All Chapters of The Anatomy of Wanting Him: Chapter 1 - Chapter 5

For eleven years, I have built my life on precision. Quietly, meticulously, and behind closed doors. A life so exacting that most people would never believe I actually live it. To them, I am Dr. Patricia Gillian Sta. Ana, the woman with M.D. and D.O. appended to her name from the most prestigious universities in Paris. They call it privilege. They whisper about generational wealth. Merde. But I would swear on my ancestors’ graves that I earned every inch of it. I gave up my adolescence to discipline, refused every shortcut, and worked relentlessly to prove to my parents that I could stand where they stand. That was how they raised me: nothing given without something returned. Every kindness earned. Every reward paid for in full.I have always hidden my harsher edges. God, I never even wanted to become like them. People who denied me the simple permission to have a gentle, ordinary childhood. Before I could ask for anything remotely resembling affection, I had to present perfect scores

I don’t let strangers into my home.I dress it up as a rule, something neat and sensible but the truth is less polished: I keep them out because some men know how to pull you apart thread by thread, and you don’t even feel the first tug.He lingers outside. The door stays shut, but the surveillance feed lays him bare in the palm of my hand. I study him without being seen. Tall, planted between the hedges lining my drive, fingers raking through unruly hair like he can’t quite settle into himself. I’ve never met him, not really, but I already know the type. He looks like the boys I pass when I drop Charity at her university on the days she decides she needs me. Except he isn’t entirely a boy. Not with shoulders like that. Not with a presence that refuses to shrink.Still, young.When I open the door, his expression doesn’t shift. No flicker of surprise, no polite smile, nothing. I’d expected something, anything. Instead, he looks at me the way one glances at furniture: present, unremark