A sharp knock on my door pulls me out of my thoughts. I sigh heavily, rubbing my tired eyes. I had spent the entire night stalking Sabrina's page, unable to stop myself.
She had been posting cute, artsy pictures,
little glimpses of her and Dan together.
Not his full face, but pieces of him. His hands. His broad shoulders. The kind of intimate, effortless pictures that made it clear they were something.
I didn't need to see his face to know. I knew Dan. Every inch of him.
But still, my mind kept drifting to Dom.
A part of me didn't want to betray Dan.
Before I can sink too deep into my thoughts, Mrs. May's voice filters through the door.
"Your driver is outside," she informs me.
I roll my eyes. Like this day couldn't get any worse.
Dragging myself out of bed, I slip into a comfortable two-piece outfit and pull my hair into a high ponytail.
My body moves on autopilot as I head downstairs, my thoughts still tangled.
When I reach the living room, I see my parents already seated with the driver.
I squint, trying to get a good look.
A female driver?
Dad clears his throat.
"Helen, this will be our new driver, Saint."
I turn fully to look at her, sizing her up. She looks like she's in her late twenties. Or maybe mid. I can't quite tell.
Saint gives me a small wave. "Hi."
I ignore her completely.
Mom immediately jumps into giving her instructions.
"Saint, you'll be responsible for driving Helen to therapy every day."
My irritation flares. Of course. Another way for them to control me.
"Why not school too, since you want to dictate every place I go?" I snap.
Dad shoots me a sharp look. "Well, we can arrange that if you so choose."
I roll my eyes and turn to leave, wanting to get out of this conversation. But then Mom speaks again.
"Saint will be taking you to therapy now."
I stop in my tracks, turning slowly to glare at her.
So, this is happening immediately?
With a huff, I storm out of the house, and Saint follows silently behind me.
Inside the car, the silence is thick. Neither of us speaks. I stare out of the window, watching the city blur past.
Minutes later, we pull up in front of a tall building with a sign that reads:
"Mind is Wealth."
I roll my eyes. What a joke.
As I step out of the car, Saint moves to follow. I whip around, narrowing my eyes at her.
"Are you planning to sit in there and listen to me spill my life to the therapist too?" I ask coldly.
Saint holds my gaze calmly before replying, "I'll just be at the door waiting."
I scoff and walk ahead, letting the door swing open in front of me.
Inside, a man in his thirties stands waiting. He's brown-skinned, with a bright, welcoming smile.
His office is painted in warm colors, lined with bookshelves, cozy couches, and a sturdy desk.
"You must be Helen Edward," he says, his voice smooth.
I don't respond, keeping my eyes on the room instead.
"Please, have a seat," he offers.
I sink into the chair across from him, still refusing to look at him directly.
"You can call me Dr. Dave," he says.
My head snaps up slightly. This must be the Dave, Mom talked about.
Dr. Dave clasps his hands together.
"Your parents told me a lot about the situation at hand."
I exhale sharply, finally meeting his gaze. "Since you already know everything, why do you even need me here?"
Dr. Dave smiles, and I notice the faint creases on his cheekbones. His eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles.
"Ah, that's a good question," he says.
"But your parents aren't you. You are you. You have your own mind, your own thoughts. And you deserve to be heard."
Something in his tone softens me, but I quickly push the feeling down. I remember reading somewhere that therapists always know exactly what to say to break down your walls.
"I never asked to be heard by someone I don't even know," I snap back.
Dr. Dave nods, completely unbothered by my attitude. "That's valid," he says simply.
He adjusts his glasses slightly and begins scribbling in his journal.
I eye him suspiciously.
"Are you writing a report to give my parents?"
He chuckles. "No, Helen. Anything inside this room is confidential. Nothing leaves this space. This is just for my notes."
I fold my arms across my chest and cross my legs. "So, what have you observed so far?"
Dr. Dave sets his pen down, straightens up, and looks me dead in the eye. "Do you really want to know?"
I don't answer.
He leans back against his couch, flipping open his notebook before reading out loud.
"This one here is very stubborn,"
he pauses, glancing up at me with a smirk, "but strong-willed. And I believe in her."
I can't help it. A small smile tugs at my lips.
"There it is," Dr. Dave says, catching the smile. "I was waiting for that."
I grin even wider, despite myself.
"Did you actually write that?" I ask, raising a brow.
He pauses, then grins. "I might not have worded it exactly like that, but yes. That's part of it."
I glance toward the window, watching cars move along the street. The tension in my chest feels lighter, but I don't let my guard down completely.
Dr. Dave's voice gently pulls me back. "So, do you care to introduce yourself to me now?"
For the first time, I hesitate, not out of defiance, but out of nervousness. I clear my throat.
"My name is Helen Edward. I'm eighteen. I'm adopted." I swallow hard. "And I just found out that my boyfriend is my…"
I can't finish the sentence.
Dr. Dave doesn't push me. He nods encouragingly.
"That's really good, Helen. You're doing so well for a first-timer."
I exhale, feeling a strange mix of relief and frustration.
Dr. Dave watches me carefully. "Tell me, Helen, how have you been feeling lately?"
I hesitate again.
I don't know if I can trust him.
Not yet.
Not when he was chosen by them.
Dr. Dave doesn't rush me. Instead, he shifts slightly in his seat.
"How do you feel about being adopted?" he asks.
I blink. The question stirs something deep inside me.
"It used to be… different,"
I admit slowly. "I used to be happy. And now…"
My voice trails off as my mind drifts back. Back to the happy days. Back to the time before everything changed.
"When you say different?, and you used to be happy, what do you mean Helen?"
Dr Dave asks curiously.
A lump forms in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.
My fingers tighten around the bottle of water I had brought along, and I chug at it, hoping to wash away the heaviness settling inside me.
I heave a sigh, my voice colder than I intend.
"When my adopted parents found out that their real son was alive, they lost it all."
Dr. Dave tilts his head slightly, studying me. "Lost it all?"
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head.
"I became irrelevant." I shoot him a sharp look, daring him to challenge me.
If he was going to report back to them, they needed to know exactly how I felt.
Dr. Dave, unfazed, picks up his pen and starts scribbling in his journal again. "How does all this make you feel?"
I scoff. "How do you think being irrelevant makes someone feel, Dr. Dave? Tell me."
He doesn't react to my sarcasm. His gaze is steady, patient.
"Helen, we all experience emotions differently. So, I'd like to hear how you feel."
I clench my jaw, my hands curling into fists on my lap. "I just said it. I feel irrelevant."
Dr. Dave nods as he notes something down. "Okay, noted."
His voice is calm, almost too calm. "How have you been feeling recently?"
I exhale sharply. "What I feel recently is a whole different ballgame."
His brows lift slightly. "Then tell me about it."
I glance at the bookshelves behind him, my eyes flickering across the neatly arranged spines. Their orderliness irritates me. I wish my own thoughts could be arranged so neatly, but they're not. They're a chaotic mess, tangled and suffocating.
"Recently," I start, my voice quieter now, "finding out things about my boyfriend, my nanny, my boyfriend's parents, my parents—it's just... too much. Overwhelming."
Dr. Dave nods, his expression understanding. "I can imagine that must feel incredibly heavy to carry."
I scoff again, crossing my arms. "No, you don't get it. You're not the one living through this. You just sit there, listening, taking notes like I'm some case study." My voice rises.
He remains composed. "That's why I'm here, Helen. So we can go through it and dissect it together."
Dissect?
I stiffen. That phrase rubs me the wrong way. I don't want to go through anything with him. I don't want to be examined, studied, dissected like I'm some experiment.
Dissect?.
That word latches onto my brain like a hook.
I shoot up from my seat, my chair scraping against the floor.
"I don't want this," I spit out.
"I am not an experiment to be dissected, and I sure as hell don't want to sit in a room with a stranger who knows nothing about me!"
Dr. Dave shifts slightly but doesn't try to stop me as I storm toward the door.
"Helen," he says, his voice still maddeningly calm,
"I apologize for my choice of words. But you need to speak, so I can—"
I don't hear the rest. I'm already out the door.
Saint, my so-called driver, stands immediately. "Helen, are you okay?"
I ignore her, marching past, my pulse hammering in my ears. Behind me, I hear Dr. Dave saying something to her, his voice fading as I step outside.
The air is warm, but I feel ice-cold.
I pull out my phone, my fingers shaking slightly as I book an Uber.
I don't wait for Saint. I don't wait for anyone.
I just need to get out.
Away from that office. Away from their plans.
Away from all of it.