Chapter Six
RAYNE
After our conversation at lunch yesterday, Shay didn’t say much to me for the rest of the day.
If she wasn’t his wife, she must have just been something for him to use at his leisure.
A pet of sorts. Not a person with thoughts and feelings.
She deserves to have a voice, but I fear it will take her a long time to realize that.
I saw her writing in her notebook yesterday while we were outside. Maybe I should take a look and add some notes of my own, but first I should talk with Tabitha. She might have a better insight into where to go from here.
I knock on her office door; it’s early, so I hope she’s in. I know she usually has a full workload of patients, but her car is in the parking lot, so she’s here somewhere.
“Come in!” I hear from the other side. I’m relieved as I open the door and see her staring intently at her computer.
“Good morning.”
“Oh, Rayne. Good morning. Sorry I didn’t realize what time it was.” She sounds exhausted. Her usual bright blue eyes are more dim today.
“Long night?” I take a seat in front of her.
“Yeah—you can say that. How are things going with Shay?”
“Going. I was hoping to get some feedback from you. Do you know anything about her past?”
I’m curious if Shay opened up to Tabitha during her intake.
Sometimes not everything discussed is disclosed to therapists.
It’s not a bad thing because it makes us work towards gaining trust with our patients during sessions.
With Shay, I can use all the help I can get, and I hope that with the notebook I gave her, she’ll open up there.
“Unfortunately, all I could get out of her is what I told you. Her previous partner’s driver gave me a little more information, but nothing super helpful. Has she opened up at all? Would you like me to try having another session with her?”
“No, I don't want to push her too far too soon. I gave her a notebook and told her I wanted her to write what she doesn’t want to say out loud. I’m hoping it’ll help her feel more comfortable with me.”
“That’s good! Great idea. How is she feeling? Any signs of self-harm?”
“She’s not eating very much. So I’ve implemented a rule that she has to eat 3 meals a day.
I’ve already spoken to the kitchen staff so they’re aware.
So far she’s missed one meal, and that will need to be addressed.
” I lean forward with my elbows resting on my thighs.
“Tabitha, I’m afraid 6 weeks might not be enough time with Shay. ”
She looks down at the papers on her desk and sighs, “I agree—but we need to try our best to use this time wisely. After the program ends, we can transition to outpatient therapy. I’ll look into finding someone in New York who is familiar with the Institute. They can do weekly sessions with her.”
That’s not good enough. “Understood. Keep me posted on the search,” I stand to walk out of her office.
“Rayne. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t fix everything, and that’s okay. We are here to help, not make everything picture perfect again. Do what you can, and we will make sure she gets what she needs afterward.”
“Yeah—I'll do my best.”
I walk out of her office conflicted. I barely know this woman, but something inside of me pulls me towards her. I can’t explain it. Shay Clarke has grabbed hold of a piece of my heart, and now I’ll fight like hell to take hers.
I knock twice on Shay’s door. No answer.
I manage a small smile, thinking she’s downstairs eating like I instructed her to.
Good girl. I opened the door to an empty room.
She had made the bed and tidied the room.
I’ve had patients who leave their rooms looking like a bomb had gone off.
Not Shay, though. She’s neat, meticulous, and leaves little sign that she has even been here.
Instead of leaving, knowing she’s not here, I take advantage of the moment and go through her things.
This isn’t something I usually do since it’s done at intake, but maybe there is something here that will give me more insight as to who she is.
She hasn’t unpacked her suitcases, and one sits in the corner of the room; the other is in the closet.
I go through the small one—it’s only clothes.
No other personal possessions. I take the larger one out and look through it—again, only clothes, shoes, and a hair dryer.
I figure since she said she liked to write, she might have a notebook, laptop, or tablet with her to keep her entertained.
Instead, I realized she has no belongings aside from the clothes I assume her previous Dom picked out and bought for her.
She has no identity. Nothing she can absolutely call her own.
She was a slave—used only for what she could offer: service and obedience.
I got what I came here for, even if it wasn’t what I was expecting.
As much as I want to enjoy her being easy to handle, she needs to learn who she is and her place in this world.