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He pauses, the tiniest of smiles on his face. “But you believe me?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t let it swell your head, Doc.”

Chuckling, he adjusts his glasses. “Okay, it’s my turn. What did you love about Donovan?”

“His smile,” I answer honestly. “At least in the beginning. After a while, I started resenting it.”

“Why?”

“Because he smiled at everyone. My turn. Where did you go to school?”

“Yale for undergrad, then UCLA.” He glances over my shoulder. “My qualifications are on the wall, Amelia.”

I’ve seen the plaques, of course. “They could be fake.”

“Are they?”

I study him for tells, but he’s either a better liar than I am or he’s being honest. The first option is as interesting as it is disturbing.

“They’re probably real,” I finally answer.

He glances down. “How did your relationship with Donovan end?”

“I paid a girl to get him drunk at a party and seduce him. He took the bait and cheated on me.”

Chastain doesn’t look surprised by this information, even though there’s no way Jameson told him. I’ve never told anyone.

“How did that feel?”

I shrug. “It sucked. How old are you?”

“Thirty-six. How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

My enjoyment of this game is rapidly dwindling.

“Fourteen,” I say rigidly.

“Does that bother you?”

“Why should it?” I snap. “It was my choice. I was curious, so I went to the beach in a tiny bikini and found a surfer to take me home. He lasted five minutes, then yelled at me about the blood on his sheets.”

The thing about secrets—receiving them is sheer pleasure, but offering them holds none. Not even when the desired result of eliciting a response from the unflappable doctor is achieved. But what I see in Dr. Chastain’s eyes isn’t disgust. It’s pity, and it’s maddening.

“Have you ever fucked a patient, Doc?”

His nostrils flare. “Absolutely not.”

His anger sways the balance of power back in my direction. A warm cloak of satisfaction surrounds me.

“How did you end up in this shithole?” I ask mildly.

“My turn,” he says, the dark tone fracturing my superiority. “Did you think not wearing a bra would affect me?”

Against all efforts of will, I blush. “I don’t know, maybe,” I say, then flinch at the vulnerability I’ve exposed.

He pulls off his glasses, tossing them atop the notepad in his lap. In a now familiar gesture, he rubs his forehead with his fingers.

“You asked me how I ended up here, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.” His dazzling eyes find mine. “The short of it is that someone helped me once, and I come here once a year to pay back the debt.”