Red needs to be confronted with something he can't ignore. Something he has to address, even if his professionalism fights him.
My gaze drifts toward the drawer where I keep razors and blades I use for trimming stray threads when fabric frays too close to a seam.
A slow, steady pulse moves through me. I glance at my arm.
Not again. Too obvious.
It needs to be somewhere I won't show him, and he accidentally sees. I glance between the skirt and my body and freeze.
There's only one choice. The soft, delicate, hidden part of my thigh is exactly the kind of place a man notices only if proximity demands it. If Red sees blood there, he'll ask questions. He'll have to. And he won't be able to pretend it doesn't affect him.
I walk to the bathroom. The light above the mirror hums quietly. My reflection stares back, blue hair tumbling around my shoulders, eyes bright with anticipation.
"You want his attention?" I whisper to the girl in the glass. "You want him to lose control?"
She nods back at me, as if her certainty is separate from my own.
I lift the hem of my skirt, slide my panties down, step out of them, and toss them into the laundry basket. The air kisses my bare skin, awakening a shiver that climbs up my spine.
I press the flat part of the razor's cool metal lightly against the inside of my thigh, high enough that it's hidden unless I want it revealed. I take a deep breath and gently press the tip against my skin, then slide it across.
Bright red blooms under the razor. Pain darts outward in a sharp ribbon, but it fades quickly, replaced by a deep, grounding thrum.
I grab a washcloth, put it under running water, then hold it to my thigh, watching it turn maroon.
Red will see it. He'll assume it means something is unraveling inside me. He'll ask why and how. He'll want to know every detail.
I'll look at him with glossy eyes and whisper something that tightens his chest and ruins his objectivity for good.
It has to be vague, raw, and the kind of bait a therapist can't resist.
I press my thumb into the wound, ensuring that a bruise will form by Friday, ensuring he won't miss it. And when he addresses it, I'll pull my skirt higher.
This is perfect.
I grab my first aid kit, add the same type of glue my father put on my arm, and once it's dry, I pull the skirt from the dress form. I step into it and return to the mirror.
It hugs my hips softly, flaring just the way I wanted. I slide the waistband to determine where the slit should lie. Then I grab a chair, put it in front of my reflection, and sit, trying out different poses until I find the perfect one.
Satisfaction fills me more than it has in a long time. I stare at myself, a work of art, ready for war. Then I run my hands over my thighs and whisper to my reflection, "He doesn't stand a chance."
CHAPTER FOUR
Red
Friday at four used to mean crisis evaluations, not the return of a woman who has occupied too much of my headspace for six straight days.
My computer clock moves from 3:58 to 3:59. The numbers glow in the corner of my vision while I type the last sentence of my previous patient's note. My fingers hover over the keys longer than they should, stuck between professionalism and something far less respectable.
LinkedIn still sits open in the background on my monitor, the faint blue notification dot a quiet accusation. I shouldn't have clicked when I saw her name. If I had ignored the message, I wouldn't have seen the photo that followed.
Yet I didn't.
I drag the cursor to minimize the browser. Her image vanishes from the screen, but not from my mind. The photo of Brax and Valentina outside the yoga studio replays with too muchclarity. His hand is on his wife's back, clearly demonstrating his protectiveness and love. Under it is a message Blue sent yesterday as a follow-up when I never responded.
Blue: Seeing them together reminds me of what wanting someone does to a person. I don't want that pain again, Dr. Mercer. Not with you.
My jaw tightens. That line has lived rent-free in my skull since last night.
