CH. 7

ELISE

Sunlight fills my small room at Pinewood Wellness Center.

Two months in, I've learned how to pretend. The sad, angry version of me is gone. Now, I smile softly, act polite, and play the role they want.

I brush my hair slowly, preparing for group therapy. Eye contact has to be just right. My words have to sound real yet not too detailed. Show feelings, but never too much.

I walk to the mirror and study my reflection. Pale. Tired. But my fire hasn't dimmed.

A knock on the door. Nurse Wagner enters with my morning pills.

"Good morning, Elise. Sleep well?" She places the small paper cup on my table.

"Better than I have in weeks." I smile. "Dr. Mercer's breathing exercises help a lot."

She nods. "That's great to hear. Your reports have been positive."

"I'm trying." I look into the cup and find three pills instead of four. "Another reduction?"

"Dr. Mercer thinks you're ready." She taps her tablet. "He's pleased with your progress in group sessions."

I lift the cup to my lips. The trick is smooth now. I swallow the white pill for anxiety and the pink one for depression. The blue one, the strongest, stays hidden in my palm. I've learned balance; enough medicine to seem fine, but not enough to dull my mind.

"I'm really grateful," I say, showing my tongue to prove I've swallowed everything. "I was so lost before."

Her face softens. "That's why we're here. Your schedule includes art therapy, lunch, and a session with Dr. Mercer at two."

"Can I go to the garden later?" My voice stays light, just hopeful enough. "Fresh air helps me."

"You've earned it." She makes a note and leaves.

As soon as the door shuts, I flush the blue pill down the toilet. Another small win. Every pill I get rid of means more control.

Art therapy is easy. I paint a sunrise over calm water. It looks peaceful, just what they want. No dark colors, no messy strokes.

"This is beautiful, Elise," the therapist says, smiling at my work. "Dawn, new beginnings… very powerful."

"I think I'm finally seeing things clearly." I clean my brushes slowly, keeping my movements calm. "The medication helps, but so does therapy. I fought it for so long."

The therapist gives my hand a gentle pat. "That's a big realization. Understanding yourself is an important step in healing."

After lunch, I return to my room to get ready for my session with Dr. Mercer. These meetings are like performances, a chance to prove I'm getting better.

Sitting on my bed, I go over my words, practicing how to admit to my past "delusions" while showing that I now understand my condition.

At exactly two o'clock, an orderly leads me to Dr. Mercer's office.

"Elise, come in." He waves toward the chair across from his desk without looking up. "I was just reviewing your progress reports."

"Good news, I hope." I sit down, folding my hands in my lap, calm and patient.

"Actually, yes." He finally looks at me, his eyes sharp with interest. "Your group participation has been excellent. Your art therapist sees big improvements. Even your stress levels are lower."

"I've been working hard." I meet his eyes for three seconds, then look down. That's the right balance—not too strong, not too weak. "The medication makes my thoughts clearer."

"Tell me more." Dr. Mercer leans back in his chair. "How does your thinking feel now compared to before?"

"Like stepping out of a fog." I've practiced this answer. "Before, I thought Alexander and Natasha were plotting against me. I was so sure of it, I didn't realize I was just being paranoid."

"And now?"

"Now I understand stress and anxiety twisted my thoughts. Running the company, the fertility treatments… it was too much. I saw enemies where there were only people trying to help." I sigh softly.

Dr. Mercer writes something on his tablet. "That's real progress, Elise. And your father?"

"That's been the hardest part." I let my voice shake just a little. "I always looked up to him. However, when he didn't take my side, I turned him into the villain. It's embarrassing to admit."

"Don't be too hard on yourself. Paranoia feels very real when you're in it." He sets his tablet down. "I have good news. Because of your progress, we're thinking about moving you to the step-down unit next week."

I've expected this, but I make sure my reaction is controlled. I give a small smile and a nod, nothing too eager. "That's good to hear. I think I'm ready. I trust your judgment."

"The step-down unit has more privileges. Phone calls, longer visits, even day passes with supervision." His eyes stay on me. "It also means more responsibility. No one will remind you to take your meds or go to therapy. You'll have to manage that yourself."

"I understand." I nod seriously. "Healing doesn't stop just because my room changes."

"Exactly." He seems pleased with my answer. "One more thing. Your husband wants a longer visit. Not just the usual hour. He wants lunch in the gardens, maybe even a short outing if you're stable enough."

My heart pounds, but I keep my face calm. Alexander asking for more time with me could mean many things.

"That sounds nice." I give a small smile. "In group therapy, I've been working on forgiveness. I know he only put me here because he was worried."

Dr. Mercer nods, writing something down. "That's good to hear. Fixing those relationships is important for your long-term recovery."

After the session, an orderly leads me to the garden that is my reward for another convincing act.

The facility grounds are neat and beautiful, with paths winding between colorful flowers and benches. But the tall walls surrounding everything are a constant reminder that we're trapped.

I pick a bench partly hidden behind a large bush. From here, I can watch without being too obvious.

A few patients walk the paths and staff are always nearby. The ones in the step-down unit stand out. They wear their own clothes instead of hospital uniforms and walk with more confidence.

That evening, during recreation hour, I choose to play chess with Dr. Sanders, the youngest psychiatrist. Over time, I've built a connection with him, sensing he could be useful. Unlike Dr. Mercer, he actually cares about patients instead of just making them obedient.

"Knight to E5." I move my piece, watching him study the board. "I heard I might transfer to step-down next week."

"That's what people are saying." He thinks for a moment before moving his rook. "You've improved a lot, Elise."

"I had good teachers." I smile, looking like a grateful patient. "Bishop to C4."

"Interesting move." He raises an eyebrow. "You think more strategically than you let on."

"I'm just learning to plan ahead again." My voice stays light. "Dr. Mercer mentioned my husband wants a longer visit. Maybe even a supervised trip outside."

"Does that worry you?" Sanders leans forward. "Many patients struggle with outside contact after being here."

"A little." I capture his pawn. "I don't want to disappoint him if I'm not 'better' yet."

"Recovery isn't about pleasing others." He studies me. "It's about setting boundaries and understanding what you need."

"That's hard when my mind has played tricks on me before." I sigh softly. "How do I know which thoughts are real and which aren't?"

"That's a very insightful question." He seems impressed. "Most patients don't think deeply this early."

"I've had a lot of time to reflect." I move my queen. "Check."

Sanders blinks, then looks at the board with new respect. "You planned this several moves ago."

"Sometimes the best strategy isn't obvious right away." I hold his gaze just a second longer than usual. "You have to be patient."

Later that night, I sit by my window, watching the security lights sweep the grounds.

My conversation with Sanders has been careful. Just enough doubt about Alexander to make him think, but not enough to seem suspicious. Every moment here is a chance to get stronger.

A soft knock makes me hurry to hide the pill in my hand. Nurse Wagner enters, holding my night medication.

"Almost lights out." She gives me the small paper cup. "You seemed to enjoy the garden today."

"It was wonderful." I smoothly palm one pill while swallowing the other. "I sat for nearly an hour, just listening to the birds."

"That kind of mindfulness is good for healing." She checks my mouth quickly, then makes a note on her tablet. "Dr. Mercer scheduled a meeting tomorrow about your transfer. If all goes well, you could move by Friday."

"That's great news." I let some happiness show, just enough to seem natural. "I feel ready for more freedom."

"Your progress has been impressive." For a moment, her professional mask softens. "Not many patients adjust this well."

Once she leaves, I flush the hidden pill and get ready for bed. The routine is second nature now—act the part, hide the meds, gather information, plan my escape. Every small step brings me closer.

Lying in the dark, I review my progress. Garden access secured. Step-down unit almost within reach. Soon, I'll have phone privileges. Alexander's visit will be tricky, but also an opportunity. If I play my role perfectly, I can find out what he's really up to and maybe even turn things in my favor.

The next morning, after group therapy, an orderly leads me back to my room. Instead of resting, I stand by the window, watching staff move through the courtyard.

Then I see him.

Dr. Mercer walks beside a tall figure I recognize instantly. Alexander. He's here early and meeting with my doctor before even seeing me.

My stomach tightens. Whatever they're discussing will shape my future. My transfer, my medication, my freedoms. Decisions about my life made without me.

I press my forehead to the cool glass, watching them disappear into the administrative building.

The game is getting harder and the risks greater. However, for the first time since being locked away, I feel something like control returning. My mind is clear. My purpose sharp.

A slow breath fogs the glass as I whisper, "I'm coming for you. All of you!"