4.
By the time I sit down across from Grant, it feels like a routine I'm not allowed to call comfort.
Fourth session.
Two weeks since the inauguration.
Two weeks of smiling until my cheeks ache, of standing beside Rodney while he speaks about unity like he didn't crush mine years ago, of being introduced in rooms full of people who clap for me as if applause can turn a cage into a crown.
The Lennox Group is the only place that doesn't greet me like I'm a title.
Grant doesn't say Madam First Lady.
Isabel doesn't either.
No extra brightness. No nervous fawning. No "congratulations." No mention of the election, the inauguration, the photos. Just my name—like Naomi is enough to be acknowledged.
I've tried to decide if that's a strategy.
If it's part of his method. Some therapist trick designed to disarm me.
Or if they simply don't care.
The thought doesn't make me feel small.
It makes me feel dangerously like a person.
I sit the way I always sit. Ankles crossed, hands folded, face calm.
Grant leans forward slightly, behind his desk. His voice stays even.
"Have you gone to see your mother recently?"
The question pulls me out of the trance I didn't realize I slipped into.
I blink once. "No."
Grant's gaze holds mine, steady. "Okay."
I wait for him to move on.
He doesn't.
"You said you usually visit once every other week," he reminds me gently. "What's made it hard lately?"
I breathe in, controlled. "There have been a lot of events and more coming up."
"The schedule," he says.
I nod. "Yes."
Grant pauses, then asks, "And how does that feel?"
It's such a simple question. So normal. Like feelings are something you're allowed to have without them being used against you.
"It's fine," I say automatically.
Grant's eyes soften—not pity. Not judgment. Just awareness.
"Naomi," he says quietly, "you don't have to convince me."
My jaw tightens for half a second before I smooth it back out.
"I've spoken to her on the phone," I add, like I'm defending myself. "She's... okay."
"How did it feel to hear her voice?" he asks.
My fingers find each other in my lap. A small, private squeeze.
"It felt... good," I admit.
Grant nods once. "Do you wish you could be closer? If time allowed it."
I hesitate.
Not because I don't have an answer.
Because the answer is messy.
I stare at the coastline photo on his wall, the flat calm water, the predictable horizon.
"My mom was always on the go when I was a kid," I say carefully. "So... I don't remember spending too much time with her of us actively bonding."
Grant doesn't react like that's a tragedy. He just waits, like he knows there's more beneath it.
I continue, voice quiet but controlled. "We bonded the most when... I started dating Rodney."
The words taste strange.
Like saying his name in this room gives it weight it doesn't deserve.
Grant's brow lifts slightly. "Why then?"
I swallow. "She was proud," I say, choosing the safest truth. "She thought... it meant something. That I was secure."
Grant's gaze stays steady. "And did you feel secure?"
My lips part. Close again.
I don't answer.
Grant doesn't push. He shifts smoothly, like he's protecting me from my own panic.
"You mentioned at the consultation that you've had nightmares and episodes of anxiety," he says. "Have you had any since our last session?"
I nod once. "Yes."
"How many?"
"Two," I say.
"And were you able to use any of the grounding methods we discussed?"
I hesitate. Then I nod again. Smaller this time. "A little."
Grant's voice stays calm. "Okay. Let's try something together for sixty seconds."
He continues without forcing it. "Feet on the floor. Flat if you can."
I do it.
"Now," he says gently, "without changing anything about your face—just notice what you feel."
I stare at the ocean photo.
My shoulders are tight.
My throat is tight.
My stomach feels clenched like I'm bracing.
"What do you notice?" he asks.
I keep my voice neutral. "Nothing."
Grant nods as if that's a perfectly normal starting point. "Okay. Then we'll do it differently."
He pulls a small notepad from his drawer and places on the desk between us with a pen.
"Pick one thing you can see in this room that makes you feel slightly less on edge," he says. "Not calm. Not safe. Just less on edge."
My eyes drift.
The couch. The bookshelf. The plant.
The ocean.
"The water," I say quietly.
Grant nods. "What about it?"
"It's flat," I answer. "There aren't any waves."
"It's predictable," he says softly.
My throat tightens at the word.
Grant's voice lowers. "Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for six."
I do it.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Again.
On the third breath, my shoulders drop just slightly.
It annoys me how much it helps.
Grant watches me like he's not watching for weakness—like he's watching for permission.
"Now," he says, "tell me one thing that happened this week that made your body feel like it had to perform."
A flash: cameras. smiles. hands. applause.
"I had an appearance," I say carefully. "A lot of eyes on me."
"And what did your body do?" he asks.
"It behaved?," I say. "It didn't do anything unusual."
Grant's mouth curves just barely. "Okay."
He taps his chest once, then his throat. "For people who've had to stay composed a long time, panic doesn't start in the mind. It starts in the body preparing for impact."
Impact.
My fingers curl against my palm.
"Your poker face has saved you," he says quietly. "But it also traps everything inside. So instead of asking you to stop performing, I want you to build an exit. A private exit."
He slides the notepad closer.
"Two things," he says. "A code word you can text Isabella if you need to reschedule or end a session early without explaining and one grounding action you can do in public that nobody will notice."
I stare at the paper.
It's practical.
It's safe.
It doesn't require me to bleed.
My hand moves before my brain can stop it.
I write Blue.
Grant's eyes flick down, then back up to my face.
"Okay," he says, like it matters. Like he'll honor it. "Blue."
Something in my chest shifts—small, dangerous relief.
Grant sits back slightly. "Before we end today," he adds, "I want to give you my number."
My eyes lift.
He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a card, writes on the back with his pen, then slides it across to me.
"I don't give it to everyone," he says calmly.
"But I do give it to patients when there's a risk of acute panic or a life-threatening emergency. If you're in immediate danger, call 911 first. But if you feel like you're going to do something that can't be undone—if you feel unsafe with yourself—call me."
My throat tightens.
I keep my face composed as I tuck the card into my purse like it's nothing.
Like it isn't the first lifeline anyone's handed me that didn't come with a price tag.
"Okay," I manage.
Grant nods once. "Okay."
I step out expecting the usual rhythm. Isabella's smile. The soft click of keys. Thursday or Tuesday? The kind of normal that makes this place feel unreal compared to everything outside it.
But the front desk is empty.
No Isabel. No typing. No warm greeting.
Just the quiet hum of the office and the faint citrus scent that never changes.
I slow without meaning to, as if the emptiness is a warning.
Grant comes out behind me and pauses, scanning the desk the same way I do—calm, unbothered, as if nothing in this world surprises him anymore.
"She must've stepped away," he says lightly.
I nod once, lips pressed together. I don't know what to do with empty space. Empty space makes room for thoughts.
Grant takes a step toward the desk. "It's fine. I'll schedule you."
He moves behind the counter with ease, fingers finding the keyboard like it's muscle memory. He clicks into the calendar system, eyes scanning the screen.
"She probably texted me," he adds, casual, "that she had to step out to handle something."
My attention flicks to his phone on the desk. He doesn't check it. He doesn't seem concerned.
I stand there in front of the counter with my purse tucked close, posture straight, trying not to look like someone waiting for permission.
The silence stretches.
It shouldn't feel awkward—this is his office, his system, his staff—but it does, because I'm not used to being in spaces where men do small, ordinary tasks without making it a performance.
My eyes drift to the empty chair behind the desk. To the neat stack of papers.
And then, stupidly, my mouth opens.
"Is Isabel your wife?"
The second the words leave me, regret flashes hot in my chest.
I don't know why I asked.
Curiosity, maybe. Isabel is pretty and familiar with him in a way that could be intimacy.
Or maybe it's because I've been speaking to one person all day who doesn't belong to my world, and asking personal questions is what normal people do to make the air less tight.
Either way, it was careless.
Grant lets out a small chuckle, the sound quiet and surprised, and shakes his head. "No," he says.
Relief hits me first—sharp and unnecessary—then confusion immediately follows it.
He's still smiling a little when he looks back down at the calendar. "She's my little sister."
I blink. "Oh."
"She's in college," he adds, tone easy, like this is no big reveal at all. "I'm paying her tuition, so she works here part-time as my office assistant."
My mouth tightens. In my head I see Isabel soft smile, her effortless comfort.
It makes sense now.
He types for a few seconds, then glances up. "Next week or the week after?"
"Next week," I say. It comes out too quickly, and I hate that.
Grant doesn't comment. "Same time?"
I nod. "Thursday at one."
He clicks. "Done."
Then he leans back slightly, hands resting on the edge of the counter, and the quiet settles again.
It's the kind of quiet that makes conversation feel necessary.
And I don't like awkward silence.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I don't know if that was overstepping."