Page 48

Angelique

I wake with a headache that feels like someone took a mallet to my skull. My eyes are stinging when I open them, swollen from crying, and for a while I lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the ache settle behind my eyes.

Yesterday replays in fragments in my head.

I’d woken up on my dad’s death anniversary with an overwhelming feeling of giving up.

I just couldn’t imagine a world where life got better for me and I desperately just wanted all the pain to end.

I might not have woken up at all today if Reign and Lando hadn’t come for me.

A quiet voice breaks through my morning fog. “Good morning.”

I turn my head slowly and find Reign sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair a mess. He looks like he’s been dragged through hell and back.

“Good morning,” I whisper, sitting up slowly. Shame rolls through me while I tuck the surrounding blankets tighter, suddenly aware of how small and pathetic I probably look. “Did you sleep? ”

He doesn’t answer, instead giving me a tired, lopsided smile. The kind that makes my chest ache. I lower my gaze and fidget with the edge of the blanket, tugging a thread loose between my fingers.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he watches me.

I shrug one shoulder, keeping my eyes down. “Ridiculous? Stupid? Embarrassed? You name it, I’m probably feeling it.”

The bed shifts as he takes a seat beside me, his hand reaching for mine. His thumb slowly brushes over my knuckles, grounding me.

“There’s nothing to feel embarrassed or stupid about,” he says gently. “You just need some help right now, and it’s understandable. You’ve been through more than most.” He pauses. “Are you still open to speaking with someone?”

My throat tightens and I don’t answer right away, letting my gaze drift across the room. There’s a part of me that still wants to run and hide. To pretend that if I just sleep long enough, I’ll wake up in a version of my life that doesn’t hurt.

But I remember the fear in Reign’s voice last night, and the way Lando’s hand shook when he reached for me. I can’t put them through something like that again. And maybe… maybe this is what trying looks like. It’s not pretty or poetic, but it’s still a beginning.

I finally nod and Reign lets out a quiet breath that he was holding in this whole time, nodding back, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth in relief.

“Okay then,” he says. “Let’s get ready. Your first appointment is in an hour.”

The car ride is quiet, and I sit with my hands in my lap, fingers twisted together, trying to breathe like I’m not unraveling from the inside out.

I can feel Reign glancing over to me every so often from the driver’s seat in that protective way he always does—without pressure, but with every ounce of presence.

He hasn’t let me out of his sight, not since yesterday, and even now I can feel the tether between us stretching across the console, anchoring me.

“Still doing okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie, because I don’t feel okay. I feel like I’m walking into something I won’t be able to walk back out of.

Like once I sit down and say it all out loud, I won’t be able to shove it back into the locked box I’ve kept it in.

They’ll label me insane, send me off to some sterile white psych ward for the rest of my life, and feed me pills that will only make me worse.

I pick at a hangnail. “What if I go in there and don’t talk?”

Reign glances over briefly, then back at the road. “Then you don’t talk. You sit, and you breathe. That’s enough for the first time.”

I let out a small, dry laugh. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

I mean it as a throwaway comment, but when I look over at him, he isn’t smiling. He doesn’t say anything right away either, and the silence makes my chest tighten.

“Wait,” I murmur. “Have you?”

He nods once. “Yeah. After my mom left, my dad put Lando and me in therapy. We were both so angry and I think he didn’t know what else to do.”

A lump rises in my throat. “Did it help? ”

Reign’s jaw shifts slightly as he considers. “It helped Lando,” he says after a beat. “It helped me, too… just not right away. I didn’t want help back then. I didn’t want to be fixed. I just wanted my mom back.”

I press my fingers together tightly in my lap. I know what that kind of longing feels like. The kind that coils around your ribs and squeezes until you can’t breathe. Wanting a parent who’s gone—whether they chose to leave or just couldn’t stay—it leaves a scar.

A silence falls between us until I whisper, “What if they ask me what happened?”

“They’ll wait until you’re ready to answer.” He pauses. “You get to set the pace, Angel.”

The way he says that makes me feel like for once, I’m not at the mercy of what’s been done to me. I stare out the window noticing how peaceful Marlow looks this morning.

“By the way…” He clears his throat. “I asked my dad to push opening night by two weeks.”

My head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “What?”

“There were other reasons,” he says quickly. “The crew needed time to rework lighting, and a few costumes weren’t ready. But I also told him you needed space, after everything that happened.”

The air shifts in my lungs, expanding and tightening at once. I was planning to step down from my role as Swan Queen and let Wendy have it. I don’t want to let Imperium and Reign’s family down, but I know that if I went out there and performed right now, I’d ruin the whole thing.

“Was he mad?” I ask.

He shrugs, eyes still on the road. “No. But even if he was, it wasn’t up for discussion.”

I look down at my lap again, twisting my fingers. “ Thank you,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me. I’d push the whole goddamn world back if it gave you time to breathe.”

We pull into the tiny private parking lot of the wellness clinic. The building is old stone and glass, with a slate sign at the front that says Briar Hill Therapy Centre . My stomach lurches as I stare up at it, and my heart picks up speed.

Reign parks the car and turns to look at me, one arm resting on the wheel. “You don’t have to go in alone.”

“I know,” I whisper.

But the truth is, this is the one thing that I do need to do alone. The one thing that I need to face to get better. I reach for the door handle but pause when I feel his hand slip into mine.

“I just want you to know that you’re brave for coming,” he says. “Even if you don’t feel it yet.”

His words settle in my chest, warm and heavy. “Will you wait for me?” I ask, my voice small.

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Always.”

Soft upbeat music plays in the waiting room as a woman behind the desk gives me a kind smile when I check in, but I don’t really register what she says as I hyper focus on the muted colours of the walls that feel like they’re closing in on me.

I take a seat by the window and watch Reign through the glass.

He’s leaning against the hood of his car, smoking a cigarette, eyes on the entrance like a sentry.

Moments later, the therapist, a tall woman with wavy dark hair and warm brown eyes, comes to the door and calls my name, giving me a warm smile.

I return the smile and stand up, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else, and follow her into the office as she closes the door behind me.

Her office is nothing like I expected. Soft sunlight pours in through sheer curtains onto pale walls painted in warm ivory, and a plush cream rug that stretches across the floor. The scent of eucalyptus floats out of a diffuser, and a few leafy plants line the windowsill.

The couch is soft, upholstered in a buttery beige fabric that instantly hugs my body when I sit down. There are no cold desks or ticking clocks. Her office feels almost…inviting. Nothing like the sterile white walls and furniture I’d envisioned.

The therapist sits across from me in a matching armchair.

She’s elegant, her wavy brown hair pulled back in a loose knot, and her warm, kind eyes meet mine without judgment.

I’m surprised to see that she doesn’t have a notepad or clipboard.

She’s just sitting there looking like she’s ready to jump into casual conversation with me.

“I’m Talia,” she says gently. “It’s really nice to meet you, Angelique.”

I give her a small nod, fingers curling into the hem of my sleeves as I sink further into the couch.

She tilts her head slightly, her voice low and steady. “I hear you’ve been having a tough time?”

My breath catches in my throat and the tears well instantly. It’s like that single sentence unlocked something deep in me I’ve been trying to keep buried, and before I can stop myself, I’m crying.

I tell her about everything. The rape, New York, my mother, the cutting, the lighter, the bridge. Every fragmented, shameful piece I’ve been carrying, and she listens intently the whole time, like she’s holding every word in her hands because she knows how heavy they are.

And at some point, I realize she’s crying too.

Her fingers brush under one eye and she offers a small, tearful smile.

And weirdly… that helps. It helps to not be the only one falling apart for once.

We sit in silence for a long while when I finish, the tissues in my lap damp and crumpled.

My head aches from crying, but for the first time in days—maybe weeks—my chest doesn’t feel so full it might crack open.

Talia leans forward, resting her hands on her knees. “You’re carrying so much,” she says, voice still warm but tinged with sorrow. “And I want to help you carry it. One piece at a time.”

I nod slowly, the lump in my throat too thick for words. She smiles again, and something about it feels like an anchor. She rises, walks to her desk, and returns with a slim leather notebook and an elastic band holding them out to me.

“When the urge comes,” she says, gesturing to my wrist, “try using the elastic band first.”

I take it from her, slide it over my wrist, then glance up at her face before pulling the band back. It snaps sharply against my skin and the sting is brief—nowhere near the pain I’ve inflicted on myself before—but it’s sudden enough that it might snap me out of a spiral.

“And then I’d like you to write,” she continues, tapping the notebook. “Anything you're feeling or can’t say out loud.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it helps us track what’s triggering you. Once we know, we can work on creating boundaries around those moments. We’re aiming for protection, not punishment.”

I stare down at the notebook, fingertips brushing over its worn leather cover.

“But Angelique,” she adds gently, “if things ever feel too much, I want you to call me. I’m always available for emergency sessions. Anytime. Day or night.”

I look up at her, and my mouth trembles into a shaky smile. She means it—I can feel that she does. She reaches over, wraps her fingers around mine in a quiet squeeze, then glances at the clock.

I follow her gaze, surprised to see the hour has already passed. “Reign booked you in everyday for the next two weeks. After that, we’ll see what pace feels right to you.”

My eyes widen a little, but I shouldn't be surprised because of course that’s something he’d do.

I clear my throat, my voice still shaky. “Are you… going to put me on meds?”

Talia doesn’t hesitate as she leans back in her chair and shakes her head gently. “No. Not unless you decide you want to explore that route later on. But right now? I think you can do this without medication.”

I blink. “Really?”

“You’re not broken, Angelique. You’ve experienced trauma. Deep, life-altering trauma. But everything you’ve shared with me, I believe you’re strong enough to do the work without medication… if that’s what you want.”

I sit with that for a moment, letting the weight of her words settle over me. It’s strange how quickly her confidence in me wedges itself into the cracks I didn’t even realize were still gaping open. I nod slowly again, eyes burning, but this time for a different reason. Relief, maybe .

“Tomorrow, if you’re up for it, I’d like us to talk about your mother. Not just what she’s done, but how it’s shaped the way you see yourself, the way you love, and the way you hurt.”

Just the mention of my mom makes my throat tighten, but I nod again, firmer this time. “Okay.”

Talia gives me one last soft smile, then rises from her chair and walks over to the door, holding it open for me. I gather my things slowly, the weight of everything still in my bones, but feeling just a little lighter than when I walked in.

When I step outside, Reign is still leaning against the hood of his car. He straightens immediately when he sees me, tossing his keys from one hand to the other.

“How’d it go?” he asks, nervously.

I don’t answer right away while I walk up to him and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his chest and breathing in his calming scent.

“You okay?” he mumbles into my hair.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I think I will be.”