He's surrendering to me.
And tomorrow, I'll make sure he won't stand a chance.
I'm not getting another therapist. Dr. Mercer is mine now and always.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Red
When I open my eyes and sunlight slices across my ceiling, landing on the clock that reads 10:42, I bolt upright. My throat tightens, and my chest hammers from images I've been trying to outrun since the moment I hung up on her.
Her moan won't leave me alone.
My name never stops breaking out of her throat.
And that damn photo she sent, glistening with her arousal while she threatened to cut off her clit, I don't even need to look at. It's etched forever in my brain.
Then there's my own voice, strained, unprofessional, and shamefully human, admitting more than I ever should have. Every detail pulses behind my eyes, violent, invasive, impossible to scrub out.
This shouldn't have happened.
It's my fault. I'm supposed to be the professional.
I broke every rule, line, and vow I made before I ever sat in a therapist's chair with a patient across from me. The oath I took to help people struggling, I've never abandoned.
Until now.
Groaning, I swing my legs out of bed and rub both hands over my face, like I can sandpaper my skin into a version of me that didn't cave last night. But the guilt clings, crawling and gnawing at the edges of my ribs and builds a pressure I can't breathe around.
What I did was unethical. What she did was manipulative. Together, it was catastrophic. And it has to end.
I stand and head into the bathroom, turning the shower knob all the way to cold. The blast of water hits my skin like punishment, and I let it. I deserve way worse than icy water. My breath hitches until the temperature finally numbs my chest, my stomach, and my thighs.
But even the cold can't stop memories of her voice, soft and trembling, whispering things that no patient should say to their therapist and ways no professional should react to it.
I twist the water off and grip the sink. My reflection stares at me, hollow-eyed, jaw tight, like a man who finally realized the ground under his feet isn't solid. I stare at myself and declare, "This ends today."
It has to. There's no option where I can continue treating her after last night. I'd be a danger to her, myself, and my license. Whatever fragile progress she's made, she'll have to do the rest with someone else.
I towel off quickly and get dressed in black slacks, a white button-down, sleeves rolled, and a stiff collar, telling myself I'll be professional, impenetrable, and untouchable.
I repeat the word inside my head like a mantra.
Untouchable.
But when I glance at the cobalt shirt peeking out of the laundry basket, my mind betrays me. Images of her in matching wet panties won't fade, along with her breathy voice.
"Fuck," I mutter, never thinking I'd be in this position. I leave the house determined to steer Blue in the right direction and never see her again.
The drive is a blur, sunlight too bright, every stoplight too slow. I keep replaying my plan to terminate her therapy, provide referrals, do a documented final risk assessment, and tell her goodbye. Distance is the only ethical path forward.
The sun shines brighter as I get to my office. I get through the building, unlock the door, and the stale air hits me with a memory of her sitting cross-legged on the chair. My gaze drifts to the spot I wiped after she left, and another onslaught hits me of her glistening pussy photo she sent me last night.
"Get it together," I reprimand and pace the office. Then I begin reorganizing the room, moving with a precision that borders on obsessive.
I move the chairs farther apart and place the crisis hotline pamphlets on the small table. I pull referral forms from my drawer and smooth them flat. Then I align my pen directly parallel to the clipboard and step back.
The room looks sterile. Cold. Exactly how it needs to look, but my chest tightens anyway.
