"Lucinda." Dr. Harrison's voice is honey-smooth condescension as he approaches me with the careful steps of someone approaching a spooked horse. "I know this is overwhelming. You've been living in a fantasy for so long that it feels real to you. But we're here to help you remember who you actually are."
"I know who I am!" My voice climbs higher, more hysterical.Exactly like someone having a breakdown.
The thought hits me like ice water. This is what they want. This is what they've orchestrated. Me, falling apart right in front of the men I love, proving every terrible thing they've said about me.
I watch Gabriel, Beau, and Colt exchange glances. They're looking at me the same way the staff at Rosewood used to look at me. Like I'm proof of my own instability.
"Sweetheart." Uncle Richard's voice drips false concern like poisoned honey. "You're getting upset."
"I'm not getting upset! I'm trying to defend myself!" But Iamgetting upset. My hands are shaking like leaves in a windstorm, my breathing is rapid and shallow, and I can feel myself spiraling exactly the way they want me to.
"This is exactly what we were concerned about," Dr. Harrison murmurs to the men like I'm not even here, and I want to scream that he's doing this on purpose, that they're deliberately triggering me to prove their point.
But how can I explain that without sounding even more paranoid?
I'm trapped. Every emotional response proves I'm unstable. Every attempt to defend myself becomes evidence of my delusion. It's the same psychological prison they built around me at Rosewood, and I'm walking right back into it with my eyes wide open.
"Maybe..." Beau starts, then stops, running a hand through his dark hair. He looks exhausted, overwhelmed, like a man drowning in impossible choices. "Maybe it would be best if you talked to your uncle. Just for now. Until we can sort this out."
Just for now.
Those three words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Because they mean he doesn't believe me. None of them do.
I look at each of them in turn, searching desperately for any sign that at least one of them might still be on my side.
But Beau's face is carved from Montana granite, cold and unreachable as a mountain peak.
Colt won't even meet my eyes, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
And Gabriel...Gabriel looks at me like I'm a problem to be solved rather than a person to be protected.
The fight goes out of me all at once, leaving me hollow and aching like I've been gutted with a rusty blade.
"Fine." I whisper the word like a prayer to a god who stopped listening years ago. "You want me to talk to my uncle? I'll talk to him."
Relief flickers across Gabriel's face. And I have to look away before the pain of it destroys me completely.
"Gentlemen." Uncle Richard's voice is silk wrapped around steel, smooth as aged whiskey and twice as dangerous. "Would you mind giving us a few minutes? I think Lucinda might be more comfortable speaking privately."
They file out like obedient soldiers following orders, leaving me alone with the architect of my nightmares.
But they don't go far, I can see them through the kitchen doorway, close enough to intervene if needed but far enough away to give the illusion of privacy.
Uncle Richard waits until they're settled, like a predator giving his prey time to realize there's no escape. Then the transformation happens, instant and complete.
The concerned uncle facade melts away, replaced by something cold and calculating that makes my skin crawl with revulsion.
"Hello, darling." His voice drops to an intimate whisper. He approaches with slow, measured steps, each one deliberate as a countdown. "You've led us on quite a chase."
I press myself against the doorframe, trying to put as much distance between us as possible in Gabriel's small kitchen.
"How did you find me?" My voice cracks on the question.
"Does it matter?" He reaches out to touch my cheek with fingers that feel like ice, and I flinch away so hard I nearly fall. " You were good at hinding… But one careless selfie posted by a party girl at a Briarhaven bar, plus a phone call from the local Sheriff to a bugged phone…And here we are. The important thing is that you're safe now. We can take you home where you belong."
"This is my home." The words come out stronger than I feel.
His laugh is soft, indulgent, like he's humoring a child's fantasy. His hand reaches out to stroke my hair with false tenderness, the gesture loving and gentle for anyone watching through the doorway.
