Kiara
I stared at the man who had wandered in earlier and now sat half-perched on the edge of the desk, his long legs stretched out as if he owned the place. He was watching me with a bored, almost lazy expression—the kind that made me wonder if he'd taken a wrong turn and ended up here by accident. Maybe he didn't even know who I was.
"Are you lost or something?" I muttered.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he lingered there for a few seconds longer, just long enough to make the silence uncomfortable, before finally straightening and moving behind the desk. He dropped into the chair with an ease that irritated me more than it should have.
"Ms. Bradley, right?" he asked, resting his elbows on the armrests.
I nodded, unease creeping in. "And you are…?"
He sighed softly and rubbed his chin, like this was already tiring him. "I'm your therapist," he said, then added, almost as an afterthought, "for now."
My eyebrows knitted together. "Wait—hold on. I think there's been a mistake. Dr. Lemuel is my therapist."
He lifted an eyebrow, completely unfazed. "Not anymore."
The words hit harder than I expected. "What do you mean, not anymore?"
"I mean," he said calmly, "Dr. Lemuel can't be your therapist going forward."
I shook my head, trying to process the sudden shift. This was not how I imagined today going. Just when I'd finally decided to take therapy seriously—just when I'd started opening up—the one person I was beginning to trust was suddenly gone.
"Looks like I'm stuck with you," the man behind the desk said, breaking the silence before I could form a reply.
The words hit me like a slap. My mouth fell open slightly, indignation flashing through me as my eyes narrowed. The audacity.
"You don't have to sound so thrilled," I snapped, my tone sharper than intended. "And for the record, I don't have to do this either. I have better things to do."
I rose to my feet abruptly, holding his gaze for a brief, defiant moment. He didn't react—no annoyance, no surprise. Just that same unreadable expression, as though my frustration barely registered.
Fine.
I turned and walked out of the office, my pulse pounding as the weight of the situation settled over me. I knew finding a new therapist would take time, but staying in that room for even one more minute felt impossible. The man was infuriatingly dismissive, and I refused to subject myself to that kind of disrespect.
As soon as I reached the hallway, I pulled out my phone. My irritation softened when I saw several missed calls from Quin—my best friend and personal lifeline.
I dialed her back.
"Kiara!" she answered immediately. "Was your therapy session that amazing that you couldn't answer my calls?"
Her mock seriousness made a reluctant smile tug at my lips. "Amazing isn't the word I'd use," I sighed, stepping out of the hospital building. Cool air brushed against my face, carrying the clean scent of pine trees as I headed toward a roadside bench.
"I swear, next time you ignore me, I'm coming to hunt you down," she warned playfully. "So—what happened?"
"Long story short? I got assigned a rude substitute therapist," I said, dropping onto the bench and exhaling deeply.
"Oh no," she groaned. "You know what they say—don't let grumpy men steal your sparkle." She paused. "But wait… was he at least good-looking? Because if he's hot, you might want to reconsider."
Unhelpfully, an image of him surfaced in my mind: those intense, deep-set eyes, the straight nose that gave him an air of quiet authority, and lips that looked like they rarely smiled—but could, if provoked. I grimaced. Why was I even entertaining this?
"He was… fair," I said flatly, brushing the thought aside.
"Fair?" Quin scoffed. "That's suspiciously vague. Anyway—changing topics! Remember that computer company I told you about?"
"The one you interviewed with?" I asked.
"Yes!" Her excitement crackled through the phone. "The building is gorgeous—this sleek glass façade that reflects the whole skyline. Everyone inside looks so polished, so professional. And the uniforms? Chef's kiss."
I chuckled. "You sound impressed."
"Oh, I haven't even gotten to the best part," she continued. "The head manager? Ridiculously attractive."
I perked up despite myself. "No way. Go on."
"He walks in and the entire room just—shifts," she said dramatically. "Confident smile, commanding presence, total charisma. Everyone respects him."
I laughed. "Sounds like someone's already crushing."
"Maybe a little," she admitted with a giggle. "But can you blame me? He looks like he stepped straight out of a magazine."
"You're unbelievable," I said, shaking my head.
"And proud of it," she replied. "But listen—you need to come celebrate with me. My new job, your therapy disaster. Drinks are mandatory."
"Deal," I said, feeling lighter already.
After we hung up, I ordered a cab and leaned back on the bench, trying to calm my thoughts.
The day had been a mess from the moment I woke up, and the therapy session had only added fuel to the chaos.
My mind drifted to my parents, the familiar ache settling in my chest. I missed them more than I ever admitted. Sometimes I wondered how different things might be if they were still here—if I'd still have my job, or at least a clearer sense of direction. Instead, I felt untethered, unsure of what I even wanted anymore.
A car horn snapped me out of my thoughts.
I looked up to see a cab pulling up nearby. A chubby young man hopped out, waving enthusiastically. "Did you order a cab, ma'am?"
"Yes! Just a second!" I called back, shoving my phone into my purse.
Before I could stand, a sleek black SUV rolled to a stop directly in front of me. My heart stuttered as the passenger window slid down.
There he was.
My substitute therapist.
"Hop in," he said casually, one hand resting on the steering wheel.
I blinked at him, my mind scrambling to catch up. What on earth was he doing here? And more importantly—did he seriously expect me to get into his car after that session?