It takes an hour of therapy,three times a week, for two exceedingly long months to reclaim the faintest grip on my mental stability.
It doesn’t help that the therapy in question is provided by a nameless, faceless online shrink, while I also remain nameless and faceless because I can’t exactly divulge details with all the legal and safety ramifications.
But as I sit in a Michelin-star restaurant, across the table from my date, Lincoln, a man who should be a visual trigger for a heightened libido, all I can think about is how he doesn’t measure up to the man who turned my life upside down.
“How do you feel about the wine menu?” he muses. “Should we share a bottle with dinner?”
I nod. “That sounds nice.”
It sounds bland. Too soft. Too diplomatic. The kind of politeness that generates no spark. I bite my tongue, ashamedthat I’m still drawn to the kind of bold authority I have no business missing.
I need to breathe. Fall back on coping mechanisms courtesy of my therapist. Orient myself within the room—the low amber lighting, the hum of jazz, the glitter of crystal glasses, and linen so starched and crisp it could second as a stretched canvas.
The restaurant is elegant. Exclusive. And somehow completely underwhelming.
“Do you have a preference?” Lincoln asks.
The menu blurs before me, the poetic descriptions refusing to sink in. “Why don’t we ask our server to find something that pairs with our meals once we order?”
“Great idea.” He beams.
I cling to my forced smile even though it drains my energy.
It’s not as if I want to be here. This date is Quinn-appointed. She’s pushed for weeks for me to have some “healthy distraction therapy.” Aka sharing overpriced meals with safe men in an attempt to get my mind off the dangerously intoxicating meals I ate in the presence of a very unsafe man who refuses to leave my memory.
The logic is obvious.
The intention clear.
Quinn wants me to prioritize myself. Especially when I’ve bled myself dry while proving I deserve the CEO position I prematurely inherited. And Lincoln is a nice enough guy. Or so I’m told. Honest. Reliable. Just not anything like Raff?—
I clear my throat,hard, stopping myself from finishing the thought.
The man who shall not be named stopped inserting himself into my life the day his cousin came to my office. There have been no further gifts. Messages. Calls.
He’s moved on, but the ghost of his touch still embedded in my skin refuses to read the memo.
I order the caramelized scallops appetizer and the pan-seared sea bass for the main.
We share a bottle of pinot noir as we wait for our meals and engage in a conversation that’s as exciting as listening to a conference call replay I’ve already sat through twice.
Everything is different now.
I have a best friend who barely comes to the office, instead working from home while she monitors Eliseo like a hawk—logging his sleeping habits, tracking his behavioral patterns, designing correctional schedules as if she’s running a personalized supermax.
Dad is in therapy, and working within my boundaries to earn my forgiveness.
And slowly but surely I’m impressing the staff at CrossPoint. Or at least convincing them I might actually know what the hell I’m doing.
The appetizers arrive, another bottle of wine is opened, and I can’t ditch the feeling that my date is a profound mismatch for me. Clearly, I’m wasting his time because the thought of transitioning this meal into a nightcap gives me hives.
“Please excuse me for a minute.” Lincoln dabs his mouth with his napkin before placing it neatly beside his plate. “I’m going to use the restroom.”
“Of course.” I offer another default smile.
He stands, straightens his jacket, and walks away without a hint that he manages a hedge fund big enough to make headlines.
Women in the room track his movements. A couple at the bar obviously recognize him, whispering behind their hands.
