Thalia's POV
I change my outfit three times before leaving my apartment.
Professional but not trying too hard. Approachable but not weak. The kind of outfit that says I have my life together even though I spent last night having panic attacks about today.
It's Monday. Six PM. The first group therapy session.
With Damian Morrison.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes despite the concealer. Hands that won't stop shaking no matter how many deep breaths I take.
You can do this, I whisper to my reflection. It's just two hours. Just help six people. You don't even have to look at him.
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I grab my bag and leave before I can change my mind again.
I arrive at Dr. Morrison's office at 5:45—fifteen minutes early, enough time to mentally prepare but not so early that I'm alone with Damian.
Except when I walk into the group therapy room, he's already there.
Of course he is.
He's arranging chairs in a circle, his suit jacket draped over one seat, his sleeves rolled up. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment neither of us moves.
Hi, he says quietly.
Hi. I stay near the door, maintaining distance.
Awkward silence fills the space between us.
I set up eight chairs, he says, gesturing to the circle. Six for the group, one for you, one for me. My mother will observe from the corner.
Okay.
More silence.
He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice it's slightly messy—not the perfect style from the courtroom. He looks nervous. Almost human.
I hate that I notice.
Thalia, about what happened last week—
We're not doing this. I cut him off, moving to set my bag down on a chair. We agreed. Professional only.
Right. Professional. He nods, stepping back. The group members should arrive soon. I thought we could
The door opens, saving us from whatever awkward thing he was about to say.
A woman walks in—petite, dark hair, maybe mid-thirties. Her eyes are cautious but warm.
Hi! You must be the new facilitators Dr. Morrison told us about. She extends her hand to me. I'm Maria Santos.
Maria. The domestic abuse survivor from the file.
I shake her hand, forcing a smile. Thalia Kent. Nice to meet you.
And I'm Damian Morrison. He shakes her hand too, his voice carefully professional.
Maria's eyes flick between us, and I see her notice the distance we're maintaining. The way we're not quite looking at each other.
But she doesn't comment. Just takes a seat in the circle.
Others arrive in quick succession.
Devon Park, tall, thin, glasses, nervous energy. The fraud victim.
Claire Washington—professional, guarded, wearing a blazer like armor. Workplace harassment survivor.
James Rodriguez, quiet, watchful, sitting as far from the others as possible. Family betrayal.
Aisha Khan, young, hijab, skeptical expression. Identity theft victim.
And finally, Marcus Chen, older, graying hair, kind eyes that look sad. Falsely accused.
When Marcus shakes Damian's hand, I watch carefully. Does he recognize Damian as a lawyer? Does he sense danger?
But Marcus just smiles politely and takes his seat.
Dr. Morrison enters last, moving to a chair in the corner with her notebook. Thank you all for being here. As I mentioned last week, I'll be observing tonight while Thalia and Damian lead the session. They'll be taking over the group for the next three months.
Six pairs of eyes study us with varying degrees of curiosity and wariness.
Why don't you both introduce yourselves? Dr. Morrison suggests.
Damian looks at me. I look at the floor.
Finally, he speaks. I'm Damian Morrison. I have a background in psychology and I've been working with my mother to understand trauma recovery. I'm honored to work with all of you.
Simple. Professional. No mention of his legal background.
My turn.
I'm Thalia Kent. I'm... I have personal experience with betrayal and rebuilding after trauma. I'm here to support your healing journey.
My voice only shakes slightly.
How do you two know each other? Devon asks suddenly.
The question lands like a bomb.
We don't, I say too quickly.
We're professional colleagues, Damian adds at the same time.
Maria's eyes narrow slightly. She doesn't believe us.
Let's start with check-ins, Damian says, smoothly redirecting. How is everyone feeling this week?
The group members take turns sharing. Devon talks about a difficult week at his new job, triggered by a financial audit. Claire mentions applying for a promotion despite her fear. James shares that he saw his brother in a restaurant and had a panic attack.
I listen, taking notes, trying to focus on them instead of the man sitting across the circle from me.
But I feel Damian's presence like a physical weight. Every time he speaks, my shoulders tense. Every time he shifts in his chair, I'm hyper-aware of his movements.
Then Aisha starts talking.
I ran into the friend who stole my identity last week. She acted like nothing happened. Like she didn't destroy my credit and my life. Aisha's voice shakes with anger. She smiled at me and said 'we should catch up sometime.' Like we're still friends.
How did that make you feel? Damian asks gently.
Furious. Betrayed all over again. Like I'm back at the beginning.
The words hit too close. I grip my pen tighter.
What did you do? I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
I walked away. But I wanted to scream at her. Wanted her to admit what she did. Wanted— Aisha's voice breaks. I wanted her to see me. To acknowledge the damage.
My hands start shaking.
Because I understand exactly what she means.
I wanted Marcus to see what he did to me. Wanted him to acknowledge the destruction.
And sitting across from Damian, the man who helped Marcus destroy me, that old rage surfaces.
Damian notices my shaking hands. His eyes meet mine across the circle, concern clear on his face.
I look away, swallowing hard.
Acknowledging harm is important, Damian says carefully, still looking at me. Sometimes the people who hurt us can't or won't see what they've done. And that lack of acknowledgment becomes its own trauma.
Is he talking to Aisha? Or to me?
But what if they do acknowledge it? Claire asks. What if they say they're sorry but it doesn't change anything? The damage is still done.
Then the apology is for them, not for you, Maria says quietly. It makes them feel better about what they did.
The session continues, but the tension in the room thickens. Every topic circles back to betrayal, acknowledgment, forgiveness.
And I can feel the group sensing something wrong between Damian and me.
When Dr. Morrison finally calls time, I nearly collapse with relief.
Great first session, she says, though her expression suggests otherwise. Same time Wednesday?
The group members gather their things, chatting quietly.
I'm halfway to the door when Maria stops me.
Can we talk? Just for a minute?
Damian is across the room, speaking with Devon. Not close enough to hear.
Sure, I say, though everything in me wants to run.
Maria crosses her arms, her expression gentle but firm. I don't know what's going on between you and Damian. And it's none of my business.
There's nothing—
Please don't lie to me. Her voice is kind but unwavering. I spent five years with a man who lied to my face. I know what it looks like. And whatever is between you two—it's thick enough to choke on.
My face flushes. Maria, I—
I'm not angry. I'm worried. She glances at the others leaving. This group saved my life. Dr. Morrison helped me see that I wasn't crazy, that I could trust myself again. These people— she gestures to the departing members —they're my family now.
I understand.
Do you? Because the tension between you and Damian made this room feel unsafe tonight. Everyone felt it, even if they didn't say anything.
Shame burns through me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—
I know you didn't. Maria's expression softens. But whatever's going on between you two, you need to deal with it. We can't heal in a space that feels dangerous.
She pats my arm and leaves.
I stand frozen, her words echoing in my head.
The room empties until it's just me and Damian.
He approaches slowly, like I might bolt. What did Maria say?
I meet his eyes, and for the first time since the courtroom, I'm completely honest with him.
She said we're making the space feel unsafe. She said whatever's between us is so obvious that everyone can feel it. My voice drops to a whisper. She said we need to fix it.
Damian's face pales. She's right.
How? The question comes out desperate. How do we fix this? How do I sit in a room with you twice a week and pretend you're not the person who destroyed me?
I don't know. His voice is raw. But we have to figure it out. Because those six people deserve better than what we gave them tonight.
We stand in the empty room, the weight of Maria's words pressing down on both of us.
Coffee, Damian says suddenly. Tomorrow. Somewhere public. We talk about what happened—really talk—and figure out how to make this work for them.
Every instinct screams to say no.
But Maria's face flashes through my mind. Devon's nervous energy. Claire's guarded hope. All six of them trusting us to create a safe space.
Fine, I say. But this isn't therapy. This isn't us fixing our issues. This is us figuring out how to be professional.
Agreed.
I grab my bag and walk to the door.
Thalia.
I stop but don't turn around.
You did good tonight. With Aisha. You helped her feel heard.
I don't respond. Can't.
Because the truth is: I don't know if I helped anyone tonight.
All I know is that Maria is right.
Whatever's between Damian and me is poisoning the space.
And if we don't fix it, we're going to hurt the very people we're supposed to help.