"What's so funny?" I ask.
She leans closer, pushing her cleavage toward me, and with an innocent expression, questions, "Do you know who my family is?"
I don't flinch. It's no secret the Ivanovs hold power in Chicago. Some even say they're Mafia. I only give her, "I've heard of them and their real estate success."
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. "Don't lie to me, Red. Sorry. Dr. Mercer." She purses her lips together and bats her eyes.
My cock hardens.
God dammit.
"No one can make you be here," I claim.
She huffs, "I'm Adrian Ivanov's daughter. There are rules. Trust me. I only have so many choices in life."
"Like cutting your arm and claiming Brax's wife did it?" I ask.
Her hand twitches near her bandage. Her eyes darken, but not with shame, anger, or disappointment. It's something I don't have a label for and sends a chill down my spine.
Her voice cracks, and her sweet victim expression returns. "I didn't deserve any of this." She blinks hard.
I gently push, "Blue, did you injure yourself?"
Her gaze becomes a quiet warning. She says, "You're supposed to be neutral."
"I'm asking a clinical question."
"You're accusing me."
"Not accusing. Clarifying."
She uncrosses her legs, leans forward, and rests her elbows on her knees, almost like she's posing for a photo shoot for a high-end magazine. Her perfume reaches me again, faint and warm. She whispers, "You think I'm a crazy stalker."
I reply, "I don't like to use the word crazy."
She rolls her eyes. "Of course you don't. But you also think I'm manipulative, right?"
Yes.
I reply, "I think you're in distress."
She studies my expression, searching for cracks. "You don't believe me."
"I believe you're struggling."
"I believe you're judging me," she counters.
I fold my hands. "I'm not here to judge. I'm here to help you untangle what's causing conflict in your life."
"You want to untangle me?" she murmurs.
My cock aches. I slowly exhale through my nose in a way she can't see.
This session is sliding sideways, a slow drift away from structure into a psychological dance she is orchestrating far more deliberately than her mother hinted at.
Her blue hair glints under the lamp, each strand deliberately styled. Her nails gleam with topcoat. Her skirt is positioned to hint rather than reveal, but the intention vibrates beneath every choice she made before stepping through my door.
She's presenting a very specific version of herself. One she's decided to show me, and for a reason. My job is to crack through it, but it's not going to be today.
