3.
A month.
That's how long I've sat with the idea of coming here, turning it over in my mind like a sharp object I didn't want to pick up.
A month of telling myself I didn't need it.
A month of waking up drenched in sweat, heart racing, the same nightmare replaying with different faces.
A month of pretending I could out-discipline panic the way Rodney thinks you can out-discipline hunger.
I didn't tell Rodney.
I didn't tell Vivian.
I told Bianca and Reese, and even that felt like stepping onto thin ice.
Because the minute Rodney finds out I'm seeing a therapist, it won't be framed as help. It'll be framed as weakness. An embarrassment. Something to manage. Something to punish.
So I come alone.
The Lennox Group doesn't look like a doctor's office.
It looks like a place people come to be polished.
Warm wood. Clean lines. A wall of abstract art that seems expensive. There's a faint scent of citrus in the air, subtle. Even the waiting chairs look like they were picked by someone with taste and money.
I sit with my legs crossed at the ankle, purse in my lap, posture straight. The receptionist-Isabella-had been pleasant when I checked in. Soft voice. Pretty smile. Efficient without being cold.
"Dr. Lennox will be with you shortly," she'd said, like I was anyone.
Now I stare at the glass doors leading into the offices and keep my face calm.
Poker face.
I scroll my phone without really reading anything. I look like I'm waiting. Patient. Normal.
Inside, my stomach keeps tightening and loosening in slow waves.
You can leave, I tell myself. No one is forcing you to be here.
It's a strange thought in my head, because so much of my life is built around what I can't leave.
A door clicks open down the hallway.
A woman's voice floats out first, light and familiar with gratitude. Then a man's voice follows-low, warm, controlled.
"Great seeing you as always, Amira," he says. "I'm proud of your progress. Isabella will be in touch to set up your next appointment."
I don't see him yet, only a sliver of movement near the doorway, but I hear the name and my attention snaps sharp.
Amira.
The woman steps into the waiting area a second later, and for half a beat my brain registers her as simply beautiful. Put together. Glowing in an understated way.
Then recognition lands like a quiet shock.
Not because she's famous the way actors are famous.
Because she's political-famous.
A woman people whispered about for months and then suddenly stopped whispering about when the story changed.
Her hair is pulled back neatly. A coat draped over one arm. She moves like someone who no longer apologizes for taking up space.
She glances toward the front desk and smiles at Isabella.
"Thank you," she says, voice soft.
Isabella smiles back. "Of course, Mrs. Whitmore."
Mrs. Whitmore.
So I didn't imagine it.
Amira's eyes sweep the room briefly, polite, automatic-the way you scan without staring. When they land on me, we make eye contact for a second.
Something passes between us. Not recognition. Not curiosity.
Just two women doing the same silent thing, assessing, filing away, keeping it moving.
I give her a small smile. Controlled. Respectful.
She returns it and walks out.
I watch through the window as a cream-colored Range Rover pulls up to the curb. The driver-side window rolls down. The man behind it says something I can't hear, his mouth curling into an easy grin.
Brooks Whitmore.
He laughs at whatever she says back, a real laugh, and the sound doesn't reach me but the sight does-his face loosened, light, like the world isn't pressing on his shoulders anymore.
Amira steps around the car and climbs into the passenger seat. Brooks leans over briefly-maybe a kiss, maybe just a murmur-then the SUV pulls away smoothly into traffic.
They look happy.
Not curated happy. Not "camera is on us" happy.
Just... happy.
I stare at the street long after the car disappears, my fingers still around my phone but numb to it. A ridiculous thought rises up, uninvited.
Were they always like that?
Or is it new-something that happened after politics stopped trying to swallow them whole?
I think of Rodney's face, the way he smiles for cameras and never once looks for me. I think of the weight of the title coming for us like weather.
I don't envy Amira Whitmore.
Not exactly.
But there's a softness in my chest that feels like grief when I realize Brooks risked everything for her-his name, his career, the entire future he was supposed to have-and somehow they made it out the other side.
And I... I can't even risk a therapy appointment without it feeling like betrayal.
"Naomi?"
My name cuts through the fog.
I look up.
A man stands near the glass door, one hand resting lightly on the frame as if he isn't trying to intimidate anyone by taking up space.
He's tall. Taller than I expected. Broad shoulders that don't disappear even under a crisp white coat. Dark brown hair, neatly styled but not stiff. And eyes-brown, steady, focused in a way that feels like attention, not appraisal.
He's looking at me like I'm a person, not a headline.
"Naomi," he repeats, voice calm. "Come in."
I stand, smoothing my skirt automatically even though there's nothing to smooth. My pulse jumps, irritated at itself.
I hate that my first thought is that he's attractive.
I hate that my body still notices beauty when my life has been trained into survival.
I follow him through the door.
His office is quieter than the waiting room.
Not just in sound-quiet in energy, like the walls were built to hold things people aren't allowed to say anywhere else.
There's a couch that looks more like something you'd find in a high-end living room than a medical building.
Two chairs angled toward each other. A bookshelf lined with titles that make my brain automatically start categorizing: trauma, anxiety, attachment, grief, addiction.
A framed degree on the wall. A photo of a coastline that looks like it was chosen on purpose-calm water, open horizon, space.
Grant Lennox gestures toward the chair across from his desk. "Have a seat."
"Thank you," I say, and my voice is smooth. Polite. Normal.
"I'm Dr. Grant Lennox, It's nice to meet you. Grant takes the chair behind the desk. He taps at his computer, then looks up again. "You can call me Dr. Lennox or Grant. Whichever feels the most comfortable."
"I'm going to pull up your intake questionnaire," he says. "And the brief health history you provided. This consultation is usually fifteen minutes-just to get a sense of what's bringing you in and what you're looking for. We can talk about next steps from there."
I nod once. "Okay."
He waits, patient, like he's giving me space to start.
The silence stretches.
I fill it, because I'm not used to silence that's offered kindly.
"Before we start," I say, voice even, "I'd like you to sign something."
Grant's brows lift slightly. Not alarmed. Just curious.
I open my purse and pull out a folded document, crisp and prepared. I slide it across the small table between us with one finger, like I'm playing a card.
An NDA.
Grant looks at it, then at me.
"You're already protected under HIPAA," he says gently. "Everything we discuss here is confidential."
"I understand," I reply, still calm. "But I'd like it signed anyway."
There's a pause-just long enough for me to wonder if I've offended him.
Grant doesn't look offended.
He looks like he's reading between my sentences.
"Okay," he says simply. "If it helps you feel safer here, I'll sign it."
My shoulders loosen by an amount so small it's almost imaginary.
He picks up the paper, skims it, eyes moving quickly down the page. Professional. Focused. His jaw shifts once, like he's checking for anything unusual. Then he nods.
"I'll have Isabella run it through DocuSign," he says. "And I can send you the executed copy tonight."
"That's fine," I say.
The awkwardness that follows isn't loud. It's quiet-me with my hand on my purse strap, him setting the paper aside with deliberate care, like he's signaling that he won't treat my fear like a problem.
Grant's gaze returns to me. "Alright. What brings you in today?"
My fingers find the charm on my purse without thinking. I rub it between my thumb and forefinger, round and smooth, the motion grounding.
"I've been having nightmares," I say. "And... panic attacks."
Grant nods, not surprised, not judgmental. "How long?"
"A few months or about a year now I'm not sure," I answer, choosing the safest version of the truth. "But they've gotten worse recently."
"Any specific trigger you've noticed?"
I blink slowly. "Loud noises," I say, because it's the lie I already used. Because it's the easiest one to keep consistent.
Grant's expression doesn't change. If he registers the choice, he doesn't challenge it.
"And what are you hoping to get from treatment?" he asks. "What would feel like success for you?"
The question lands in my chest, strange and unfamiliar.
Success.
Not survival. Not keeping the peace. Not making sure I don't do anything that sets someone off.
"I just want them under control," I say. "I'd like medication. For anxiety."
Grant nods once. "Okay."
He taps a few things into his laptop. "Have you ever been on medication for anxiety or depression before?"
"Yes," I say.
"What was it?"
"Lorazepam," I answer, my voice still even. "Ativan."
Grant's eyes flick up, quick. Then back to the screen. "Do you remember the dosage?"
I shake my head slightly. "Not exactly. It was a few years ago."
"Alright," he says. "I should be able to pull it up."
He scrolls.
The room is quiet except for the soft click of keys. I watch his face without staring, trained to read small shifts.
His eyebrow twitches once.
Then again.
His gaze flicks to me. Back to the screen.
For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something and doesn't know how to say it without making me bolt.
My pulse ticks up, irritated.