Page 61 of Vicious Temptation
It’s just that I haven’t told her very much.
Like Clara, I don’t know what to say. My father pays the bill, and surely, she must have looked up the name. She must know who he is and what he does. Or maybe she hasn’t, because as long as the bill is being paid, it doesn’t matter. But I’m acutely aware of how differently the mafia does things from the rest of the world, and I don’t know how, in the plush, modern office that Dr. Langan has decorated in rose pink and gold and taupe, to say I was engaged to a man I’d never met. That my father arranged a marriage for us, and the first time I really saw the man I was going to marry outside of a photo, he was waiting for me at the altar.
That the same man brutalized me only hours later. Hurt me. Let his men hurt me. That it was more than just a violation, more than just an assault. It was a betrayal—of the promises he was supposed to make to me, of the promises that the men who were supposed to protect me had made.
How could Dr. Langan, even with her degree and her experience, understand that? How could she imagine how that would make me feel?
I’ve told her that a man hurt me. I’ve even shared a few of the details. I’ve explained about the nightmares, about my clothing choices, about my fear of being touched. I’ve talked about my hobbies. I’ve skirted around the fact that I can’t go to college, that my father would undoubtedly expect me to marry another stranger, and that all my life, I’ve been raised to be a pretty piece of merchandise meant to be sold, bedded, and bred.
Now, I want to tell her about Gabriel. I want to tell her about the accounts, and that pretty soon, my father is going to stop paying that bill, most likely, but that I’ll be able to pay it instead. I want to ask her what it means that, for the first time, I’m almost disappointed that he doesn’t touch me.
I’m not sure how to explain any of that without explaining the rest.
I only manage a few more bites of my waffle before it’s time to go. I grab my purse and head out to where Jason is waiting for me with the car, Gio in the front seat. Jason opens my door for me, and I thank him as I slide into the blessedly cool interior, enjoying the feeling of the air conditioning.
He takes one look at my sweatshirt and turns it up a little, just like Jacq used to, despite Gio’s grumble of protest, and it makes me feel good. Cared for. Noticed, but in a way that doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to panic.
Maybe I’ve just spent my life around the wrong men. Maybe there’s more of them than I know that are like that. Like Jacq, and Jason, and Gabriel. Men who want to protect me, care for me, help me, instead of hurt and violate and use me.
I twist my fingers in my sleeves, thinking about that, and what it might mean. For me, for my future, for what I want out of life. How I might be able to change things for myself, taking the foundation that Gabriel is giving me, and expanding on it.
Those thoughts occupy me all the way to the small outer suburb of the city, where Jason pulls up in front of the gleaming building that houses Dr. Langan’s office. “Just text me when you’re ready to go,” he says, and I nod, sliding out of the car.
The interior of the building is cold, making me glad I’m wearing the sweatshirt. The lobby of the mental health offices is warmer, but Dr. Langan turns her own personal office down a few degrees for me when my appointment is coming up, or at least it seems that way. She’s always wearing a cardigan when I come in.
She’s sitting behind her desk when I’m escorted back, her auburn hair pulled back in a neat bun, and she's wearing a cashmere cardigan. She looks up with a smile, and motions to the couch, getting up from her desk chair and moving to the soft armchair that’s sitting catty-corner to the couch.
“Bella. I’m glad to see you.”
I shift uncomfortably on the couch. I don’t ever know how to feel at these appointments. I’ve spent my whole life with no one to open up to other than Clara, feeling isolated and mostly alone. I don’t know how I’m expected to talk to a stranger about things I can’t even share with my best friend.
“How have you been?”
Another question I don’t know how to answer. “Better,” I say cautiously. “But I’m still having nightmares. Bad ones. It messes up my sleep.”
Dr. Langan nods. “I was told you’d run out of your prescription.”
A tiny bit of bitterness heats the pit of my stomach. “Yeah. I asked for an emergency refill, or just a partial one, but they said I had to come in first. And that this was the soonest you could see me.”
“That’s true.” Dr. Langan looks at me appraisingly. “You haven’t been on the medication for all that long, Bella, objectively—although I’m sure it feels like it’s been much longer to you. I want to find out how you’re responding, if we need to adjust your dosage, add anything—all of that.”
“I think it’s fine.” I twist my fingers together in my lap, wondering if I can just bluff my way through this and go home. Back to Gabriel’s. That’s something I should talk about, if I feel up to it—the fact that I’ve started to think of Gabriel’s house as my home. But the idea of explaining the context of that feels exhausting.
“No negative symptoms or reactions? How does the sleep feel when you take them?”
“—hard?” I frown. “I don’t have dreams, which is the point, right? I’m a little groggy when I wake up, but otherwise fine.”
“And you’re exercising regularly, as we discussed?”
I nod. “I run, and—” My breath catches in my throat for a moment, as I remember the workout with Gabriel yesterday morning. The possibility of working out with him again this evening. “I’ve tried changing it up a little,” I finish lamely. “But mostly just running, still.”
“Experimenting with new things is good,” Dr. Langan says encouragingly. “Stepping out of your comfort zone, a little at a time, will start to help you heal.” Her gaze sweeps over me neutrally. “I see you’re still choosing to cover up with your wardrobe.”
There’s no judgment in her tone; it’s just an observation, but it still makes me feel defensive. “It doesn’t really feel like a choice,” I say flatly. “I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack if I don’t. It’s not like I enjoy sweating in the middle of the summer.”
“Have you tried recently to do anything differently?”
I start to say no, which is what Dr. Langan’s expression clearly says she expects, but then I remember the afternoon Clara came over. “I put on a one-piece and went swimming in the pool with my best friend,” I say quietly. “When I was sure there was no one else around.”