Page 6 of The Birthday Girl
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the therapist’s office.
It was located inside a converted Victorian on the north side of Piedmont, painted matte black with gold numbers hammered into the wood grain.
The back entrance cut through a garden, a flagstone path slippery with last night’s rain.
She nearly went down twice before reaching the door.
Dr. Farrell met her there. “Good morning, Ms. Banks. You made it here fast,” he said, greeting her with a polite smile.
She brushed past him, not in the mood for pleasantries, and went straight to the only room in that stuffy office that felt tolerable. The lights were low, the walls an uninspired shade of linen, but the couch was soft.
Seated in his chair, he waited patiently until she crossed her legs and met his eyes.
Dr. Farrell was handsome, and he carried himself as if he knew it but had no need to announce it.
His brown skin was smooth, his jawline cut sharp and softened only by the hint of stubble.
His hazel eyes, flecked with green, held a patience most men didn’t own.
Tall and broad across the shoulders, his suits were tailored so precisely they looked poured onto him.
Even the way he loosened his tie at the end of a session felt deliberate, as if he understood the power of subtle gestures.
His smile was controlled. Rare. The kind you had to earn, and when you did, it lingered heavy in your chest long after you left.
Dr. Farrell opened with the same question he always did, the one she both hated and depended on. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything,” Tahlia said. “I feel nothing and everything all at once, and neither is bearable.”
Dr. Farrell nodded. “Describe everything.”
“Rage. Disgust. Disappointment. Loathing, but it’s a toss-up. I don’t know if it’s directed at Tyriq or me.”
He steepled his fingers, waiting for her to say more, until the silence lingered too long. “Go on.”
“You ever wonder what it would be like to just—” She hesitated, tasting the word. “Snap?” She popped her knuckles, a gesture that would have echoed if the room were quieter.
Dr. Farrell’s face stayed neutral, but the pen in his hand stilled above the pad. “Does Tyriq make you feel that way?”
“Yes. I want to hurt him,” she replied, her tone devoid of any emotion but anger. “I want to take his face in my hands and squeeze it until every blood vessel ruptures. I want to see his teeth push through his cheek and then, maybe, I’ll be finished with him.”
“What else?” Dr. Farrell’s pencil began moving again, and the timing of it felt theatrical.
She shrugged, though her skin felt like it was shrinking over her bones. “That’s it. I want to hurt him, and then I want to be done.”
Dr. Farrell leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees. “What would it mean for you to be done with him?”
“It would mean I’ve gotten retribution for him humiliating me in front of the world.”
He didn’t write right away. Instead, he set the pen across his lap, folded his hands, and studied her as if weighing the density of her words. “Retribution?” he repeated slowly, carefully. “Not justice. Not closure. Retribution?”
Her chin lifted. “Justice is for courtrooms, and closure is for people who can afford to forgive. Vengeance is for me.”
His brow shifted, the closest thing to surprise she had seen from him. “So you believe hurting him balances the scales?”
“I don’t believe. I know,” she said matter of factly.
Dr. Farrell’s lips threatened a smirk, but professionalism kept it contained. He sat back, watching her body language. It told more than her words ever could.
“Retribution can be satisfying in the moment, but it comes with a cost,” he said.
She crossed her legs slowly, the heel of her shoe tapping against the rug. “Everything worth having comes with a cost, Dr. Farrell. That’s what separates the rich from the reckless. We know what we’re willing to pay.”
His eyes never left hers. “And what exactly are you willing to pay for this?”
“What do you want me to say? That I’ll risk everything?” She shook her head, lips pressed tight. “I don’t move recklessly. Not anymore.”
He leaned back, unbothered by the edge in her voice. “You sound certain, and yet…” His gaze flicked to her clenched hands before returning to her face. “Your body tells me you’re still at war with yourself.”
She unfolded her legs, crossing her arms instead. “I’m not in crisis, if that’s where this is going.”
“That’s not what I see.”
“My body is just reacting to caffeine and four hours of sleep. Don’t overread it. I’m thriving.”
“So the sudden change in schedule to visit me, and the lack of sleep, are signs of thriving?”
Her head tilted, her diamond studs catching the light. “They’re signs of being busy. Billionaires don’t get to rest eight hours, Doctor. We get meetings in Tokyo at three in the morning and conference calls before the sun comes up. Sleep is for people who can afford to be average.”
His lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And yet you still made time to come here.”
“That’s because you’re useful. Don’t let it go to your head.” Her arms folded tighter.
“You’re here because being useful isn’t enough anymore. I think you’re closer to causing someone harm than you’re willing to admit.”
“You told no lies, so that’s where you come in. I need your help regulating my emotions. That’s why I’m here.”
Dr. Farrell studied her, fingers still steepled beneath his chin. “Regulating them, or weaponizing them?”
Her laugh was low, humorless. “Same difference.”
“No,” he said, voice calm but cutting. “One keeps you from losing control. The other makes you dangerous to everyone in your orbit, including yourself.”
She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, eyes locked on his. “Danger doesn’t scare me. Losing control does. I’ve survived too much and fought too hard to hand the wheel to rage. That’s why I’m sitting in this chair instead of putting my hands around Tyriq’s throat.”
The pen in his lap stilled again. “You want me to keep you safe from yourself?”
Her chin lifted, a smile ghosting across her lips. “No, Doctor. I want you to teach me how to sharpen the blade without cutting my own hands.”