So here I am, trapped inside my Audi, wondering how the hell I'm going to explain myself this time.
Dr. Smith is the therapist of choice for Miami’s rich and famous. He's in his early forties and successful enough to see clients from his oceanfront penthouse in Hollywood. Technically, the guy could meet me in pajamas, but he's professional enough to dress like an academic each time I show up.
His housekeeper greets me at the door and leads me inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the endless stretch of South Florida’s ocean, the waves glittering like spilled glass under the sun. The air smells faintly of salt, drifting in even through the sealed glass. Polished marble floors shine, sleek furniture perfectly placed, every detail curated for quiet luxury. I sink into the familiar leather chair. I never lie down—it feels too cliché—but Dr. Smith once confessed that many of his patients do, usually because they can’t handle eye contact when spilling their darkest secrets.To each their own.
“Luca,” Dr. Smith says, rushing into the room and shaking my hand firmly. Silver hair perfectly combed back, gold watch glinting under the cuff of a tailored blazer. He has that cultivated calm of a man who charges by the hour and never raises his voice, his cologne subtle but expensive. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
My gaze flicks to the clock: 9:01. Yeah, Dr. Smith is even more obsessive about punctuality than I am.
“How are you?” he asks, settling into his chair behind the desk.
How am I? Seriously? If I’m here at nine in the morning, obviously, I'm not okay. But I know it's just his standard icebreaker, so I spare him my usual sarcasm and stare out at the waves crashing in the distance instead.
“She’s in Miami,” I say flatly.
He pauses, assessing me. “Who?”
“Emma.”
I don't need to clarify; Dr. Smith knows exactly who Emma is. He knows precisely what she did to me, how she crushed my heart, stomped on it, spat on it, and threw it to the hyenas for laughs.
“Oh…” he says quietly, finally grasping how serious this really is.
“Yeah. ‘Oh,’” I echo bitterly, standing up to pace near the window. “She showed up in my office on Monday, and by Tuesday I had arranged for her entire team to work in my building.”
“Wait, hold on,” he interrupts, swiveling his chair to track my movement. “She’s working for you now?”
“Yes. Her marketing agency is doing a campaign for Property Group.”
“That doesn’t sound good at all.”
“I know!” I snap, irritated—though I have no one to blame but myself.
“So, what are you planning to do?”
I spin around to face him, taking in his large, dark eyes—a bit too wide for his face, but that’s not his fault. “I came here so you could tell me what to do!”
Dr. Smith laughs gently, which only ratchets up my annoyance. “I can’t decide your life for you, Luca. My job is to help you break down your thoughts.”
Seriously? Five hundred dollars an hour for that?Waste of my time.Irritated, I stride toward the exit, already plotting my escape.
“Wait, Luca,” he says urgently. “Sit down, let's talk this through.”
“Years,” I grind out through clenched teeth, gripping the door handle. “Years of therapy to get her out of my system, Doctor. And now she strolls back into my life like some gentle autumn breeze, and in less than twenty-four hours, I've lost all control.”
He motions toward the chair again, but all I really want is to set the damn thing on fire.
“Lost all control?” he repeats carefully.
I pace back and forth, restless energy boiling under my skin. “Yeah, and I haven’t even seen her working in my office yet. It was literally one hour—I negotiated the worst contract imaginable just to keep her close.”
“Okay, let's slow down. Consider other options,” he suggests calmly. “Maybe she can work in the building, but not directly on your floor. How would that sound?”
Already solved that particular problem. “No. She has to be close.”
“Why?”
I open my mouth, but the words that nearly escape aren't rational—they’re borderline psychotic. I say them anyway. “Because if I know Emma Green is somewhere in my building, with even the slightest possibility of running into her, I'll lose my goddamn mind. I need to know exactly where she is at all times and see her whenever I want. Otherwise?—”
