I look at the next one. Blue's bent over a dark wood desk, her wrists crossed and cuffed behind her. The black leather miniskirt is shoved to her waist, displaying her bare ass. His hand presses between her shoulder blades to keep her chest flat against the surface. Sweat gleams on her skin in the city light. Her mouth is open, and she's moaning or crying out. I can't tell which. Her eyes are heavy, lost.
When did this happen?
He claimed she stalked him.
Was he lying?
In the third photo, she straddles him in a leather chair near the window. His fingers dig into her hips hard enough to bruise her. Her head is thrown back, and her hair spills down her spine, exposing her throat. Endless reflections multiply in the mirrored wall behind them.
Bile creeps into my throat. I force myself to swallow it down.
Did she play me? She and Brax had a relationship, and it was all a lie?
Every image is composed like art. Expensive, deliberate, obscene masterpieces that could be in a high-end porn movie or photoshoot. All the details scream money and secrecy, and the exact kind of control one keeps locked behind closed doors. In each scene, Brax takes control of Blue's pleasure.
"That's my job, not his," I hiss out loud to myself.
My hand shakes with anger. I set the photos down carefully, one by one, aligning the edges. Rage coils low in my gut, weaving with jealousy. Then I pick up the photo showing her bare ass, look closer, and freeze.
That's not her ass.
Am I seeing things?
No. That is definitely not her ass.
I examine the other photos, find other imperfections, and my anger changes to relief, then a new irritation.
She staged this.
She's manipulating me again.
The lighting, the angles, the careful omission of a full face. The bruises blooming under gripping fingers. The hotel suite that could be any luxury penthouse in the Loop. She wanted me to see possession, surrender, and erasure of boundaries.
The note card with red lipstick taunts me.How does this make you feel, Dr. Mercer?
I get up and grab the crystal decanter of scotch out of the cabinet. I pour two fingers and take a large mouthful. The liquid burns my throat all the way to my stomach, and I flinch, staring at the city lights.
Blue's delusional again.
She wanted me to feel exactly what she felt when she walked into my office and saw Amy at the desk.
We haven't had a therapy session lately.
Remorse stifles me. So much has happened that I forgot about her mental health. I should have known that any new person in my life would trigger her. If I had told her about Amy, this could have been avoided.
It's my career and strictly professional.
Blue doesn't see it that way.
I pick up the card again. The lipstick is the same shade she wore Saturday night when she kissed my throat and left a perfect crescent on my skin.
How does this make you feel, Dr. Mercer?taunts me.
I finish the scotch, refill it, then go back to the desk. One of the photos catches my attention more than the others. Blue's eyes are glassy, surrendered, but I know her real face better than this fabricated version. I know the way her pupils dilate when she's truly gone for me. I know the hitch in her breath when I pin her wrists above her head and tell her she's mine. These photos are close enough to spark the jealousy she wanted me to feel, but they're not real.
She wanted to punish me.
She's daring me to punish her back.
