“Which is a hallmark of their danger. That ability to blur the lines, to make you question what’s real and what isn’t.”
I nod. “Exactly. That’s what makes everything so complicated.Because even if it is manipulation, it doesn’tfeellike it. Not in those moments.”
“And how does that make you feel? The possibility that it could be real—or that it might not be?”
“It’s torture,” I confess, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “If it’s real, then everything I’ve worked for is at risk. But if it’s not, then I’ve let myself be played. Either way, I lose.”
Dr. Linton sets her pen down to fold her hands in her lap. “That’s a heavy burden to carry. But I wonder if part of the weight comes from trying to figure it out alone. Isolation can amplify confusion, Geneva.”
The sound of my name startles me. It feels personal, too personal, even though I know it’s just her way of grounding me in the conversation.
“What would you suggest, then?” I ask. “That I tell someone? Confess everything and watch my career burn to the ground? My career is my identity. It’d be akin to suicide.”
Her expression remains steady. “Not that. But maybe it’s not about confessing to someone else. Maybe it’s about being honest with yourself first. About what you feel, what you want, and what boundaries you’re willing to hold.”
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Boundaries. Those are already in pieces.”
She doesn’t react to my deflection, her gaze unwavering. “Then maybe it’s about deciding what pieces you want to pick up, and what you’re willing to leave behind.”
The simplicity of her words cuts deeper than I expect, and I sit back, pressing my hands into my lap to steady myself. I don’t respond, because I don’t have an answer.
Dr. Linton lets the silence linger again, giving me space toprocess. Finally, she speaks, her voice softer than before. “It’s okay to feel conflicted, Geneva. It’s okay to not have the answers right now. But what’s not okay is carrying this alone until it consumes you.”
I nod, my eyes stinging with unshed emotion. The clock ticks in the background, marking the seconds that feel heavier than time should.
“Let’s start small,” she says gently, her pen poised again. “If this hypothetical professional could speak freely, without judgment, what’s the one thing they’d say to this subject?”
The question catches me off guard, and I frown. My mind flashes to Ghost, to the look in his eyes as I walked away, the unspoken words between us. And then, without thinking, the answer tumbles out. “I’d ask him: Do you care about me?”
Dr. Linton doesn’t look up from her notepad as she writes, her expression calm, her movements even. The scratch of her pen against paper fills the quiet, and for a moment, I feel exposed. Regretful. I know I need professional help, but this might’ve been a huge mistake.
Finally, she sets the pen down and folds her hands in her lap. “That’s an honest place to begin. And it’s okay to feel torn. Relationships—especially ones with this level of complexity—are rarely black and white.”
I shift in my seat, gripping the armrests. “But this isn’t a relationship,” I say quickly, as if saying it aloud will make it true. “It’s a professional situation that’s gotten… messy.”
And by “messy” I mean he had his fingers in my pussy.
Her brow arches. “Messy, yes. But not entirely professional, is it? At least not in how you’re experiencing it.”
The words sting, but she’s not wrong. “No,” I admit, my voice barely audible. “It’s not. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want this. Hypothetically,” I add lamely.
“I believe you. Remember that you’re human. Feelings don’t always follow logic or intention. What matters now is what you do with those feelings.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Dr. Linton leans forward. “Start with this: What do you want? Not what you think youshouldwant, or what you’re afraid of wanting. Just simply, what doyouwant?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and impossible to answer. I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat. What do I want? To escape this? To understand it? Or worse, to let myself feel it, to follow this to its destined conclusion where I end up hurt and alone?
“I don’t know,” I finally say, my voice breaking. “I just know I can’t stop thinking about him. Even when I try. And it’s exhausting.”
Dr. Linton smiles at me with sympathy. “Honesty is good. When you think about him, is it fear you feel? Or something else?”
“Both,” I whisper. “It’s always both.”
Her expression softens. “That’s not uncommon. Attraction and fear often coexist in complicated dynamics like this. The key is understanding why. Why you feel drawn to him, and why it scares you.”
I close my eyes, the memories flashing behind my eyelids—Ghost’s smirk, his biting humor, the way he looked at me when I left the room. His euphoric expression when I came on his hand. “Because he makes me feel addicted.”
