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“Excuse me?”

I didn’t mind that my smile instantly slipped off my face; what bothered me more was that I did not one hundred percent take Amelia’s warnings literally. Maybe I might have gone home that night thinking that, being a part of his family, she must have thrown in more than a pinch of exaggeration when she warned about this man being a lot to handle.

Up close, he was more charming than the photograph attached to his profile, with his hair extra inches longer, his frame and presence more intimidating. He was more real.

But I clearly saw it now, all of Amelia’s warnings blinking like traffic lights: the way his jaw flexed stubbornly, his thick, dark eyebrows arched, and firm-looking lips pinched into a thinner, irritated line. “I said, is this a fucking joke?”

In short, what he meant was that he thought I was a joke. Blue eyes took their time to rake my entire appearance from my head but didn’t stray below my face, and they grew cloudier with undiluted indignation.

“I’m not sure I understand, but try not to be upset. Whatever your concern is, give it some time, and we will work it out.”

“Hmph.” Those blue eyes dangerously narrowed to slits, and he withdrew his arms from the rim of the chair, straightening up with his elbows on his knees. “Let’s start with the most important question for the day.”

Usually, I asked the questions around here, but I knew a man like him would not want that information to be stuck to him. Sucking a deep breath, I forced a wobbly smile on my face. “Sure. What will that be?”

“How old are you?”

I gaped and flinched, unsure of what made me take a step backward: the intensity of his very musky cologne or the blatant rudeness accompanying his question. Taking my time, trying to catch my breath, I walked toward the couch positioned a few meters ahead of my desk and felt somewhat shielded when I collapsed on the plush cushion.

How old am I?

I grabbed my iPad and opened new notes for my Code Red client, Miron Yezhov.

Okay…I was going to give it to him. We’d yet to officially commence the session, but he was the most arrogant and disrespectful client I had ever encountered. No one, absolutely no one, had ever asked me that, but this cocky peacock of a man fired the question in my face without an ounce of reservation or respect.

“I’m….” I swallowed my pride, and it felt like digesting a pack of needles. “Twenty-four.”

“Hm.” He didn’t look impressed; he just nailed his gaze on me like a fierce hawk, clearly skeptical of my youthfulness and qualifications.

And sue me, I felt insulted.

“I guessed twenty, but I doubt an extra four years change anything. Amelia referred me here to waste my time.”

Had I felt insulted before?

If yes, now I felt a thousand times worse. Why did I have to prove anything to him? He was the one on the couch. The one that needed my help—not that he would ever accept or admit that. But the public thought so.

“Sir, I can assure you that she didn’t. You might have your reservations, but I am trained and qualified to take this. Prima Care has your best interests at heart, and we are devoted and dedicated to providing quality professional services to all our clients, without prejudice or—”

“ Sir ?”

My mouth clamped shut, sealing the rest of my speech before I even had a chance to finish.

Understanding flickered in his eyes. Of course, he knew I’d gone through his file already and didn’t have to ask his age. It was part of my job. Duh.

But I didn’t mean to refer to him like that. It had accidentally slipped out, thanks to the unnecessary pressure he’d been mounting.

“What I meant to say was, Mr. Yezhov—”

“Being seventeen years ahead of you doesn’t make me old enough to be your grandfather.”

I kissed my teeth and avoided his gaze. He was intentionally trying to spite and rile me up, to justify his belief that I was too young and inexperienced to be seated before him. Regardless, I wasn’t going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing me frustrated. I told Amelia nothing would be too difficult to handle and had every intention of delivering on my word.

If he thought he could shake me and see me quake in my boots, he had another thing coming. This was my space, my office, my territory. That meant I was in charge.

“Again, my apologies.” Crossing one leg over the other, the smile I fixed up was a lot firmer. “Time has already been spent. Let us properly begin, shall we?”

He didn’t say anything, and for the first time since I’d walked into my office to meet him, I finally had the opportunity to take charge of the conversation.

***

“Tell me, what do you hope to gain from these sessions?”

“What do I hope to gain? Honestly, before shit went sideways with Jeffrey, I didn’t even think I would ever need therapy. But now that I’m here, isn’t the only thing to gain peace of mind?” came his sharp retort. “Isn’t that what therapy is for?”

I didn’t bother with an answer to his sarcastic rhetorical question; I just focused on penning down the necessary observations.

“Do you believe in mantras, Mr. Yezhov?”

All the way across, I heard the vexation in his baritone when he snapped back. “Do I look like a man who believes in mantras, Miss Sinclair?”

Sighing, I rubbed the spot between my eyes and looked away from my notes long enough to tell him, “Please, I’d appreciate it if I asked the questions here. I know this process is hard for you to adjust to; it’ll take a while. But in the meantime, I’ll implore you to be cooperative, and that means you have to give straightforward answers. Can you do that for me?”

Miron seemed taken aback, and something else flickered through his guarded eyes. We stared at each other long enough for me to spot the conflict denting his features. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished, and he still didn’t respond.

I took it as a go-ahead to move on to the next question.

“Tell me, is there anything unsettling in your life?”

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

Three ….

Silence.

I looked up from my notes to see Miron staring outside the window, with his arms stretched out on both sides above the rim of the chair and his feet bouncing on the floor with the impatience of a man who’d rather be anywhere else but here.

I didn’t intend to, but my gaze lingered too long on the stretch of his white dress shirt across his broad chest and taut biceps and the perfect fit of his black pants against the length of his long legs.

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Yezhov?”

“No.” He didn’t look at me, but his voice sounded like it came from far away. “There’s nothing unsettling in my life. Everything is under control.”

“Okay….” Uncertain, I slowly lowered my eyes to take more notes. “That sounds great. And what keeps you calm?”

“Finally, an actual question. That’s easy: money, good sex, more money. More sex. What can I say? I’m a simple man.”

I didn’t dare raise my head, but a nagging voice at the back of my mind said he was smirking and looking straight at me. Another attempt to fluster me. In fact, I thought I could feel the heat of his stare burning a hole in the center of my head.

After scribbling, I muttered something but didn’t know it was loud enough for him to hear.

“Simple men don’t ram a hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of wine across someone else’s head and leave him writhing in his own blood.

“Are therapists supposed to be judgmental?”

Crap.

There was no anger or reservation in his tone, so if I trod carefully with my response, I could come out unscathed.

“I was not being judgmental, only stating a fact. A simple man wouldn’t do what you did, but you say you are a simple man who doesn’t believe in mantras and has nothing unsettling in his life.”

Miron lifted a brow. “And what’s your conclusion on that?” It was my turn to ignore his question. Needless to say, the animalistic growl at the back of his throat was a sign that it upset him. “Does my time here include that thing you’ve constantly been doing?”

Absentmindedly, I asked, “What thing?”

“The writing.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s standard procedure that I take notes.” I shrugged. “I observed that you prefer being in control, and I understand that it is normal, or expected, for people in your position. Powerful people like yourself.”

“Why do I feel like you’re mincing words? That’s not everything you’d like to say.”

He was right; I was mincing. For him, it was beyond just having control; there was a dangerous obsession with power lurking behind those blue eyes. In my opinion, however, it was a mirage.

I smoothened the edges of my hair. “I only tell the client what is necessary. Unless my opinions will be relevant during sessions, I keep them at bay.”

“I see what you’re doing, trying to sound like a professional.”

“I am a professional, Mr. Yezhov, and that’s why I’m posing this question to you: Would I be wrong to say that the definition of control is more subjective than people would agree?”

Miron paused for a full minute, as if he had taken the time to think about the question before deciding I wasn’t worthy enough for an answer. The hardness in his eyes returned, and he resumed working the muscles in his jaw.

“You’re wrong for even thinking to ask me that. I’m paying thousands of dollars to be seated here. You’re the therapist; you should have the answer.”

I squared my shoulders and tipped my chin. “Again, for the remaining parts of our session, I need you to cooperate. But since you really want to know what I think, fine, I’ll tell you. In my opinion, the subject of ‘control’ has more to do with acceptance rather than exertion or demonstration. In other words, control starts in the mind, the simple concept of being able to restrain oneself and regulate your emotions, actions, and reactions. That brings me to this: our major goals for the sessions we’ll be having.”

Unenthusiastically, he circled a finger in the air, urging me to continue.

“We will focus on identifying those things that trigger your anger and explore effective anger management options.”

He jerked his head to the side, brows furrowed. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s it.” I smiled. “Once you conquer your emotions, everything else will fall into place.”

Miron almost stole my composure when he surprisingly sprung to his feet, forcing my head to recline when his shiny leather shoes stomped closer to my couch. Subtly, I swallowed, keeping the instant fear out of my eyes.

I was right; the man’s aura was not the only intimidating thing about him. His height was imposing, standing at least six feet five inches tall, with those broad shoulders that commanded respect. He didn’t even stand close, but his presence made the room feel smaller. With my heart making small staccato beats, I found it a struggle to breathe regularly, and I wasn’t even claustrophobic.

“I’m leaving.”

Was that all he marched up here to say? He could have as well done that from his chair without having to suffocate me with his glare—a nd that darn cologne.

“But…but….” Why on earth am I stuttering? “We still have ten minutes.”

“You’ve outlined the goals, haven’t you? And I believe that the first days are mostly for introductions. We’ve done that, so I say I’m leaving. I have more important shit to take care of, anyway.”

“By all means, Mr. Yezhov. The door’s right there. I’m not stopping you.”

Double crap.

In my previous history with clients, my composure was always intact, never shaken or wavering, but Code Red somehow managed to rattle my foundations and unnerve me without so much as a snap of his fingers. I was just speaking to him about control, and I’d snapped. It was an accident, but there was nothing I could do because he’d caught it; the disapproving downward turn of his lips said so.

Miron’s pupils flashed with aggression, and he slid a hand into his pocket.

Instant quiet hovered between us like weighted clouds in the heavens just waiting to pour, and while I braced myself, prepared for a display of his infamous outburst, his next words were….

“You say I’m a man who likes being in control, but you don’t really think I’m in control of anything, do you?”

… unexpected.

It felt like a bucket of ice had been tipped over my head, and I adjusted my seat, rapidly blinking my sudden embarrassment away. While racking my brain to understand why he would ask that, I opened my mouth to present a defense.

“Mr. Yezhov, my opinions—”

“Unless when necessary, are kept at bay. I heard you the first time you said it, but don’t shy away now; you were a spitfire only seconds ago. I want to hear you say it to my face. Otherwise, your qualifications and whatnots don’t mean shit if you don’t have the balls to speak your mind.”

My mouth hung open, but no words came out.

“That’s what I thought. A simple test, and you failed. Trust the qualified expert to tell her clients only shit she dug up from a textbook.” A sardonic hint of a smile pulled on his lips before he turned his back to me and stomped toward the door. “Enjoy the rest of your humid afternoon, Miss Sinclair.”

He deliberately slammed the door shut, and the bang reverberated in my chest.

Quietly, I picked up my iPad and resumed notetaking.

First observations: Miron Yezhov exhibits a strong desire for control and a need for things to go his way. He is resistant to therapy and struggles with flexibility and adapting to unexpected situations, often becoming agitated when his plans are disrupted.

Treatment Goals:

Self-Awareness

Emotional Regulation

Communication Skills

Recommendations:

Continue exploring the root causes of his need for control

Develop a personalized coping plan to manage his anger and stress

I shut off my device, melting into the couch with folded arms and my gaze on the ceiling. Frankly, I was disappointed with the outcome of today’s meeting, but a sliver of hope was enough for me. That sliver of hope had stirred me to march to Amelia’s office in the first place, demanding a real challenge, and I got it. Recalling the journey of how far I’d come sparked my determination not to give up.

Miron was correct when he said the first days were for introductions. The remaining days belonged to me—to show him who was the boss.