"I don't know what to do with her," Rowan whispered.
Her voice cracked on the last word—small, raw, nothing like the steady doctor they knew.
"She's going to ruin my life."
Sara's face crumpled. She dropped into the chair opposite Rowan—reaching across the desk, covering Rowan's trembling hand with her own.
"She won't," Sara said firmly, though her own voice wavered. "We won't let her. We'll—"
"How?" Rowan cut in—quiet, desperate. "She's here every day. Every single day. Funded by her grandfather. Protected by his money. She walks in, says things no patient should ever say, touches me—" Her breath hitched. "—and I froze. I let her kiss my cheek. I let her trail her finger down my chest. I didn't push her away fast enough. Again."
Emma stepped forward, voice thick.
"You were in shock. Anyone would be. She's manipulative. She's playing on—"
"I felt it," Rowan interrupted—voice barely above a whisper now. "When she touched me. When she kissed my cheek. My body… reacted. Again. Like last night. And I hate it. I hate that she can do that to me. I hate that I'm sitting here trying not to cry because a seventeen-year-old heiress decided I'm her new fixation."
Tears slipped free now—silent, unstoppable. Rowan swiped at them angrily, but more followed.
"I'm supposed to be the one in control," she said, voice breaking. "I'm supposed to help people. Not… not this. Not let her get inside my head. Inside my—" She stopped, swallowing hard.
Sara squeezed her hand tighter.
"You're not weak," she said fiercely. "You're human. And she's weaponizing that. But you're still the doctor. You still hold the power in this room. She's the patient. She's the one who needs help. Not you."
Emma moved to Rowan's other side—perching on the edge of the desk.
"We'll document everything," Emma said. "Every word. Every touch. Timestamped. Witnessed. If she crosses into harassment—if she touches you again—we go straight to ethics, straight to licensing, straight to whoever will listen. Money can buy silence from some people, but not from everyone."
Rowan looked between them—eyes red-rimmed, lashes wet.
"I don't know if I can do this every day," she admitted—small, honest. "I don't know if I can sit across from her tomorrow and pretend I'm not terrified of what she makes me feel."
Sara leaned closer—voice soft but fierce.
"Then we'll be right outside. Every session. Listening at the door if we have to. If she tries anything—if she makes you feel unsafe—you call us. One word. We'll be in here in seconds. And if admin won't act because of money? We'll go higher. We'll go public if we have to. We're not letting her ruin you, Ro. Not without a fight."
Rowan exhaled—shaky, trembling.
She swiped at her cheeks again—harder this time.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
Sara squeezed her hand once more.
"You're not alone in this."
Emma nodded—eyes fierce.
"And she doesn't get to win just because she's rich and beautiful and fucked-up. You're stronger than that."
Rowan managed a small, watery smile—the first real one since Isadora left.
"I hope you're right."
She straightened—slowly—wiping her face one last time, breathing deep.
"Send in the next patient," she said quietly. "I need to keep moving."
Sara and Emma stood.
Sara paused at the door.
"We've got you," she said again.
Rowan nodded.
And when the door closed behind them, she stared at the empty chair where Isadora had sat—still warm from her body.
Tomorrow.
She'd be back.
The private elevator opened directly into the Ravencroft Tower's family level with its usual soft chime—too polite for the storm still raging inside Isadora. She stepped out alone, guards dismissed at the lobby, brown blazer still sharp but sleeves now pushed higher, gold watch glinting under hallway lights.
Her oxfords clicked across black marble as she headed straight for the main living suite, mind already replaying every second of the session: Rowan's glassy eyes, the way her breath caught when Isadora's fingertip trailed down her chest, the almost-tear she'd hidden behind that iron control.
She needed a drink. Or a joint. Or both.
She pushed through the double doors—and stopped dead.
Lexi and Jade were already there.
Lexi lounged sideways across the charcoal velvet sofa, red mini from last night swapped for black bike shorts and an oversized band tee, legs kicked up on the armrest. Jade sprawled in the opposite armchair, leather pants creased, silk shirt half-unbuttoned, joint already lit between his fingers. A small silver tray sat on the coffee table between them: two fat pre-rolls, a mirror dusted with white residue, a bottle of chilled tequila, and three shot glasses waiting.
Isadora blinked once.
"How the fuck did you both get here?" she asked, voice low but edged with genuine surprise.
Lexi grinned—wide, wicked—patting the cushion beside her.
"Everett let us in," she said, drawing out the words like she was savoring them. "After heavy checking. Full pat-down, bag search, the works. They even ran a drug dog through the elevator. Thought they had us."
Jade exhaled a slow plume of smoke, smirking around the joint.
"They couldn't catch shit," he said. "We came prepared. Everything's vacuum-sealed, double-bagged, tucked in places even their fancy sniffers didn't reach." He tapped his temple. "Learned from the best—you."
Isadora stared at them for a long second—then barked a laugh, short and sharp, the first real sound of relief since she'd left Bellevue.
"You're both insane," she said, crossing the room to drop onto the sofa beside Lexi. She reached for the tequila bottle without asking, poured three shots with hands that still trembled faintly from the session. "And brilliant."
Lexi clinked her glass against Isadora's before she could even lift it.
"To Everett's security team," she toasted, "who just let two known degenerates smuggle party favors into the family penthouse."
Jade raised his shot from the armchair.
"And to Isadora Ravencroft," he added, eyes glinting, "who just spent an hour locked in a room with the woman she wants to ruin and somehow walked out looking like she's the one who got fucked."
Isadora knocked back the tequila—burning clean down her throat—then set the glass down hard enough to rattle the tray.
"She cried," Isadora said quietly, staring at the amber residue in her glass. "After I left. Sara and Emma went in. I heard them through the door. She said she doesn't know what to do with me. That I'm going to ruin her life."
Lexi's grin faded—slowly—into something softer, almost tender.
"She's cracking already," Lexi murmured. "One session and she's teary. That's not hate, Dora. That's fear. Fear that she likes it."
Jade leaned forward, elbows on knees, joint dangling between his fingers.
"Fear is good," he said. "Means she's feeling something bigger than disgust now. Means you're under her skin deeper than she wants to admit."
Isadora exhaled—long, shaky—then reached for one of the pre-rolls on the tray. She lit it with the gold lighter Jade tossed her, inhaled deep, held it, then let the smoke curl out slow.
"She told me to stop," Isadora said, voice quieter now. "Told me the session was over. Threatened to reschedule with a chaperone. But when I kissed her cheek… when I dragged my finger down her chest…" She paused, eyes distant, replaying it. "She froze. Didn't push right away. Her nipples were hard under the coat. I felt them. She wanted to hate it. But she didn't."
Lexi reached over, plucked the joint from Isadora's fingers, took a hit, then passed it back.
"Then tomorrow you go harder," Lexi said simply. "No chaperone bullshit. Push every boundary she tries to rebuild. Make her feel it until she can't pretend anymore."
Jade nodded—slow, approving.
"And when she breaks?" he asked.
Isadora's smile returned—small, dark, certain.
"When she breaks," she said, "I'll be there to catch her. Or fuck her through the fall. Either way… she's mine."
She took another long drag.
The three of them sat in silence for a moment—smoke curling, tequila burning, city lights glittering far below.
Then Lexi leaned her head on Isadora's shoulder.
"Tomorrow's gonna be brutal," she murmured.
Isadora exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.
"Good," she said softly. "I like brutal."
She stubbed out the joint.
Poured another round.
And smiled into her glass—slow, predatory, already counting the hours until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.
When she'd walk back into that consult room.
And Rowan Blackwood would have to face her again.
Teary-eyed.
Terrified.
And already halfway ruined.
Rowan pushed open the brownstone door just after 7 p.m., the hallway lamp already glowing warm against the early-winter dark. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the knot in her chest had loosened slightly. The day had been brutal—Isadora's session still echoed in every nerve ending—but nothing catastrophic had happened. No ethics violation reported (yet). No scene in the hallway. No tears in front of patients. She'd held the line. Barely. But she'd held it.
She kicked off her shoes, hung her coat, and let herself exhale.
The smell hit her first: rich, savory, familiar—garlic, cumin, slow-cooked chicken, the unmistakable comfort of Mrs. Delgado's.
Rowan's shoulders dropped another fraction.
She padded into the kitchen.
Mrs. Delgado stood at the stove in her bright floral apron, stirring a massive pot, silver hoops glinting as she turned. Clara was nowhere in sight—probably upstairs on a call—but Noah sat at the small table, homework abandoned, already sneaking a piece of warm tortilla.
Mrs. Delgado beamed, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Right on time. I made your favorite—extra chicken, extra olives, just how you like it."
Rowan managed a small, genuine smile—the kind that reached her eyes for once.
"You didn't have to," she said, voice softer than usual. "But… thank you. It smells incredible."
Mrs. Delgado waved the thanks away like smoke, already ladling a generous portion into a bowl. She set it in front of Rowan with a flourish, then pulled out the chair beside her like Rowan was still ten years old.
"Sit, sit. Eat while it's hot." She turned to Noah. "You—go wash your hands. No more stealing bites."
Noah rolled his eyes but obeyed, disappearing down the hall.
Mrs. Delgado sat across from Rowan, folding her hands on the table, eyes sharp and kind.
"You look… lighter tonight," she observed. "Not happy-happy, but… better than yesterday. The party went okay?"
Rowan took a slow bite—flavors exploding on her tongue, grounding her. She nodded.
"Better than I expected," she said honestly. "Long day. But I survived it."
Mrs. Delgado studied her for a moment—too knowing, too maternal—then her smile turned mischievous.
"Good. Because I brought someone who wants to meet you."
Rowan paused mid-chew.
Mrs. Delgado leaned in conspiratorially.
"Carlos. My nephew. The lawyer. Remember? He's in the city this week. Single. Handsome. Respectful. Goes to Mass every Sunday. And he asked about you—specifically. Said he saw a photo Clara showed him and couldn't stop thinking about the beautiful doctor who saves lives."
Rowan set her spoon down slowly.
"Mrs. Delgado…"
"No, no, listen," the older woman pressed, eyes sparkling. "He's not pushy. Just dinner. One dinner. You deserve someone nice, mija. Someone who comes home at night. Someone who doesn't make you cry in your own kitchen."
Rowan's throat tightened—unexpectedly. She looked down at the bowl, steam still rising, comfort in every grain of rice.