"Blue, stop. You're going to outpatient therapy, or we're checking you into a hospital," Mom states.
I gape at them.
"Pick," she says in a firm tone.
My insides crumble, but I remind myself that I'm an Ivanov. If Mom wants to treat me like a patient, then fine. If Dad wants to believe the worst, then I'll deal with it. If they want me to get help? Fuck it. I'll get help. I'll fake the progress, pretend toheal, and charm whatever therapist they send me to. So I state, "Outpatient."
Relief fills their expressions. Mom nods and places her hand on mine. "You have an appointment tomorrow at 9 a.m. with Dr. Red Mercer."
"Didn't realize you had one on speed dial," I snap.
"Watch your tone," Dad warns.
"I know someone who worked with him. He specializes in..." Mom's face crumples. She looks at Dad.
"At what, Mom?" I push, with adrenaline pinging hard into my cells.
She takes a deep breath, pins a painful expression on me, and says, "With obsessive behaviors."
I laugh. It starts small and grows into something I can't stop.
"Why are you laughing? This isn't funny," she asserts.
I find a way to stop. "Brax is lying. But I'll do what you want and go see your therapist. Can I go home now?"
"I think you should move in with us for a while," Dad says.
I jerk my head backward. "What? No."
Mom grips my hand. "Blue?—"
I jump off the bed. "No. I'll go see your shrink. I'm not living here. I'm twenty-five! And an adult! You can't make me." I brush past them.
"Blue!" Dad calls after me.
I don't stop. I move quickly through the penthouse and lunge into the open elevator. I hit the close and the ground floor buttons.
When it opens in the lobby, I rush past security, step into the cool air, and decide to walk home. I pull out my phone and look up Dr. Mercer.
There's barely anything about him online, which piques my curiosity. Every photo that exists shows the same man. He's late thirties or early forties, with dark hair swept back like it always obeys him, slate-gray eyes that look carved from stone, and a jawline sharp enough to make his button-down shirt seem obscene.
He's the kind of clean-cut American professional women probably trust instantly, which is hilarious, because nothing about him feels safe to me. Even the way he stands in pictures with his shoulders squared, expression unreadable, hands loosely folded like he's analyzing whoever's behind the camera, makes my stomach tighten.
He's a man who doesn't give himself away easily.
He keeps his world small.
He notices everything.
And the fact that he's so hard to find online? That's practically an invitation. People like him always have something worth hiding. So I'll discover it.
By the time I get to my apartment, I've decided how this will go. I'll make Dr. Mercer think he understands me. Then I'll return to the part of this story that still belongs to me.
Brax walked away. He chose Valentina.
For now.
In the meantime, I'll make Dr. Red Mercer see the version of me I choose. And I'll make damn sure he's the one who goes crazy craving everything from me he should never want.
