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“Why do you think you were able to let go with Liam?”

“Because he’s safe?” I shrug. “Because I didn’t have a choice? We both got swept up, after I almost…” My voice trails off, strangled with too many regrets.

The admission hangs in the air, tainting the space with raw vulnerability.

Surprisingly, Dr. Price doesn’t pounce on it. He lets the silence snowball until I break it with another reluctant truth.

“It’s always been easy with Liam.”

“The real question isn’t why you’re able to climax with Liam.”

“It’s not?”

“No. What you should be asking is, why isn’t it happening now?” He gives the thought room to breathe, watching me squirm. “You want to know what I think?”

I hesitate, then nod, betrayed by curiosity.

“I think you’re scared to surrender because it means opening yourself to someone new. After losing Sebastian, you’re terrified of letting anyone else in.”

I narrow my eyes. “But wasn’t the point of this nightly ritual to demonstrate control?”

“Which you’ve done.” His tone softens, part coax and part command. “Now it’s time to release yourself from the prison you’ve built.”

“In front of Oliver?” I cross my legs. “Is that what you’re implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. If having an audience brings you pleasure, then you should explore it. You’ve earned it.” He straightens the gold band of his watch, as if on cue. “I’m afraid our time is up.”

I blink, disoriented. “We’re done already?”

“For today, yes. You’re making more progress than you realize.” He rises, prompting me to do the same.

“Continue your nightly routine,” he adds, heading to the door. “During the day, I want you to immerse yourself in your work again.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

Not with Sebastian’s studio right down the hall.

“At least give it a try.” He opens the door, and the brass handle catches the firelight. “Find joy in something each day, no matter how small. Start a new project, or visit a friend.”

A rare smile touches his lips—a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the doctor.

“Healing takes time.”

16

The thing about time? It’s a tricky sorcerer of illusion, first crawling slow enough to bleed me dry before accelerating without warning. A full week passes before I muster the courage to end my hiatus and face the studio I abandoned.

I push the door open, and the air hints at neglect and musty spaces. Daylight streams through the tall windows, casting streaks across the bolts of fabric.

Highlighting the dust.

Exposing my prolonged failure.

Unfinished sketches fan across tables. Measuring tape lies tangled on the floor. A prototype still wears the skeleton of something I once believed in, the burgundy silk drooping from the shoulders, one side pinned, and the other trailing like blood.

Everything is exactly as I left it, and something about that hurts.

I bend down before the tears win and gather the scraps. My fingers shake at first, but the motion steadies as I sweep fabric shavings into my hand. I sort and stack, lining up scissors, putting away stray bobbins, returning fashion magazines to the shelves.