Page 26

Healing Wounds

T he rain patters against the office windows, creating a rhythmic backdrop to the silence between us. Dr. Marshall sits in her ergonomic chair, patient as always, her notepad balanced on her knee. I’ve been coming to this softly lit office for weeks now, but the words still stick in my throat like glass shards.

“Luna,” she says gently, “you mentioned last time that the trial proceedings have intensified. How are you handling that?”

I trace the pattern on the couch with my fingertip, focusing on the swirls of fabric rather than meeting her eyes. “They arrested Judge Harrington yesterday. It was all over the news.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

A laugh escapes me, bitter and sharp. “How does it make me feel that a man who used to pat my head at parties before disappearing upstairs with girls who looked just like me is finally facing consequences? I don’t know, Doc. Vindicated? Terrified? Nothing at all?”

She doesn’t flinch at my tone. That’s one thing I appreciate about Dr. Marshall—she doesn’t scare easily.

“All of those reactions would be valid,” she says. “This is uncharted territory for you.”

Uncharted territory. Such a clinical way to describe watching your parents’ empire crumble while you testify against them. The evidence Erik and I managed to get to his brother has sparked the biggest political scandal in decades. Every day brings new arrests, new faces paraded across TV screens in handcuffs—judges, politicians, CEOs, celebrities. People who once seemed untouchable now look small and desperate in orange jumpsuits.

“My mother’s lawyer called again,” I say, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “They’re offering another deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“The same as before. If I recant my testimony, say I made it all up for attention or revenge or whatever, they’ll make sure I’m ‘taken care of.’” I make air quotes with my fingers, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “As if I’d ever trust them to ‘take care’ of me again.”

Dr. Marshall’s pen pauses on her notepad. “That must be difficult, having that pressure on you.”

“It’s not just me. They’re threatening Erik now, too.” My voice cracks, betraying the fear I’ve been trying to suppress. “His father’s political opponents are calling him compromised because of what happened at the party. They’re saying he should resign.”

“And how is Erik handling that?”

I finally look up at her, the question hitting a nerve. “Better than I am. He says he doesn’t care what they say about him as long as the truth comes out. But I care. He didn’t ask for any of this. This isn’t his mess.”

“Yet he chose to stand by you,” she points out. “From what you’ve told me, he’s made his choice very clear.”

The memory of Erik’s face as we were rescued from my parents’ mansion surfaces unbidden—the determination in his eyes, the way he refused to let go of my hand even as David’s team swarmed the property. He’s been my constant since then, through the safe houses and the depositions and the endless meetings with prosecutors.

“I don’t deserve him,” I whisper, voicing the thought that’s been haunting me.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m broken!” The words burst out louder than I intended. “Because every time he touches me, I see their hands instead. Because sometimes I can’t breathe when he holds me too tight. Because I still wake up screaming, convinced I’m back in that house, in that bed, with those men…”

Tears blur my vision, hot and unwelcome. I swipe at them angrily.

“Luna,” Dr. Marshall leans forward, her voice gentle but firm. “Trauma doesn’t make you unworthy of love. What happened to you—what was done to you—it changes how you respond to the world. That’s a normal reaction to abnormal circumstances.”

“There’s nothing normal about me.” I laugh bitterly. “I’m in my twenties, and I don’t think I’ve ever had sex that wasn’t coerced or manipulated or part of some twisted power game. I’ve never been kissed without an agenda. I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t want something from me.”

“And you believe Erik wants something from you?”

I shake my head, the question cutting to the heart of my conflict. “That’s the problem. He doesn’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Rain streaks down the windows, distorting the city skyline beyond. So much has changed in the months since we escaped. David Stone kept his promise, using the evidence to build an airtight case against my parents and their entire network. The trials have been dominating headlines, each revelation more shocking than the last. My testimony was sealed, my identity protected in court documents, but rumors still swirl. The mysterious daughter who brought down an empire of corruption.

“Last session, you mentioned a panic attack after Erik kissed you,” Dr. Marshall prompts gently. “Can you tell me more about that?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “It was stupid. We were watching a movie in his apartment—something mindless with superheroes. He made popcorn. It was… nice. Normal.” I swallow hard, the memory is visceral. “Then he put his arm around me, and I leaned into him, and it felt right. When he kissed me, I kissed him back. I wanted to.”

“What happened then?”

“He deepened the kiss, and his hand went to my waist, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My heart was racing, and not in a good way. I pushed him away and locked myself in the bathroom.” Shame burns through me at the recollection. “He sat outside the door for an hour, just talking to me until I could come out.”

“Did he pressure you to continue?”

“No. Erik would never…” I trail off, the certainty of that statement surprising even me. “He just held me afterward. Said we’d go at my pace. That there was no rush.”

Dr. Marshall nods, making a note. “That sounds like healthy boundaries. Erik respects your autonomy.”

“But for how long?” The question that’s been eating at me finally emerges. “How long before he gets tired of dating someone who freezes every time things get physical? Who wakes up screaming in the middle of the night? Who can’t even go to a restaurant without checking all the exits first?”

“Have you asked him these questions?”

I shake my head. “I’m afraid of the answer.”

“Perhaps he’s afraid too,” she suggests. “Not of your trauma response, but of losing you.”

The thought is simultaneously comforting and terrifying. Erik has seen me at my absolute worst—drugged, terrified, fighting for my life. He’s read the case files, heard my testimony, and knows every sordid detail of what was done to me over the years. And still, he looks at me like I’m something precious.

“Yesterday, Senator George Murphy’s arrest was announced,” I say, changing the subject slightly. “He used to come to all the parties. Always requested me specifically.”

Dr. Marshall’s expression remains neutral, though I know she’s familiar with the case details. “How did that news affect you?”

“I thought I’d feel… I don’t know, triumphant? Instead, I threw up.” I twist my fingers together in my lap. “Erik held my hair back, got me water. Didn’t say a word about it. Just… was there.”

“That seems to be a pattern with him.”

“Yeah.” A small smile touches my lips despite the heaviness of the conversation. “He’s annoyingly reliable that way.”

“You say ‘annoying’ as if his support bothers you.”

“It doesn’t bother me. It terrifies me.” The admission costs me, each word dragged from somewhere deep and vulnerable. “Every time he’s kind to me, every time he stays despite all the baggage I’m carrying, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to realize what he’s signed up for and walk away.”

“Has he given you any indication that he’s reconsidering his commitment to you?”

“No. The opposite, actually.” I think of the way Erik looked at me this morning before I left for therapy—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. “Last night, I asked him why he stays. You know what he said? That loving me isn’t a burden he carries—it’s a choice he makes every day. Who even talks like that?”

Dr. Marshall smiles slightly. “Someone who knows his own mind, perhaps.”

“But that’s just it—how can he know? How can he be so sure when I’m still figuring out who I am without my parents controlling every aspect of my life?” The questions pour out of me, ones I’ve been afraid to voice, even to myself. “What if the person I become isn’t someone he wants to be with?”

“That’s a risk in any relationship, Luna. People grow and change. The question is whether you’re willing to allow that growth—for both of you—or if you’ll keep him at arm’s length because you’re afraid of what might happen.”

Her words hit with uncomfortable precision. I’ve been holding back, keeping parts of myself walled off even as Erik offers all of himself to me. Not because I don’t care for him—God, I care so much it terrifies me—but because I’m afraid of what happens when he sees all of me and decides it’s too much.

“I don’t know how to let someone love me,” I confess, the words barely audible over the rain. “I don’t know how to trust that they won’t use it against me.”

“Perhaps that’s where we need to focus our work,” Dr. Marshall suggests. “Not on erasing your past—that’s impossible—but on building a future where trust is possible again.”

“How? How do I do that when everything inside me is screaming that it’s not safe?”

“One step at a time.” She sets her notepad aside. “Let’s start with something concrete. What’s one small thing you could do this week to let Erik in a little more?”

I consider the question, thinking of all the ways Erik has tried to reach me, all the times I’ve pulled away. “There’s a benefit next weekend for a survivors’ advocacy group. David’s team asked if I’d attend—not as a speaker or anything, just to show support. I was going to go alone, but…” I pause, gathering my courage. “Maybe I could ask Erik to come with me. As my date. Officially.”

It seems like such a small thing—we’ve been together through a kidnapping, a rescue operation, and the dismantling of a criminal enterprise. Yet somehow, asking him to accompany me to a public event, acknowledging what we are to each other in front of others, feels monumental.

“That sounds like a meaningful step,” Dr. Marshall says. “How does the idea make you feel?”

“Nervous. Exposed.” I take a deep breath. “But also… like maybe I’m ready to stop hiding. At least with him.”

She smiles, a genuine warmth in her eyes. “That’s progress, Luna. Real progress.”

The session ends, and I step out into the rain-washed streets of Boston, pulling my coat tighter around me. Erik is waiting in the coffee shop across the street, exactly where he said he’d be. He spots me through the window, and his face lights up. That same smile that has become my anchor in the storm of the past months.

As I cross the street to meet him, I think about what Dr. Marshall said about trust being built one step at a time. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I can’t undo years of manipulation and abuse overnight, but I can choose, in this moment, to walk toward someone who has proven over and over that he won’t hurt me.

Erik stands as I enter, concern etched on his features. “How was it?” he asks, pulling out a chair for me.

Instead of my usual noncommittal shrug, I take a deep breath and give him the truth. “Hard. We talked about the arrests. About you. About us.”

His eyebrows rise slightly at the last part, but he doesn’t press. “Do you want to talk about it now, or would you rather wait?”

In that question is everything that makes Erik different from anyone else in my life—the space he gives me, the choices he offers without expectation or manipulation.

“Actually,” I say, reaching across the table to take his hand, “there’s something I wanted to ask you…”