"For the sleep issue. A professional."
I kept my face neutral, but something must have flickered, because Kirill's eyes narrowed slightly. He'd seen it. Of course he'd seen it.
"I'm handling it," I said again.
"Are you."
It wasn't a question. And this time, I didn't have an answer.
***
He flew back to Boston on Wednesday morning, and I returned to my routine with something like relief. Kirill saw too much. He always had. And there were things I wasn't ready to examine, let alone explain.
Like why I kept thinking about a woman I'd met exactly once.
She'd been in my head all week—not constantly, not obsessively, but persistently. I'd be in the middle of a meeting and suddenly remember the way she'd held my gaze, waiting out my silences like she had all the time in the world. I'd be reviewing contracts and hear her voice asking questions I didn'twant to answer. I'd be lying in bed at 3 AM, not sleeping, and wonder if she was awake too.
It was irritating. I'd built my entire life on control—controlling situations, controlling perceptions, controlling myself. I didn't get distracted by women. I enjoyed them, appreciated them, and moved on without a backward glance. That was the arrangement. That was how it worked.
Dr. Walsh hadn't gotten the memo.
I told myself it was just curiosity. She'd gotten more out of me in one session than most people got in years, and my ego wanted to know how she'd done it. Professional interest. That was all.
But Thursday morning, I woke up at six and immediately thought:Today.
I went to the gym. Ran harder than usual, lifted heavier than necessary, trying to burn off the restless energy that had been building all week. It didn't help. By noon, I'd checked my watch four times. By two, I'd given up pretending to focus on anything else.
At 2:30, I told Kolya to take me to the Upper East Side.
"The therapist?" he asked, and I didn't bother asking how he knew. Kolya made it his business to know everything about my schedule.
"Yes."
"That's the second time."
"Your point?"
He shrugged, pulling into traffic. "No point. Just noticing."
"Notice quietly."
He grinned. "Whatever you say, boss."
The building looked the same as it had a week ago—expensive, discreet, the kind of place where people paid for privacy. I signed in at the security desk, took the elevator to the eighth floor, and settled into the waiting room with fifteen minutes to spare.
I was early. I was never early.
The receptionist smiled at me, the same silver-haired woman from before. "Dr. Walsh will be with you shortly, Mr. Zelenov."
"Thank you."
I sat in one of the leather chairs and didn't fidget. Didn't check my phone. Didn't do anything except breathe and wait and pretend my heart wasn't beating faster than it should be.
This was ridiculous. She was a therapist. I was a patient. I was paying her to help me sleep, not to occupy space in my head like she'd bought a lease. I was Rodion Rysev, and I didn't get rattled by women, especially women I'd met exactly once in a professional context.
The door to her office opened.
"Mr. Zelenov?"
