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“Something’s wrong with me.”
The words leave my mouth in a haunted whisper. Probably because I never wanted to speak them aloud, let alone admit them to another person.
Said person is my therapist.
Mynewtherapist.
The one who replaced the other therapist whose fate is unknown at best and sabotaged by my husband at worst.
Dr. Blaine is a middle-aged black woman with a pixie haircut, who’s wearing a smart casual pantsuit and dainty diamond-stud earrings.
She was taken aback by my appearance at her office in Great Portland Street, mainly because I used a fake name to make an appointment.
Whenever I tried in the past, I was turned away unless I mentioned I’d be accompanied by my legal guardian. Aka my husband.
So I had to get creative.
If Blaine doesn’t like it, she doesn’t show it in her neutral facial expression that could belong to monks cultivating in faraway mountains.
She stares at me as I lounge on the chaise across from her. “Due to our treatment plan, I can’t speak to you in the absence of your guardian unless previously authorized by him, Mrs. King. My assistant will arrange another appointment?—”
“Because I’m insane?”
“Because I’m legally required to.”
I bite down on my lower lip and then release it before I draw blood. “Then can you tell me what I can do on my own? Can I even open a bank account without his presence? Book a flight? A hotel room?”
“I’m sure you can discuss this with your husband.”
I shake my head but say nothing.
For the past two weeks, we’ve fallen into this bubble I created for both of us. Eli ordered that my stuff be moved to his room the morning after the party. He even let me redecorate it and turn it into this odd but somehow beautiful mix of pink and gray.
Though he does grumble about the fluffy slippers he trips over and the feather robe that’s on his chair. And the towel on his floor.
He’s a lost organized cause. Though he’d call me chaos in a pink wrapper while picking up my things and tidying them in a neurotic way.
Since that first time, he’s never fucked me while clothed again. Not once. And he always picks positions where we’re facing each other, even if he ties me up to his headboard.
He still looks at me.
He still curses deep in his throat when looking at me.
And I like to think that I’m carving myself inside him with every touch.
With every bath that he now takes with me and every massage he gives me. I swear he has hands more soothing than professionals.
The last couple of weeks have been a dream. We went to Paris for three days. Fine, it was a business trip but he didn’t tell me no when I wanted to tag along or when I took him with me for some extravagant shopping.
He also didn’t say no when I split the bags between him and Leo. What? We’re overusing the poor guy and he needs a break now and then.
But that’s the thing about dreams. They’re an illusion that I keep waiting to be jerked out of.
Every night, I dread sleep more than anything, even when surrounded by his strong arms.
Even after I bury my face in his neck or chest.
