It's another slow morning, dealing with patients who clearly don't want to be helped. But today feels… different. I was told a very important patient will be assigned to me—a whole month with them. By the end, I have to finish the evaluation.
"Morning, Linda. How's your morning going?" I ask my friend, Linda, who looks like she wants to vanish into the floor.
She sighs.
"Come on, Linda. I'm the one stuck with a patient for a whole freaking month."
"I know, girl. And believe me, I do not envy you. I just want to go home," she mutters, rolling her eyes. Typical.
"I heard this patient is a criminal. I wonder what they did to require a mental evaluation."
Linda shrugs. I'm asking myself the same question. Criminals like this? Mentally fit, manipulative, probably more dangerous than they appear. Why would someone like this need therapy?
I return to my office as the phone rings.
"Dr. Seraphina, the patient has arrived and is being escorted to your office."
Click. She hangs up.
I straighten my desk and try to focus.
"Knock knock knock."
I stand and open the door. In front of me stands a tall, impossibly handsome man in a suit.
"Good morning, sir. Are you the one accompanying the patient?" I ask, extending my hand.
He smirks. "Oh, my Dr. Psycho… should I take that as a compliment?" He squeezes my hand just enough to make me flinch.
It dawns on me: he's the patient. I pull my hand back sharply.
"You're not even going to invite me in? I'm hurt," he says, voice calm, confident—intimidating.
"Please, come in, Mr. Lucien," I manage, gesturing inside.
We sit. I try to maintain composure, but something about him sets my nerves on edge.
"Forgive me for mistaking you for someone else… you just look—" I trail off.
He smirks. "What? I look too sane to be a patient?"
My heart skips. He said exactly what I was afraid to think out loud. I've never met a patient who makes me both curious and uneasy. My professional mask… gone. Twice. Ten minutes.
"Mr. Lucien, today we won't have a session. Just introductions. Are you fine with that?"
"Of course. Whatever Dr. Psycho wants, she gets," he replies.
I glare. "Mr. Lucien, I am Dr. Seraphina, and I find it disrespectful when you address me like that."
He doesn't answer. Just stares at me. So intense I scramble for words.
"How old are you, doc?" he asks suddenly, smirking.
"I'm 23. And you?"
"You're young. How did you become a doctor so fast?"
I swallow. Skipping classes, faster than anyone expected—my mind races as I answer.
"I was more intelligent than my peers, so I had to skip classes."
He nods, impressed—or so it seems. Then he keeps asking questions… while I notice he hasn't answered a single one I asked him.
"Mr. Lucien, you haven't answered—"
The timer buzzes. Session over.
Without hesitation, he stands.
"It was a pleasure knowing you, Dr. Seraphina. Till next time."
He shakes my hand, smirking, and leaves.
I stay frozen, replaying it all. "Seraphina… what just happened? He's the patient—I'm the doctor!" I mutter repeatedly, trying to make sense of it.
I leave my office absent-minded, bumping into Linda.
"Girl, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"Oh, I'm fine… just… worn out."
She doesn't look convinced. "Yeah, right. So, how was your introduction? I didn't see him."
"Good… he isn't troublesome at all," I lie.
Saved, she's called away. I head home, driving absent-mindedly.
I replay our conversation. He probably knows more about me than I know about him. It feels backwards—he's the patient, but he's controlling my mind, my thoughts.
"Seraphina, get it together. You're the doctor. You're in control," I whisper to myself, gripping the wheel.
Home. Heels off. Couch. Bath. Nightgown. Noodles. Bed.
Yet sleep eludes me. Lucien's name, his smirk, his confidence—they haunt me. How can someone so… sane… require a month-long evaluation?
I can't resist. I sit at my computer and search: "Lucien Black."
Shock. Disbelief.
I've been assigned… a mafia. Not just a member, but the Don of the Black family.
No wonder he intimidated me. No wonder I felt… small. How could the hospital do this to me?
I shut the computer. Back to bed. Eyes close. But sleep doesn't come.
And I know—somewhere deep inside—this isn't the last time he'll control my thoughts. The real question is: what will he want from me? And more importantly… how much of myself will I lose to him before I even realize it?