No. She doesn't.
Her voice hits me sharply. "Once you own someone, you don't get to return them."
The doors open, yanking me into reality. I step out, shoulders squaring as I move through the hallway.
"Good morning, Dr. Mercer," Shirley greets.
I nod. "Morning." I brush past her and open my office door, waiting for relief to hit. I set my briefcase down, straighten a stack of files that don't need straightening, and shrug out of my jacket. The chair creaks softly as I sit, the sound grounding me for half a second before my thoughts slide right back to Blue and the way her pussy glistened and tasted.
"Focus, asshole," I mutter, and open the first patient file. I force myself to read every line but barely comprehend it.
Ten minutes in, the words blur worse. I rub a hand over my face and try again, slower this time.
The phone beeps.
Shirley announces, "Your first patient is here."
"Send her in, please," I reply, and sit straighter, then glance down, remembering when Blue was under my desk.
An ache blooms everywhere it shouldn't. I rise and move to the armchair.
"Hi, Dr. Mercer," Julianna Price chirps.
"Good morning. Please have a seat." I motion to the opposite chair.
She obeys, and the session starts.
I listen when my patient speaks. I respond appropriately. I guide the conversation where it needs to go. On the surface, I'm present.
Underneath, memory keeps intruding.
The cadence of Blue's voice when she said my name latches with the way her eyes held mine without hesitation. And her unflinching certainty in the way she offered herself, not as a question, not as a fantasy but as something decided, never fades.
I adjust my posture and redirect my attention before the thought can take root further. This is exactly how mistakes compound. One lapse invites another. I know the pattern well enough to lecture on it.
Today, I'm a victim of it and unable to end its abuse.
Between sessions, I step into the hallway and breathe slowly, counting the inhales and the exhales. I tell myself this is nothing more than a delayed consequence, that the pull will fade once I reassert discipline.
After I tell myself that enough times, I feel confident to do what needs to be done. I reach for the doorknob as my phone chirps.
Tension and tingles fire down my spine. I pull the phone out.
Blue: Check your inside jacket pocket.
My throat tightens.
I glance down the hallway, then back into my office before closing the door behind me. The lock clicks, far louder than it should. I bypass Shirley, go into my private space, and pick up my jacket from the chair. My fingers brush the lining as I slide my hand inside the pocket she specified.
My breath stops short, chest tightening as recognition hits. The object is small, folded deliberately, and unmistakable in color and intent. My fingers curl around it before I can stop myself, the texture sparking a memory I shouldn't allow.
Another chirp.
Blue: I hope you found it.
I lower myself into the chair slowly, jacket still in my grip. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in with the weight of the choice in front of me. I know exactly what this is and it's not a gift. It's a test and a tether she's confident I won't cut.
I don't respond, holding the wadded-up material in my fist near my nose and inhaling deeply.
