“Addicted,” she repeats. “That’s a strong word. It suggeststhere’s a pull you feel, something beyond just fascination or curiosity. Do you think that’s part of why you’re here?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I think about him all the time. About what he said, the way he looked at me… the way he saved me.”
“Let’s talk about that,” she says, her pen hovering over the notepad again. “When he saved you, how did it make you feel?”
I hesitate, the memory of that moment flashing vividly in my mind—Lobo’s body crumpling to the ground, Ghost’s hands still restrained but lethal, the way he turned to me afterward, calm and completely unapologetic.
“Conflicted,” I admit. “Because it was brutal. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. But it wasn’t for himself. It was for me. He saved me, and I don’t know how to reconcile that with the person I know he is.”
Dr. Linton nods slowly. “It’s not uncommon to feel gratitude toward someone who’s protected you, even if they’ve done so in a way that feels morally or ethically complicated. It can create a bond, a sense of connection that’s hard to ignore.”
“That’s exactly it. And it scares me because I know he’s capable of so much worse. But when I’m around him, I don’t just see the manipulative side. No, Idosee it, but I can’t stop it from affecting me. How do I make it stop?”
Dr. Linton’s gaze is unwavering, her tone firm. “You start by taking back control. By setting boundaries. Not just with him but with yourself as well. And you remind yourself that it’s okay to feel conflicted. It’s okay to be drawn to someone and still recognize that they may not be good for you.”
I cover my face with my hands, unable to look at her as the words deep in my soul begin to surface. “But Iwanthim despite knowing all of that.”
“That’s a powerful realization, Geneva. You’re in a situation that challenges not only your professional boundaries but your personal ones as well. And that can be disorienting, even overwhelming. But the question now is: What are you willing to risk to explore these feelings of want?”
The more accurate question would be: Is there anything I’mnotwilling to risk?
And I don’t like the answer.
CHAPTER 35
GENEVA
Two weeks later…
The lights buzz softly overhead as I sit at my desk, the hum a faint but persistent reminder of reality. Dr. Linton’s words from my last session loop through my mind like a mantra, steady and relentless:Set the boundary. Hold the line.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to focus. My laptop screen illuminates the otherwise muted office, the open file staring back at me like a dare. Slowly, deliberately, I click on his photo. Ghost’s face fills the screen, his expression as infuriatingly smug as it is captivating. It’s a test, I tell myself. A deliberate exercise. Small doses of temptation to practice building the mental distance I so desperately need.
Feel it, but don’t act on it.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the desk, and force myself to study the photo like it’s nothing more than another case. Another subject. The hard angles of his face and the intensity in his eyes are all there, frozen in a single frame, daring me tounravel what lies beneath. And I hate how easily it draws me in, how even in a static image he manages to hold power over me.
I scroll through the notes I’ve painstakingly compiled, clinging to the words as if they’re a lifeline. Each sentence is a reminder, a tether to reality:Dangerous. Manipulative. A psychopath.Traits I’ve dissected and cataloged, the same traits that should keep me grounded.
But as I skim the lines, my gaze keeps drifting back to his photo, as if it holds answers the text can’t provide. My stomach churns, a mixture of frustration and need. He’s more than what’s written in this file, more than what the mugshot captures, and that’s what terrifies me the most. Because it’s thatmorewhich has me prisoner and refuses to let go.
My fingers hover over the trackpad, debating whether to close the file, to put the temptation away. But closing it feels like running, and running means I’ve lost control. I need to face it, facehim, in small doses if that’s what it takes to fortify myself.
Feel it, but don’t act on it.
The words are hollow, even as I mentally repeat them. How do I not act on something that already consumes me? Every line I’ve written about Ghost, every session I’ve spent trying to understand him, has led to this moment, where the boundaries between professional and personal are no longer blurred but shattered.
My chest tightens as I force myself to focus on the facts, the clinical detachment I’ve trained for years to maintain. His history. His diagnosis. The patterns of manipulation. It’s all here, laid bare in my notes. Evidence of who he is, what he is. But even as I read, the memory of him flashes in my mind. The vulnerability, the rawness. The tender emotions he isn’t supposed to be capable of.
I grip the edge of the desk.
“He’s a psychopath,” I whisper, as if saying it aloud will make it easier to believe. “He’s dangerous.”
And yet, staring at his photo, I can’t shake the truth that keeps gnawing at me: He’s not dangerous to me in the way everyone assumes. Not physically. Not in the ways that make sense. He’s dangerous because he makes me question everything. My professionalism. My judgment. My very sense of self.
I let go of the desk to scroll down, forcing myself to look at the notes instead of his face. Clinical facts. Behavioral patterns. My observations, written with care and objectivity. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The smirk in his photo is still there, lingering in the corner of my vision, taunting me.
I close my eyes, take a steadying breath, and open them again. I won’t let him win. Not today. Not in this moment.
