22

Marianna.

"Ms. Reyes." Her voice sharpens. "Is there a problem?"

Yes. The problem is that I've already given Duane Richter a massage and he told me I'm not his type and I cried into his pillow for an hour and I literally fled his apartment like a thief in the night and now you want me to professionally touch his body while pretending we're strangers.

"No," I hear myself say. "No problem."

"Good." She stands. "Follow me."

The recovery suite is beautiful. State-of-the-art beautiful, the kind of space that probably costs more per square foot than my Brooklyn apartment costs per month.

There are treatment tables with heating and cooling capabilities. Massage chairs that look like they were designed by NASA. A wall of recovery tools—foam rollers, massage guns, cupping sets, instrument-assisted devices—organized with military precision. The lighting is adjustable, currently set to a soft, ambient glow that probably costs extra.

I'm going to work here. In this room. With him.

Kill me now.

"Mr. Richter usually prefers Table 3," Dr. Lindholm says, gesturing to a treatment table near the window. "He likes the natural light. Minimal conversation during sessions. He'll tell you what he needs; your job is to listen and adapt."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"The crash aggravated an existing shoulder issue," she continues. "Posterior deltoid strain, some rotator cuff involvement, upper trapezius tension. His team's physio sent over his treatment notes—" she hands me a tablet "—but he responds best to practitioners who can read his body in real-time rather than just following a protocol."

I look down at the tablet. There's a detailed file: Richter, Duane - VRC-01. Photos of the crash, medical imaging, treatment notes from the team physiotherapist.

And there, in the recent history section:

May 6 - Soft tissue work performed, non-clinical setting, reported significant improvement in ROM. Patient declined to specify practitioner.

That's me. That's the treatment I gave him in his apartment, the morning he told me I'm not his type. He reported it to his team but didn't say who did it.

What does that mean? Does it mean anything?

Stop. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting through this without crying or screaming or setting something on fire.

"I'll leave you to prepare," Dr. Lindholm says. "He should arrive in twenty minutes. Any questions?"

Yes. How do I quit a job I just started? Is there a trapdoor I can escape through? Can I fake my own death convincingly enough to avoid this situation?

"No questions," I say.

She leaves.

I'm alone in the recovery suite, surrounded by expensive equipment and the faint smell of eucalyptus, and I have twenty minutes to figure out how to face the man who broke my heart three days ago.

Professional. I can be professional.

I've spent my entire career being professional with clients who didn't respect me, who talked down to me, who treated me like furniture. One more shouldn't make a difference.

Except it's him.

Except it's Duane.

I busy myself checking the equipment, reviewing his file, laying out the tools I might need. Massage oil. Heating pads. The Theragun Pro, because of course Kinetic has the best of everything. I arrange everything on the side table with trembling hands, trying to remember that I am a trained professional and this is just a body and bodies are what I do.

The door opens.

I don't turn around. Can't turn around. My entire being is focused on the bottle of massage oil in my hands, like it holds the secrets of the universe, like if I just stare at it hard enough I'll develop the ability to teleport.

Footsteps. That familiar tread—confident, unhurried, the walk of someone who knows the world will wait for him.

"Ms. Reyes, is it?"

Dr. Lindholm's voice. She's back, and she's brought him with her.

I turn around.

And there he is.

Duane Richter, standing in the doorway of the recovery suite like he owns it. Which, given how much he probably pays for these sessions, he might as well.

He's wearing athletic clothes—black joggers, a fitted grey t-shirt that shows off the exact shoulders I had my hands on three days ago. His hair is slightly damp, like he just came from a shower or a workout or whatever F1 drivers do at 8 AM on a Tuesday.

His eyes find mine.

And hold.

For a fraction of a second—barely perceptible, gone before I can be sure I saw it—something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Or just the faint annoyance of seeing someone he'd rather not see.

Then it's gone, replaced by that familiar mask of cold indifference.

"Mr. Richter," Dr. Lindholm says, "this is Marianna Reyes. She'll be handling your session today."

He doesn't respond. Just looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"Ms. Reyes has extensive experience with posterior shoulder rehabilitation," she continues, oblivious to the tension crackling through the room. "I think you'll find her approach quite effective."

Still nothing. Not a word. Not a nod. Not even the courtesy of acknowledgment.

"I'll leave you to it," Dr. Lindholm says, already moving toward the door. "Ms. Reyes, check in with me after the session."

And then she's gone.

And it's just us.

Duane and me.