Page 14

OLIVIA

H arper’s waiting for me outside my office when I finish up with my last session of the day.

Tiny but fierce, she leans against the wall, and her dark brown eyes flick over me, narrowing with that unreadable doctor stare she’s perfected over years.

But beneath the edge is something else—concern.

A crease in her brow that wasn’t there last week.

A quiet check-in without needing to say it outloud

“You look like hell,” she says casually, stepping away from the wall, arms uncrossing with purpose.

“Thanks,” I mutter, forcing a smile. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”

She just smiles. “You should come out tonight. A couple of us are grabbing drinks—people not from work, promise. You could use some fresh faces.”

“I don’t know."

“You never know. You might even have fun,” she says, teasing. "Seriously, Liv. You’ve been carrying the weight of a whole damn team. It’s okay to put it down for one night. Meet a few people who don’t wear skates for a living."

I nod slowly. "Maybe."

“I’ll text you the name of the bar. Eight o'clock." She’s already walking away, but turns back to add, "And wear something that says you don’t own a bookshelf full of self-help books...even if we both know you do.”

I shake my head, her words landing somewhere between affection and annoyance. But before I can fire back, the air shifts.

Sebastian is walking down the hallway, eyes locked on me.

And just like that, the breath in my lungs feel heavy.

I don’t have the energy to brace myself against him. Not today. I move quickly toward my office, reaching for the door.

But he’s faster.

His hand catches it just before it shuts, pushing it gently open again.

"Olivia," he says my name—low, rough, almost a plea.

“You’re not scheduled.”

“I know.” He closes the door behind him.

Silence stretches between us. He looks wrecked—dark circles under his eyes, knuckles raw, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything he doesn’t know how to say.

There’s shame in the tight line of his mouth, regret in the way he won’t quite meet my eyes.

And still—God help me—he’s gorgeous. It’s maddening.

He finally speaks. “I need to talk to you.”

“You can book an appointment.” I keep my voice even. Professional. Cold.

“I don’t want a fucking therapy session, Olivia.”

“Then I’m not sure why you’re here.”

His eyes blaze. “Because I fucked up. And I need to say something that isn’t wrapped in bullshit clinical terms or scheduled between two players with daddy issues.”

I inhale sharply. “You said what you meant. Let’s not pretend it didn’t come from somewhere real.”

“It did. That’s the problem .”

“I already forgot about it."

“No, you didn’t.”

I can feel the sting behind my eyes, the pressure in my throat. Why do I let him get to me like this?

“You have no right to come in here and make me feel like...”

He steps closer. Too close.“Like what?”

"Like a fucking idiot for thinking you were a decent human being," I say too loudly, already regretting the words.

He blinks, his jaw tightening. "I deserve that."

I push past him, trying to regain control. Needing to get away from him before I say something else that borders on unprofessional.

But his hand catches mine.

Heat and want sizzle through my palm, up my arm, coiling low in my belly.

“Please,” I whisper. "Just leave."

He doesn’t.

His fingers linger on mine—hot, calloused, unsure—before he tugs me closer, like he’s just barely making the choice to break the distance. I feel his chest rise. The tension in his grip.

Those storm-gray eyes lock on mine—dark, unreadable, and blazing. I see it there—want, restraint, a war he's already losing.

I should shut this down. But my feet don’t move. My pulse stutters instead, betraying every boundary I swore I’d hold.

His hand slides up my spine, anchoring me against him. His breath is hot against my cheek, and when his mouth finds mine, it’s not gentle—it’s need, fury, regret, all tangled into one impossible kiss.

My knees weaken instantly. I grab his shirt to stay upright, to keep from falling.

God help me, I kiss him like I’ve needed it for years. Like he’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning.It's raw. Too much. Exactly what I shouldn't want—and everything I can't stop from taking.

The world falls away. It's just him. Me. And desperation.

His lips move like he’s trying to tell me something without words. Like if he kisses me deep enough, hard enough, maybe he won’t have to say what’s breaking him apart.

I tear away from him, gasping, pushing at his chest until he releases me. I take a few stumbling steps backwards.

"You shouldn't have done that."My hands won’t stop shaking. I curl them into fists, trying to force stillness into my bones.

And I shouldn't have wanted it. I don’t just hate him for what he did. I hate myself—for needing it. For melting the second his hands were on me. For wanting someone who can break me with a look.

Tears sting, but I won’t let them fall.

How the hell am I supposed to walk into another session with him now? Pretend this didn’t happen? Pretend I haven’t already compromised the most sacred boundary in my field?

"Do you ever think about anyone but yourself?"

His eye twitches as he rubs the back of his neck like he wants to rip the tension out by force. "I didn’t come here planning that...shit, I didn’t even know what I was going to say. I just needed to tell you I was wrong. About what I said. About your husband?—"

"Don't. You have no right to talk about him." A cold sense of betrayal—mine—slithers down my throat and settles in my gut, cooling the heat that was there moments before. And I want Sebastian to hurt as much as I am. So I don't edit my words.“Ethan was a better man than you’ll ever be.”

He flinches like I hit him.

“You have no idea how right you are,” he says quietly.

“Get out,” I say, voice splintering on the edges.

He hesitates, jaw clenched, like there’s more he wants to say—something that might fix it or break it worse. But he doesn’t. He just nods once, a bitter little twist at his mouth, and walks out.

The door clicks behind him. I collapse into my chair. The tears come hard and fast.I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to force the tears back in. Trying to remember who the hell I am. But everything feels blurred.

The worst part?

If he walked back in…I’m pretty sure my body would betray me all over again.