Across from me sat the woman they introduced as my counselor.
Her name was Dr. Lemaire. Early forties, maybe. Calm eyes. The type of woman trained to read people like open books, as I did. My short time in trying to get my psychology degree taught me to study people as much as they did me.
She folded her hands on the table while the staff finished clearing plates.
“You handled yourself very strongly earlier,” she said gently.
Strongly.
That was a polite word for it.
I almost laughed.
“I pulled a gun on the man who technically owns the house,” I said. “Strong isn’t the word I’d use.”
Her lips curved slightly. “You thought you were protecting yourself.”
I leaned back in my chair.
Protecting myself. That sounded nicer than what it really was.
Because when Ares walked into that room earlier today, every instinct inside me said the same thing.
You’re trapped.
And I didn’t get trapped.
Not by men. Not by families. Not by the bullshit I’d spent years running from.
So, yeah.
I grabbed the gun.
And if the safety hadn’t been on, who knows what would’ve happened.
My fingers tapped the table lightly.
“I’d do it again,” I told her.
“I believe you,” she said, no fear in her eyes.
That made me narrow mine.
Most people tried to talk you out of your anger. Tried to convince you to soften.
She didn’t.
She just watched me.
Observing.
Like she knew the storm inside me wasn’t something you tried to quiet too fast.
Dinner ended not long after that. It had been simple but rich. Herb roasted chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, asparagus slick with olive oil, and warm bread that melted the second it hit my tongue. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the plate was empty.
They let me walk back upstairs alone.
That alone part surprised me.
