. “From the way you’ve described these people—Marlow in particular—I don’t think she would react as viscerally as you’re assuming.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Not according to her father. And she’s part Italian. The girl’s got spunk, and I’m not entirely sure I can take her.”
That earns a smile from Dr. Mikari, even a small laugh before she schools her face again. “Be that as it may, her father sees things through the lens of a parent. Friends—true friends—get through to us differently. And it sounds like you know that.”
I nod slowly. “Sure. But…I’ve never had this before. Any of it.”
She tilts her head. “I’m not sure I understand.”
I grip the glass of water tighter, the words heavy in my throat.
“I’ve never had a friend like her. And I’ve also never had feelings for a man like him.
For any man. So even though a part of me wants to run straight to Grant and just…
give him all of me, consequences be damned—I can’t risk losing what I’ve built with Marlow. ”
“Because it feels like a family,” she finishes softly.
My throat tightens. “As crazy as it sounds, yes.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” Dr. Mikari leans forward, her eyes steady on mine. “But one thing about family—they fight, they break, they bend. And they make up. Love doesn’t let them stay away too long.”
I nod a silent agreement.
By the time we wrap up, I’m gripping that empty glass like it’s glued to my hand. “I’ve never needed my own therapist before,” I admit softly, “but now…with all of this, with these feelings I can’t seem to fight…I hope I can count on you.”
Dr. Mikari’s eyes soften, and she gives me the kind of nod that feels like permission. “Of course. And lucky for you, I have a slot open for new patients.”
Before I leave her office, I pause with my hand on the doorframe and turn back to her.
“I’m seeing Grant at a ball for work tonight,” I admit, my voice softer, almost guilty. “And I know myself well enough to know what will happen if I’m around him. Every time we’re close, my ability to resist him just vanishes more and more each time.”
Dr. Mikari tilts her head. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”
I exhale, shoulders slumping. “How do I resist him, Dr. Mikari?”
She folds her hands in her lap, her tone measured but edged with something knowing. “I think the better question is…how long do you really believe you’ll be able to? How long can you both keep walking this line before it consumes you?”
***
The mirror’s gold trim is gaudy, but it does the job.
I swipe another line of liner under my eye, blot my lipstick, and give my reflection a once-over.
Perfectly polished. Mask in place. No one in this ballroom would guess that just last night, I was crying on my couch over a bald spot and the man who gave it to me.
Thankfully, the bald spot was more like a speck and the hairstylist did her best work, adding a few hair pieces to mask spots. And I look good. I just can’t wait to put my braids back in, it’s become part of my brand, my identity and I have grown to hate being without them.
The bathroom door swings open and laughter spills in—high, tinkling, reeking of champagne and entitlement. I keep my head down, fixing the strap of my gown, until someone’s words cut sharper than any blade.
“Honestly, I don’t care who else bids. The silver fox is mine.”
Silver fox. My stomach plummets.
Grant.
I turn my head just enough to catch the reflection in the mirror. Malina Matthews, draped in crimson silk, her mask sharp as her smile. She’s leaning toward two other women, voice low but not low enough.
“I’ve been trying to bag him for months,” she continues, twirling a diamond earring like she’s plotting world domination.
“Finally, Marlow decides to play cupid and bam. An auction. His daughter is practically delivering him to me on a silver platter.” She laughs, throaty and triumphant. “And once I’ve paid my price, I’ll throw myself on a platter for him later. He’s mine. It’s only a matter of time now.”
My pulse hammers. I grip the counter to ground myself because the room feels like it tilts sideways.
I want to whirl on her, spit fire in her face, tell her she doesn’t know him the way I do—doesn’t know how he takes his whiskey or the way his eyes crinkle when he’s actually laughing, doesn’t know that his walls are high because he still mourns the love of his life.
But my tongue stays locked in my mouth.
Because I can’t have him either.
And if I can’t, then why should it matter if she tries?
The very thought slices me in half—hurt and fury tangled so tight I can’t tell them apart.
I glance again, really look at her. Malina. Gorgeous, successful, a little cutthroat. And damn it, on paper, she makes sense for him. She’s in Grant’s world. She could slide right in without breaking stride.
And Marlow clearly wants this. She’s invested. She’s orchestrating it. Her father being happy with a woman like Malina is something she can get behind.
I’m the complication. The secret. The mess.
I press a tissue to my lips and swallow hard, my reflection blurred in the mirror.
If he’s meant to be with someone…maybe it should be her.
Then I look at her again.
Nah. Fuck her.
Grant
Since I wore a black masquerade mask for Halloween, I decided to wear a gold one for this ridiculous ball Marlow insists I participate in. I stopped at the tie though. I’ve worn suits and ties for the better part of thirty years and I’ve come to enjoy life without them. Without the stuffiness.
So this black suit, white button-up, and my gold mask ensemble will have to do. It’s enough to serve the purpose of the night. Enough to stay hidden from the right people. But also enough for her to notice me.
Just in case.
When I got home last night, I couldn’t sit still.
I paced my living room like a caged animal, replaying every second of the evening in her apartment.
The laughter, the wine, the way she leaned into me when Olivia and Fitz ended up in an inevitable situation.
It felt like we’d done it a hundred times before.
Being in her space felt like redemption. Like coming home.
Of all the ways I’d imagined being with her behind closed doors, in her apartment, I’d run through the possibilities more times than I could count.
I pictured her curled against me, maybe even drifting off to sleep there—soft, unguarded, mine for just a moment.
But never—not in my worst imaginings—did I think it would end with me standing there like an idiot, scissors in hand, and a chunk of her hair lying on the floor.
I’ve tried everything from texts full of apologies, even a peace offering of croissants from Holly’s delivered to her before her stylist arrived, still warm from the oven. Her response? A single middle finger emoji. Nothing else.