The call came at 14:23 on Day 11, while Meric was alone in his office reviewing the updated security protocols Vigdis had recommended after the almost-breach incident five years ago.
The number displayed as Norwegian, Oslo prefix, but unregistered. Meric answered on the third ring, his voice carrying the professional neutrality he used for all external inquiries.
"Praxis Institute. Solvang-Lykke speaking."
The voice that responded was male, Norwegian-accented but cultured, with the precise enunciation of someone who'd learned to modulate their speech for international business.
"Meric. It's been a long time."
Meric's hand tightened on the phone. He recognized the voice immediately—the slight rasp, the calculated pauses—even though he hadn't heard it in nearly eighteen months.
"Stellan," he said quietly. "You're aware that Protocol prohibits former non-admitted inquiries from re-contacting the Institute."
"I'm not contacting as a rejected applicant." Stellan Dvergar's tone shifted, becoming harder. "I'm contacting as someone who has information you'll want to hear."
Meric closed his laptop, his attention fully engaged now. Stellan had approached the Institute two years ago—desperate to "undo" something, though he'd refused to specify what. Meric had assessed him as psychologically unstable, potentially dangerous, and declined to accept him as a client.
Stellan had gone elsewhere for help.
And returned changed. Hollow.
"I'm not interested in information," Meric said. "If you have concerns about your previous non-admission, you can submit a formal appeal through—"
"I know about your newest client," Stellan interrupted. "The one who arrived eleven days ago. Dr. Aethelreda Kaelen."
The name landed like ice water.
Meric's entire body went still. Client confidentiality was absolute—names, details, even the number of active clients were never disclosed. The Institute's security systems were military-grade. There was no public record of Aethelreda's presence here.
"I don't know what you're referring to," Meric said, his voice carefully neutral even as his mind raced through breach scenarios.
"Don't you?" Stellan's voice carried something that sounded almost like rehearsed confidence. "Dr. Aethelreda Kaelen. Thirty-two years old. CBT therapist from Boston, Massachusetts. She arrived at your Institute eleven days ago via private helicopter from Bergen Airport. Paid two hundred thousand dollars for a twelve-week contract. Client ID number PR-2024-089."
Meric's blood went cold. The Client ID was internal—never shared externally, never visible except in encrypted Institute databases. No amount of external surveillance could obtain that number.
"How did you obtain this information?" Meric's voice had gone dangerously quiet.
"That's not what matters," Stellan said. "What matters is what I do with it. And more importantly—what matters is that I was told you care about this specific client more than you've cared about any other in twelve years."
The phrasing was precise. Deliberate. I was told.
"Who told you that?" Meric asked.
Stellan hesitated—just for a moment, but long enough for Meric to hear the crack in his certainty. "Someone who understands your work better than you think. Someone who's been watching the Institute closely. Someone who assured me that if I wanted your attention, threatening Dr. Kaelen specifically would be the most... effective approach."
Meric's mind was already cataloging implications. Someone had not just provided Stellan with Aeth's information—they'd told him why that information mattered. They'd identified her as a pressure point.
"What do you want?" Meric asked.
"I want you to accept me as a client. Twelve weeks. Standard contract."
"That's not possible. You were assessed as psychologically unsuitable two years ago. That determination stands."
"Then change it." Stellan's voice took on an edge of desperation beneath the rehearsed confidence. "Because if you don't, I have instructions to release Dr. Kaelen's information—name, background, Client ID, the fact that she's currently at your Institute undergoing intensive behavioral therapy. My source has connections to media outlets, professional licensing boards, and privacy watchdog groups. Her confidentiality will be destroyed."
"You're threatening to expose a client's protected health information," Meric said, his voice ice-cold. "That's a criminal violation of Norwegian privacy law. You'd face prosecution."
"Maybe," Stellan said. "But I was told you wouldn't risk it. That you'd protect her rather than call my bluff. That Dr. Kaelen is... different." He paused. "Was I told correctly, Meric?"
The question hung in the air—not just a threat, but a test. Someone was watching through Stellan's eyes, measuring Meric's response.
"All clients receive the same professional protection," Meric said carefully.
"That's not what I asked." Stellan's voice had lost its rehearsed quality, becoming more genuine, more desperate. "I asked if she's different. Because I was told—" He stopped abruptly, as if catching himself.
"You were told what?" Meric pressed.
Silence stretched for several seconds.
"I was told that if I wanted to force your hand, threatening her was the way to do it," Stellan said finally, quieter now. "That you'd maintained perfect boundaries for twelve years, 218 clients without incident, but that she was the variable that broke them. That you'd compromise yourself to protect her in ways you wouldn't for anyone else."
Meric's jaw tightened. Someone had been watching. Monitoring. Analyzing his behavior closely enough to identify not just that he was compromised, but how he was compromised.
"Who told you this?" Meric asked again.
"Someone I shouldn't have trusted," Stellan said, and for the first time, his voice carried something other than threat—it carried regret. "Someone who promised to help me, and instead turned me into this. Someone who sees people as algorithms to optimize, who believes control is the only truth, who thinks your father's methodology was a dangerous lie that needed to be corrected."
The hairs on the back of Meric's neck rose.
Your father's methodology.
Only one person had ever used those exact words.
Stellan's breath caught, audible even through the phone. "I don't even know if I was supposed to succeed, Meric. Or if calling you was just... proving something for her. That she was right about you. That even you would break for the right person."
"Who is she?" Meric demanded.
The line went dead.
Meric stood motionless at the window for thirty seconds, forcing his breathing to remain controlled while his mind catalogued the implications.
Stellan knew Aeth's name, professional details, arrival method, payment amount, and—most damningly—her internal Client ID number. That information existed in exactly three places: the encrypted client database, Aeth's physical dossier locked in Meric's office, and the session scheduling system.
Someone had given Stellan access.
Or someone had been paid to provide it.
But the threat itself wasn't the weapon. It was the test.
Someone—she—wasn't trying to destroy him yet. She was measuring his response. Confirming a hypothesis.
The door opened without knocking. Vigdis entered, her expression already grim.
"Stellan Dvergar just called you," she said. It was a statement, not a question.
"You were monitoring," Meric said.
"I monitor all external calls to your direct line." Vigdis moved to his desk, her movements precise as always. She pulled up something on her tablet, her pale blue eyes scanning information with the efficiency he'd come to rely on over twelve years.
Twelve years. The same twelve years his father had been dead.
"He said you'd compromise yourself to protect her in ways you wouldn't for anyone else," Vigdis said, her voice carefully neutral. "Was he correct?"
Meric met her gaze. Vigdis had warned him twice already. She'd caught him watching security footage. She'd confronted him about The Quiet Suite. She knew.
The question wasn't whether he was compromised. The question was whether he'd admit it.
"All clients receive the same professional protection," Meric said.
"That's what you told him." Vigdis set down the tablet. "I'm asking what's true."
The silence stretched between them.
"Yes," Meric said finally. "He was correct."
Vigdis's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes—not surprise, but confirmation of what she'd already known. "Then we have a bigger problem than a security breach. Because whoever fed Stellan that information didn't just identify Dr. Kaelen as a target. They identified you as compromised. And they were right."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" Vigdis's tone sharpened slightly—something that happened so rarely that Meric paid attention when it did. "Because from where I'm standing, you've just admitted to an external caller that this client is different. That means whoever is behind this—Seraphina, if she's involved—now has confirmation from your own response. You didn't deny it strongly enough. You were too careful. Too controlled. Stellan heard what he needed to hear."
Meric's jaw tightened. She was right. His response to Stellan's accusation had been too measured, too protective. A truly objective Praxist would have denied it flatly.
"Let's find the breach," Meric said.
"After this conversation," Vigdis said firmly, her voice taking on the edge it only had when she was enforcing Protocol. "Because Protocol requires that when a Praxist becomes emotionally involved with an active client, the contract is terminated immediately. That's Clause 7.3. I've warned you twice already. Now you're admitting it out loud."
"And you're documenting this conversation?" Meric asked.
"Of course I am." Vigdis's voice was flat, professional. "My job is to protect the methodology, even from you. Especially from you."
"Then document this as well: I'm not terminating her contract."
"That's a violation of—"
"I know what it violates," Meric said. "But the alternative is worse. If I terminate her contract early without explanation, she'll internalize it as failure. If I tell her the truth—that someone is targeting her because I'm compromised—she'll never feel safe enough to complete the psychological work she came here to do. Either option destroys what she's trying to build."
Vigdis studied him for a long moment, her pale eyes unreadable. "You're rationalizing. You're choosing your feelings over Protocol because you believe you can protect her better than she can protect herself. That's not clinical judgment. That's exactly the control pattern you'd identify in a client."
The observation landed like a scalpel.
"I know," Meric said quietly.
"Then terminate the contract. Let her leave before this gets worse."
"I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"I mean I'm compromised," Meric said. "Which means my judgment regarding Dr. Kaelen is suspect. Which means I need you to do what you're supposed to do—document the violation, warn me of consequences, and then help me mitigate the damage while keeping her safe."
Vigdis's eyes narrowed. "You're asking me to be complicit in a Protocol violation."
"I'm asking you to prioritize her safety over bureaucratic compliance. If we terminate now, she leaves vulnerable and unfinished. If we continue, I can at least ensure she completes her transformation safely, even if it costs me the Institute afterward."
The silence stretched between them.
"Let's check the breach," Vigdis said finally.
It wasn't approval. But it wasn't termination either.
Vigdis pulled up access logs, her fingers moving rapidly across the screen. "The number traced to a prepaid mobile purchased in Oslo three days ago. Cash transaction. No registered owner."
"He knows about Dr. Kaelen," Meric said.
"I heard." Vigdis's pale blue eyes were sharp, analytical. "Name, professional background, arrival details, payment amount. And a Client ID number."
"PR-2024-089," Meric confirmed quietly.
Vigdis's expression darkened. "That's internal. Database-level access."
"Which means?" Meric already knew, but he needed to hear her say it.
"Internal breach. Someone with administrative clearance accessed Dr. Kaelen's file and provided the data to an external party." Vigdis filtered the logs, narrowing to the past two weeks. "Administrative access to active client records, filtered for Dr. Kaelen's file... here."
She turned the tablet toward him.
ACCESS LOG - CLIENT FILE PR-2024-089 Date: Day 4, 09:47 User: ANORDHEIM (Astrid Nordheim - Administrative Assistant)
Action: FILE_VIEW - Full client profile accessed Duration: 8 minutes, 23 seconds
Meric stared at the entry. Day 4. Three days after Aeth's arrival. Long enough for her to complete intake paperwork and Session One, short enough that the access wouldn't immediately seem suspicious.
"Astrid Nordheim," he said quietly.
"Junior administrative assistant. Hired eighteen months ago. Passed full background check—no criminal record, no financial irregularities, excellent references from previous employer." Vigdis pulled up Astrid's personnel file. "Norwegian citizen, twenty-seven years old, degree in business administration from the University of Oslo. Unremarkable in every way."
"Except she accessed Dr. Kaelen's file without authorization," Meric said.
"The access itself isn't unusual," Vigdis corrected. "Administrative staff routinely process client paperwork, scheduling, and payment verification. What's unusual is the timing—Day 4, when all intake work should already be complete. And the duration—eight minutes is excessive for verification tasks."
Meric's mind raced through possibilities. "She could have been reviewing for legitimate administrative purposes."
"She could have," Vigdis agreed. "But let me show you something else."
She pulled up external communication logs for Institute staff in the past two weeks, filtered for Astrid Nordheim.
EXTERNAL CALL - ANORDHEIM
Date: Day 5, 18:32 (evening, after work hours)
Recipient: Oslo-based number (mobile, prepaid)
Duration: 4 minutes, 17 seconds
EXTERNAL CALL - ANORDHEIM
Date: Day 7, 19:05
Recipient: Same Oslo number
Duration: 2 minutes, 09 seconds
"Evening calls," Vigdis said. "Personal mobile. Same recipient both times."
"Can you trace the recipient number?" Meric asked.
"Already did." Vigdis pulled up the trace results. "Prepaid mobile. Purchased for cash in Oslo six months ago. No registered owner. But..." She highlighted a secondary connection. "That number has made several calls to another Oslo-based number registered to a corporate entity: Voss Strategic Consulting."
The name hit like a physical blow.
Voss.
Seraphina Voss.
"The old partner," Meric said quietly.
"But how did Seraphina know Dr. Kaelen was significant?" Meric asked. The question tasted like ash. "Astrid accessed the file on Day 4. That's before I—" He stopped.
Vigdis pulled up a new screen. "Before you watched Session Two's recording four times? Let's check."
The log populated:
RECORDING ACCESS - SESSION TWO (Client PR-2024-089)
Date: Day 7, 22:14
- User: MSOLVANG-LYKKE Date: Day 8, 03:47
- User: MSOLVANG-LYKKE Date: Day 8, 21:33
- User: MSOLVANG-LYKKE Date: Day 9, 01:22
- User: MSOLVANG-LYKKE
Meric stared at the evidence of his own compromise, time-stamped and undeniable.
"Administrative staff monitor system logs as part of security protocol," Vigdis said quietly. "Astrid would have seen this. Four viewings of a single session recording in forty-eight hours—that's not standard clinical review. That's obsession."
The word landed like a diagnosis.
"She reported the anomaly to Seraphina," Meric said.
"And Seraphina identified Dr. Kaelen as the variable that broke you." Vigdis closed the screen. "Astrid didn't need to know why you were compromised. She just needed to notice that you were."
Meric turned back to the window. The fjord stretched below, dark water reflecting the overcast sky. "Seraphina didn't plant her to target Aeth specifically. She planted her to wait for whoever I finally compromised myself over."
"A trap set twelve years in advance," Vigdis confirmed. "And you walked into it the moment Dr. Kaelen arrived."
The implications cascaded through his mind. Seraphina had been watching for years, waiting for him to break. Waiting for evidence that even Meric Solvang-Lykke—twelve years of perfect boundaries, 218 clients without incident—could be broken by the right person.
And then Aeth had arrived.
And Meric had watched Session Two four times.
And invited her to The Quiet Suite.
And designed Session Three to protect himself rather than serve her Cadence.
And heard her whisper "I love you" during climax and pretended it meant nothing.
He'd shown his hand. And Seraphina had seen it.
"Where is Astrid now?" Meric asked.
Vigdis's expression turned grim. "That's the problem. She called in sick this morning. And when I sent security to her registered apartment in Oslo to bring her in for questioning... the neighbors say she moved out two days ago. Apartment cleared. Forwarding address listed as 'international relocation.'"
"Seraphina pulled her out," Meric stated.
"Before we could identify the breach, yes." Vigdis paused, and something in her expression shifted—became more guarded. "But there's something else. Something that doesn't fit standard sleeper protocol."
She pulled up a final log entry.
EXTERNAL CALL - ANORDHEIM
Date: Day 10, 23:47 (late evening)
Recipient: Voss Strategic Consulting (direct line)
Duration: 11 minutes, 34 seconds
"Day 10," Meric said. The day of Session Three. The day Aeth had whispered those three words.
"Eleven minutes is too long for a status report," Vigdis said, her voice careful, measured in a way that made Meric notice. "That's a conversation. And it was placed directly to Seraphina's firm, not to the intermediary prepaid number. Which means either Astrid was panicking, or—"
"Or she'd obtained something valuable enough to warrant direct contact," Meric finished.
Vigdis met his gaze, and for just a moment, Meric thought he saw something flicker across her face. Uncertainty? Calculation?
"The Session Three recording shows Dr. Kaelen saying 'I love you' during climax," Vigdis said. "You heard it. You pretended it was psychological breakthrough. But what if Astrid accessed the recording before it was archived?"
Meric's chest tightened. "The recordings are automatically stored in the encrypted system within minutes of session completion. Administrative staff don't have playback access."
"They don't have official playback access," Vigdis corrected, her eyes not quite meeting his for a fraction of a second. "But if Astrid had been planted eighteen months ago with specific instructions to monitor for anomalous behavior... if Seraphina provided her with shadow access credentials..."
The possibility unfolded before him like a trap he'd walked into blind.
"Seraphina has the Session Three recording," Meric said quietly.
"I can't confirm that without a full forensic audit of the system," Vigdis said, her fingers already moving across the tablet—efficient, precise, as always. "But the timeline fits. Astrid makes the longest call of her contact history to Voss Strategic on Day 10, immediately after Session Three. Then she vanishes on Day 11, before we can question her. That suggests she delivered something critical and was extracted."
Meric forced himself to think clinically, to analyze the threat the way he'd been trained. "If Seraphina has the recording, she has proof that I violated Clause 7.3. That I heard Dr. Kaelen express emotional attachment during a session and continued the contract anyway."
"Which invalidates the consent framework," Vigdis said. "If you knew the client was emotionally compromised and didn't terminate the contract, that's exploitation, not therapy. Seraphina could use that recording to destroy the Institute's methodology—to prove that even you can't maintain boundaries when personally invested."
"And she'd be right." The admission tasted like failure.
Vigdis's expression didn't change, but her voice softened slightly—barely perceptible, but enough that Meric noticed. "The question isn't whether you're compromised. You admitted that to yourself days ago. The question is what you do now. Do you tell Dr. Kaelen the truth—that someone is targeting her because of your feelings—or do you maintain the lie to protect her psychological work?"
Meric knew the answer before Vigdis finished speaking.
"I can't tell her," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because she came here to break through her control patterns. To experience surrender without fear. To discover that vulnerability doesn't equal danger." He met Vigdis's gaze. "If I tell her someone is targeting her—someone who might have killed my father, someone who sees human beings as programmable algorithms, someone who's infiltrated the Institute and stolen recordings of her most intimate moments—how can she feel safe enough to continue the work?"
"She can't," Vigdis said flatly. "Which is why you need to tell her anyway. Because the alternative is lying by omission. And if she discovers later that you withheld this information to protect her feelings rather than her actual safety—to maintain control of the situation rather than giving her agency over her own risk—she'll never forgive you."
The words landed with surgical precision, cutting through his rationalization.
Control versus honesty.
Protection versus agency.
The same paradox he'd been navigating since Session One.
"What if I can solve this before it escalates?" Meric asked. "Secure the systems. Neutralize Stellan's threat. Prevent Seraphina from obtaining any additional information. Then Dr. Kaelen never needs to know she was targeted."
"And if you can't solve it?" Vigdis pressed. "If Seraphina makes her move while Dr. Kaelen is still in the dark? Then you've stolen her chance to make an informed choice about her own safety."
Meric knew Vigdis was right.
But the thought of watching Aeth's face as he explained that her presence here had made her a target, that someone had infiltrated the Institute specifically to monitor her, that Seraphina Voss might have recordings of Session Three—the session where she'd been blindfolded, restrained, forced to watch herself in mirrors while Meric brought her to climax, where she'd whispered "I love you" in the most vulnerable moment of her life—
He couldn't do it.
Not yet.
"I'll handle Stellan," Meric said. "I'll secure the systems. I'll make sure no additional information is leaked. And I'll make sure Dr. Kaelen is protected."
"That's not protection," Vigdis said quietly. "That's control. And you know the difference."
She left before he could respond.
Meric spent the rest of the afternoon implementing emergency security protocols.
All client files were migrated to an air-gapped system—physically isolated from any network, accessible only via a secure terminal in Meric's office. Vigdis initiated background re-checks on every staff member hired in the past two years, searching for any connection to Seraphina Voss or her known associates. External communication from Institute lines was now flagged for real-time review.
But none of it addressed the core problem: Astrid had already provided Stellan with Aeth's Client ID. Seraphina might already have the Session Three recording. And Meric was choosing to withhold all of it from the person who deserved to know most.
By 19:00, the emergency protocols were complete. By 19:30, Meric had accomplished exactly nothing that would stop what was already in motion.
He pulled up the security feed for Suite 3 in the East Wing. The camera showed only the common corridor, not the interior of Aeth's private space—Protocol required privacy—but he could see the light under her door, the faint movement of shadow suggesting she was awake.
Tomorrow was Day 12. The Integration Period after Session Three would conclude on Day 13. Session Four would be scheduled for Day 14.
Three more days before he'd see her again in the Subterranean Sessions Chamber.
Three more days to solve this problem before Stellan made good on his threat.
Three more days to protect Aeth without her knowing she needed protection.
Meric closed the security feed and opened his personal journal—the one document not stored in Institute systems, kept in a locked drawer in his private quarters.
He wrote a single entry:
Day 11. Stellan Dvergar contacted me with Client ID PR-2024-089. Internal breach confirmed. Astrid Nordheim (sleeper agent, planted 18 months ago by Seraphina Voss) accessed Aeth's file on Day 4, monitored my Session Two viewing pattern on Days 7-9, likely accessed Session Three recording on Day 10. Astrid vanished Day 11. Seraphina now has proof I'm compromised.
I watched Session Two four times because I needed to see her face when she surrendered. I designed Session Three with mirrors because I wanted her to see what I see—the power in her vulnerability. I heard her say "I love you" and pretended it was a clinical breakthrough because acknowledging it would force me to terminate the contract.
Vigdis is right. I should tell Aeth the truth. Give her the choice to leave or stay, knowing the risks.
But I can't. Because telling her means admitting that my feelings for her have made her a target. That my inability to maintain boundaries has compromised her safety. That the Institute—the methodology I've spent twelve years protecting—isn't safe.
I'm lying to her by omission. I'm choosing control over honesty. I'm doing exactly what Seraphina predicted I would do.
This isn't protection. This is control.
And that control is going to destroy everything.
He closed the journal and locked it away.
Then he sat in the darkness of his office, watching the fjord disappear into the night, and did what he'd been trained never to do.
He allowed himself to imagine what Seraphina would do with a recording of Aeth whispering "I love you" while bound, blindfolded, and climaxing in front of mirrors.
She would use it to prove that surrender wasn't transformation—it was exploitation.
She would use it to prove that even Meric Solvang-Lykke, the great defender of his father's methodology, couldn't maintain boundaries when his own desire was involved.
She would use it to prove that The Praxis was a lie.
And she would be right.
Because Meric had heard those three words in Session Three, and instead of terminating the contract as Protocol required, he'd scheduled Session Four for Day 14.
He was in love with Aethelreda Kaelen.
And that love was going to destroy everything.