Page 4

I bite my lips.

Dr. Chastain’s eyes narrow, flaring with something I can’t identify. If he wasn’t a robot, I might think it’s amusement. The image descends back to his lap. Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I wait for the urge to cackle to recede.

“You don’t deny you’re responsible for her transformation?”

I shrug, lowering my gaze to his chest. Even under the disguise of suit and tie, I can tell he’s extremely fit. Promiscuity has never been my drug of choice, but I’m still a red-blooded, twenty-eight-year-old female. And Dr. Chastain is a visual treat.

Allowing my gaze to dip lower, I entertain the fantasy of riding him right in his weathered leather armchair.

“Amelia.”

“Hmm?”

“Stop.”

The command cracks like a whip. Heat sizzles up my neck and face. I turn quickly to look out the nearest window.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He sighs, leather creaking as he shifts in his seat. “Let’s stop for today.”

I leap to my feet and am halfway across the office before he even stands. “Thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow.”

The door closes on his reply.

Releasing a full-body shudder of nerves, I pace down the elegant hallway toward the Fish Tank, the central hub of the U-shaped facility. The moniker derives from the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominate the northern and southern walls, as well as the multitude of discreet-ish cameras mounted across the beamed ceiling.

Aesthetically, the space looks much like the lobby of a swank mountain resort, all rustic wood, low tables, and squat, understated furniture. But instead of trees and mountains outside the windows, there’s desert.

Lots and lots of nothing.

I’m not sure exactly where I am—I fell asleep halfway into the drive here. I know we’d been headed east from Los Angeles, and when we’d arrived, the sky had still held the barest touch of sunset. Somewhere past Palm Springs, maybe? Or the Mojave?

Wherever we are, it’s secluded and fortified. With the sun now shining heavily on the bleached land, I can see the high fence I missed under the cover of darkness.

“What are you doing, Goldie?” asks an amused voice.

I glance behind me at the owner, a tall man with mussed auburn hair and a teasing grin.

I match his ironic smile. “Whatever I want.”

He laughs and walks forward until we stand side by side. “Think it’s an electric fence?” he asks, squinting.

“Nah. It’s probably just to keep the paparazzi off your ass.”

The man beside me, Callum Rivers, happens to be one of the highest paid models in the world.

He huffs. “This place is like Area 51. No way they’d find me. I’m on an Indonesian retreat, anyway. Soaking up spiritual vibes.”

I laugh, but it feels forced. Born with the gene for aggressive curiosity—read: nosiness—it’s growing increasingly difficult not to ask why he’s here. But digging into each other’s pasts is a big no-no. It was drilled into me during my orientation six days ago, and is reinforced constantly by the facilitators of our group therapy sessions.

No questions or specific comments about the past. If we veer toward any topic other than the right here, right now, they interrupt or call on someone else.

Only Dr. Chastain knows our secrets.

“How was your session?”

“Transformational,” I answer flatly.