Roshaan
As Dr. Marsh signs the last copy, she steps forward.
“Can I get you anything else, Dr. Marsh? Or shall we call it a night—or morning, rather?”
“Incredible. And it was a riveting talk.” She hesitates, then decides she’s got nothing to lose. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
She swallows. “Among those women who were seduced by con men or killers, do you think those men ever truly loved them? Or was it always transactional?”
Dr. Marsh’s face softens. “Those men were psychopaths, Roshaan. Not wired for empathy. But they know how to perform affection perfectly. They turn it on and off as a tool—intermittent reinforcement to create emotional dependency and maintain coercive control to a point of complete dependency. For everything, including self-worth.”
“Is there a tipping point—a place where the woman can still get out? Or is it more like a frog in cold water, where the temperature is turned up so slowly that the water is boiling before they notice, and the frog can’t escape?”
He regards her in silence for several beats. The painting of Aeolus and his bag of winds looms behind him. The ship rolls again, and Roshaan steadies herself on the table.
Very quietly, Dr. Marsh says, “Roshaan, is there something in particular worrying you? Something I can help with?”
Her face goes hot. “No. I—I was just curious. I wondered if there comes a point where it’s too late, too dangerous for those women to leave. By that point maybe they know too much. In that sense, they’re victims, aren’t they?”
His gaze pins hers. “My reply would be this: How prepared are you to hurt others? There is a line. When someone knowingly allows others to suffer, they have crossed from victim to villain. Either way, there are consequences. It’s easier said than done, but you must choose your hard. Give him up. Or go down with him.”