Chapter 6

I barely slept. The photo stared back at me from my phone every time I closed my eyes—Vincent and me on the piano bench, thighs touching, his face turned toward mine with an expression that looked far too intimate for a doctor and patient. Ethan’s words burned in my mind: You have 24 hours.

By five a.m. I gave up pretending. I sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to my chest, and tried to think clearly. Telling Vincent meant dragging him deeper into my mess. Telling Sophie meant shattering whatever fragile peace she’d found after her divorce. Ignoring Ethan felt like surrender.

I chose the middle path. For now.

At seven-fifteen Maya knocked again, cheerful and oblivious. I dragged myself through the motions—shower, soft clothes, the familiar path to the meditation room. Vincent was already there, cross-legged on his cushion, the early light catching the silver threads in his dark hair. He looked composed, centered. The opposite of how I felt.

We breathed together in silence. Four counts in, four hold, four out, four hold. My mind refused to settle. Every inhale carried the echo of Ethan’s threat. Every exhale reminded me of Vincent’s voice last night: *God knows I do.*

When he finally spoke, his tone was gentle. “You’re carrying something heavy today, Mia.”

I opened my eyes. He was watching me, those blue-gray eyes far too perceptive. “It’s nothing. Just… adjusting.”

He didn’t push immediately. We moved into the morning session, sitting across from each other in the sunlit therapy room. Today’s topic was supposed to be pleasure mapping—identifying safe touch, neutral touch, and areas that triggered shutdown. Maya had prepared diagrams and oils, but Vincent dismissed her after the first ten minutes.

“Talk to me,” he said once we were alone. “Not as your doctor for a moment. As someone who cares what keeps you up at night.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Ethan texted again. He has a photo. Of us. Last night. At the piano.”

Vincent went very still. “Show me.”

I handed him my phone. He scrolled through the messages, jaw tightening with each swipe. When he reached the 24-hour ultimatum, his knuckles whitened around the device.

“He’s outside the grounds,” Vincent said flatly. “The security system should have caught movement, but the angle suggests he used a long lens from the service road.” He looked up. “You were going to carry this alone?”

“I didn’t want to complicate things more than I already have.”

“Mia.” The way he said my name—low, rough, almost pained—made my stomach flip. “This *is* complicated. But not because of you. Your ex is unhinged and dangerous. I’m calling my security team right now. We’ll handle the legal side. You focus on staying safe.”

He stepped out to make calls. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm room. When he returned, his expression had shifted. The professional mask was back, but thinner now. Cracked.

“Two of my people are sweeping the perimeter. We’ll increase patrols. In the meantime…” He hesitated, then sat closer than usual. “We continue the work. You need this more than ever.”

The session turned intimate faster than I expected. Vincent guided me through progressive touch exercises. Not sexual—*yet*—but deliberate. He had me close my eyes while he lightly traced neutral patterns on my arms, my shoulders, and the back of my neck. His fingers were warm and steady. Each pass loosened something inside me I hadn’t realized was knotted.

“Tell me what you feel,” he murmured.

“Safe,” I whispered. “And terrified I’ll lose it.”

His hand stilled on my shoulder. “You won’t.”

I opened my eyes. We were inches apart. I could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow and the way his pulse beat at the base of his throat. The air felt thick, charged the same way it had last night.

“Vincent,” I started.

“Don’t.” His voice was hoarse. “Not right now. Not when you’re vulnerable and I’m supposed to be the one holding the line.”

But he didn’t move away. His thumb brushed the side of my neck, almost unconsciously, and I leaned into it before I could stop myself. Heat pooled low in my belly—the first real spark of arousal I’d felt in months that didn’t feel forced or clinical. My breath hitched.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Mia…” It sounded like a warning and a prayer at the same time.

I kissed him.

It wasn’t planned. One second I was breathing his air; the next, my lips were on his. Soft at first, testing. Then he made a low sound in his throat and kissed me back—hungry, controlled, devastating. His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head as he deepened it. For a few perfect seconds there was nothing but heat and want and the taste of coffee and restraint finally breaking.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.

“We can’t,” he said, even as his fingers tightened in my hair. “Not like this. Not when Ethan is circling and your treatment is—”

“I know.” My voice shook. “But I wanted to. And you wanted to. That wasn’t transference, Vincent. That was real.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the conflict was raw. “I’ve wanted you since the night Sophie brought you here. Before that, if I’m honest. But wanting you doesn’t make it right. I have a duty to protect your healing, not hijack it.”

We sat in heavy silence. My lips still tingled. My body felt awake in a way it hadn’t in years.

Lunch was quiet. Vincent joined us this time, but he kept the conversation light and professional. Only Maya seemed to sense the undercurrent, glancing between us with gentle curiosity. Afterward, I escaped to the gardens to think.

My phone buzzed at three p.m. Another unknown number.

The clock's ticking. 12 hours left. Sophie already thinks you’re fragile. Imagine what she’ll think when she sees you throwing yourself at her ex.

Attached was a cropped version of the photo, zoomed in on our faces. It looked even worse than I remembered—my expression was soft, Vincent’s focused entirely on me.

Rage and fear twisted together. I marched back inside and found Vincent in his study, reviewing security footage.

“He just sent another one,” I said, thrusting the phone at him.

Vincent studied it, then set the phone down. “We have a location ping on the last message. My team is moving. In the meantime, I’m sending Sophie a carefully worded update. She deserves to hear it from us, not him.”

“You’re going to tell her?”

“Enough to prepare her. Not everything.” His eyes met mine. “Some things are still ours.”

The afternoon bodywork with Maya felt different now. Every stretch, every release of tension reminded me of Vincent’s hands earlier. By evening I was buzzing—equal parts anxious and alive.

Dinner was just the two of us. Vincent had arranged it in the smaller sunroom overlooking the darkening grounds. Candlelight, simple food, no staff. It felt like a date and a strategy session at once.

“We’ll issue a statement if needed,” he said, pouring wine. “Frame this as a legitimate therapeutic retreat. My reputation can handle scrutiny. Yours won’t suffer.”

“And us?” I asked quietly.

He set the bottle down. “There is no ‘us’ until you’re no longer my patient. After that…” He reached across the table and took my hand. His thumb traced circles on my wrist, right over my racing pulse. “After that we decide what this is. Together. Without secrets or power imbalances.”

It was the right answer. The ethical one. It still made me ache.

My phone buzzed again at nine-thirty. We both tensed.

This time it was a video. Shaky footage of the estate gates, then a zoom toward the house. Ethan’s voice, ugly and triumphant: Come out, Mia. Or I start calling reporters. Sophie first.

Vincent took the phone and immediately forwarded it to his legal team. “He’s escalating. We end this tonight.”

He stood, pulling me up with him. For a moment we just held each other—fully clothed, fully vertical, but closer than we’d been all day. His arms were strong around my back. I pressed my face into his chest and breathed him in.

“I’m sorry I brought this to your door,” I whispered.

“You didn’t. He did.” He tilted my chin up. “And we’re going to close it. Together.”

Outside, I heard the low hum of security vehicles moving along the drive. Inside, Vincent’s hand cupped my face, and for one suspended second I thought he might kiss me again.

Instead, he rested his forehead against mine. “Tomorrow morning we resume the protocol. Harder this time. You’re ready for more.”

“And tonight?”

“Tonight you sleep in my wing. Not my bed,” he added quickly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Guest room. I want you close where I know you’re safe.”

I nodded. As we walked upstairs together, his hand warm at the small of my back, I felt the weight of Ethan’s deadline pressing in. Twelve hours had become three. The outside world was closing around this fragile sanctuary we’d built.

But for the first time in years, I wasn’t facing it alone.

Whatever happened when the sun rose—whether Vincent’s team caught Ethan, whether Sophie understood, whether the treatment finally unlocked what I’d lost—I knew one thing clearly.

I wanted Vincent. Not as a savior. Not as a fantasy born of gratitude.

I wanted the man who played melancholy Chopin in the dark. The man who clenched his fists rather than cross his own lines. The man who looked at me like I was already whole.

And tomorrow, one way or another, I was going to fight for the chance to have him.