Page 9

I walked into the office without looking her way, my shoulders tense and hands shoved deep into my pockets. Today, the air smelled faintly of lavender and strawberry jam. I settled on the green couch, crossing a leg over the other, with my arms folded across my chest.

She sat in her usual chair, legs crossed, a Styrofoam cup raised to her lips, and her iPad resting on her lap. Discreetly, she watched me over the rim of her cup before placing it on the sidepiece.

“Good morning, Miron. How prompt of you to come in twenty minutes after the scheduled time for our session today. At least you’re here, right? So, I can’t complain. It is good to see you again.”

“Well, someone’s chirpy this—” I narrowed my eyes at her glowing cheeks and bright eyes. “What did you just call me?

“Your name.” She shrugged and quickly jotted something on her iPad before glancing up. “Or would you prefer ‘sir?’”

I resisted the urge to scoff. This woman was full of surprises, wasn’t she? The sudden switch to her approach might have caught me off-guard, but it didn’t even put a scratch on my armor.

Damir had sent prompt reminders by nine a.m. I deliberately ignored them.

It wasn’t good to see her. It wasn’t good to be here. But I swallowed down the sharp remark forming on my tongue and moved a shoulder instead. “Whatever makes you sleep better at night.”

Her face didn’t give away the slightest reaction. She just kept watching me, not with judgment, but with that quiet patience I found both irritating and oddly grounding. It was as if she was sending a silent message that nothing I did or said could shake her.

Well, good for her, then. I had less than an hour to be here, which made me wish the time would fly by faster.

“How was your weekend?”

My eyes couldn’t get any narrower. How was my weekend? Full of good sex, Vodka, guns, and other profanities she looked too innocent to entertain.

I circled a finger in the air. “I know you don’t really care, so skip this question and ask the next one in your manual.”

She scoffed. “Remember: cooperation. So, let’s try that again, shall we?” She straightened up, looking me in the eyes with a smile. “How was your weekend, Miron?”

I knew what she was doing—trying to exhibit control, to battle it out with me—so I knew who really was in charge here. This woman honestly thought she could subdue me. It was almost laughable.

Then, I remembered Damir’s incessant prodding and the unpleasant experience I’d had in that fucking courtroom.

I exhaled through my nose and stared at her pointy heels rather than meeting her eyes.

“Fine.”

Her lips twitched, like she knew I was lying but wouldn’t call me out on it. “Fine,” she repeated, letting the words settle between us. “And what made it ‘fine?’”

She really didn’t want to know.

I shrugged, my jaw tightening. I hated this…this slow, deliberate way she pulled at the things I tried so hard to ignore. But I was here, wasn’t I? So, I gave her something.

“Didn’t kill anyone.”

The flutter of her lashes and subtle “hm” said she thought I was being sarcastic. If only she knew how truthful that was. The past weekend, no one died by my hand. Not yet, anyway.

She offered that smile again before facing her iPad, the one that enhanced the sunlike glow in her eyes. “That’s a good start,” she said.

Damn her.

“For the next question in my manual,” she said, and I thought I saw her lips pull up in a smirk, “Miron, what makes you feel in control?”

Instantly, a moment of distraction scattered my thoughts. It was the way she’d called my fucking name. Mih-ron . As if she was testing the letters before pronouncing them.

Gritting my teeth, I gave her my best unimpressed stare, and she tilted her head to the side, waiting.

Today, her hair was let down in big curls, framing her face and falling below her shoulders, and like the first time she walked through those doors, she maintained her professional outlook, dressed simply in a white shirt and navy blue pants.

Was there a reason I took note of those details?

Fucking no.

“I can’t answer that question.”

“But you can.”

“Goddammit, woman.” I rubbed between my eyes, letting them stay shut while I forced my brain to work. If I didn’t provide answers, she was just going to keep up the poking. “I don’t know, okay? Maybe it’s the respect and loyalty I receive from my… employees.”

I would have loved to see the look on Damir’s face when he heard me refer to him as that.

“Or the fear and intimidation that comes with being a boss. There are so many factors to consider here: wealth and possessions, the vast network and connections I have, my high level of intelligence, exerting influence, eliminating threats, and maintaining order. All of those things and more have the tendency to feed my control. Or it could just be making sure my drink is poured right. How about that?”

My response was supposed to be a joke, but the moment the words left my mouth, something twisted inside me. The thought lingered, clinging like smoke, refusing to fade.

“Hm.” She nodded while taking down more notes. “Did you know control is often about safety, too,” she said. “And safety requires trust. Vulnerability.”

I scoffed. “Right. Because nothing says ‘safe’ like letting people see your weaknesses.”

“You don’t think control and vulnerability can coexist?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to say something sharp, but nothing came, and she continued, allowing her gaze fleet past mine for a second, like she’d been pulled back into a memory.

“They can coexist, but there are people out there, including yourself, who don’t agree. You wanted my opinion the other day, and I’m going to give it to you. Miron, I believe that people like you cling to control to avoid feeling powerless. But that is why you’re here: to untangle the webs of confusion and work this thing out. And if you give it time, you’ll see that we will.”

Her eyes met mine, and she raised a brow. “You look like you want to say something, but you’re hesitating.”

Transiently, I faltered, and without my permission, my mind flickered to a memory I hadn’t thought about in years. I thought it lay buried and forgotten, but apparently, it still roamed in the shadows of my mind.

The memory was clear, very vivid. My father towered over me while I fought the tears in my eyes and wiped the blood off my lips; his fists were clenched, his voice like gravel as he spat words I hated to recall. The air was always so thick with tension, the kind that left bruises before and after the fists never landed.

But that was the past.

I blinked, forcing the memory away, and let out a low chuckle. “Do I?” I met her eyes, tilting my head slightly. “I think you’re imagining things.”

She didn’t look convinced but didn’t press. And while she jotted into her notes, I watched her closely, from the speed of her fingers on the keyboard, the intent focus she gave to the screen, and the tight pull of her lips.

For the first time since I walked into this place—even though this might have only been our second meeting—I couldn’t shake the feeling that this woman was seeing through me. Not just the version of me I presented but the cracks beneath.

I wasn’t sure how she’d done it, but she was swiftly penetrating like a wicked soldier on a mission.

And I hated it.

These sessions were supposed to be a waste of time, a box to check, a requirement to fulfill. But today, for the first time, I wondered if there was more to them than just a court-mandated obligation.

My phone beeped in my pocket, and her alarm simultaneously chimed. 10:30 a.m.

“Time’s up,” I announced, rising to my feet. “And I’m leaving.”

Unlike the last time, she didn’t make any sound or try to stop me. A hidden part of me might have looked forward to her gutsy response, but when it wasn’t forthcoming, I found no desire to make any sarcastic remark before closing the door behind me.

No smirk, no pointed jab. Just silence.

Because somehow, my mind kept replaying her melodic voice over and over again like a broken record.

Miron, I believe that people like you cling to control to avoid feeling powerless.

And the worst part was, it sounded believable.