Outside, the late afternoon sun throws warm light across the sidewalk. People pass with earbuds in, tote bags slung over shoulders, coffees half finished. It's all mundane, ordinary movement. None of them knows that something far more interesting just shifted inside that quiet office upstairs.
Red suspects I'm in trouble, and I'm glad. He needs to not underestimate me. My father taught me one thing over the years. A man who doesn't brace himself never breaks the right way. I may not have ever witnessed him get violent with anyone, but I sure saw him put enough in their place. Every Ivanov can, and I'm no different.
I walk to a park, sit on a bench, then pull out my phone. I open the browser, typing Red's full name with a rush of anticipation that crackles through my fingers.
There's a sparse LinkedIn profile with an old headshot. I click on it so that he can see I'm researching him. I go to the private messages and type.
Me: It was so great meeting you today. I can't wait to explore more with you.
I exit the platform and click on another link. It's a conference clip where he answered a question about trauma bonds.
His voice floats through the air with authority. "People trapped in trauma bonds aren't weak. They're conditioned. Thechallenge is teaching them to recognize the difference between a connection that heals and a connection that hooks them."
Maybe I can convince him I have a trauma bond with Brax?
I think hard, can't figure out how to link it, so I shove it in the back of my mind for another time.
I return to the search page, but it's the same as before. There's not a lot about him.
It only excites me more. A man with nothing online is a man with everything worth digging for.
I tuck my phone into my purse and lean back on the park bench, letting the afternoon hum blend into a muted soundtrack around me. Joggers bounce past. A mother adjusts her toddler's sun hat. A couple argues softly over a spilled smoothie. Ordinary life swirls in every direction, but none of it lands on me.
All I can picture is Red's jaw tightening when my skirt rode a little higher on my thigh. Then there was the subtle shift in his posture when I let silence stretch rather than fill it. And how could I forget his austere discipline in his expression that cracked only once, just enough to let me glimpse the man he tries so hard to bury.
But he's a man like every other one. He has needs. But he's also a psychiatrist. So I have no doubt he's got dark desires swirling in his veins, waiting for someone like me to unleash them.
He uses professionalism like it's armor. He forgets that metal dents. And I'm going to be the one with the hammer.
I trace the strap of my purse absently, replaying his words from the lecture clip.
"...a connection that heals and a connection that hooks..."
My phone buzzes, a single vibration that jolts my attention back down to the screen.
There's a message alert from LinkedIn. The hairs on my arms rise, and my stomach fills with flutters.
I unlock the screen, but it's not a message from Red. It's just one of my fashion world contacts.
Disappointment hits me.
This is typical. Stop worrying,I tell myself.
Red's too disciplined to respond right away. He'll agonize first, weigh the implications, maybe even draft something he deletes three times before sending a single neutral sentence.
The thought alone sends a charge through my veins.
The best kind of men are the ones who battle themselves before they take on the world. And Red is already wrestling ghosts he doesn't realize I planted.
I cross one leg over the other, letting the movement stretch the hem of my skirt along the top of my thigh. A breeze sweeps through the park, brushing a strand of my blue hair across my lips. I tuck it behind my ear and close my eyes, letting the fantasy roll out slowly.
I'm back in his office, only this time, he doesn't step away when I move closer. His hand doesn't drop from mine so quickly. His eyes dodge where they want to wander.
The air thickens just picturing it. I reach into my purse again and pull out my compact mirror, opening it to check my makeup. My lipstick still sits in a clean curve, untouched despite the way I'dbitten the corner of my lower lip. I smooth a thumb against the edge of my mouth, adjusting the faint shimmer. I take a selfie and send it to his profile, wanting him to study my image all night.
My phone dings again. This time it's a calendar notification forValentina's yoga class,an alert I forgot I left enabled from weeks ago, back when I still tracked every move she made out of obligation to my obsession with Brax.
A different kind of hunger sharpens inside me. My new project doesn't overshadow my love for Brax. He won't be with his wife forever. Eventually, he'll come to his senses and me.
