“I’ll come for you in two hours. Stay here until then.”

“What happens in two hours?”

“Your first session with Dr. Price.”

I fold my arms, already tired of this routine. “That will make me late for the monthly dinner.”

Crossing his arms to match my stance, he leans against the doorjamb, but the smirk I expect doesn’t come. Instead, his jaw tightens. “How do you figure? It’s a ninety-minute session.”

“Liam said I can’t leave until I talk.”

“Then I suggest you talk, or you’ll be there a while.”

“Hence,” I say through gritted teeth, “why I said I’ll be late tonight.”

“Good thing dinner’s been cancelled, then.”

I blink. “Cancelled? Why?” Not that I want to attend another gathering, but I prefer it to having a stranger prod me into spilling my guts.

“We held dinner last night…though you had other priorities.” His clipped words simmer with reproach.

I gape at him, thrown by the severity of his tone. Before I can make sense of it, he straightens in the doorway.

“Two hours,” he reminds me, holding up two fingers. “In the meantime, I’ll have lunch sent up.” His smooth voice drops. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”

“Where would I go?”

His gaze veers toward the window and the cliffs beyond, and a dark cloud hovers over his expression. “Nowhere. Be here when I return.”

He leaves the door open, and my pulse stutters as I watch his retreating back. I don’t know what rattles me more—the bite in his tone or the eerie sense that, somehow, what happened on the cliffs is personal to him.

And I’m left wondering whose pain I brushed against without meaning to.

9

The babysitter is definitely not here to be my friend. Not that I want one right now, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy someone watching my every move. Her presence is inescapable as I pick at my lunch alone, because sharing a meal with me isn’t part of the job.

Her rule. Not mine.

When does she even eat? In the dead of night? While I’m in the tub? Except…she followed me into the bathroom once already, much to my dismay.

I don’t have time to dwell on her schedule, though. Oliver returns as I’m setting down my fork, signaling it’s time to send me off to the shrink.

The ride to the main floor is quick, punctuated by Astrid’s nonverbal form of communication. I’m on autopilot as I navigate the halls, the babysitter keeping pace behind me.

But as we pass a familiar door I haven’t dared approach in weeks, my steps almost falter.

Sebastian’s studio.

A jagged pang rips through my chest. I don’t stop, but that closed door hovers in my periphery, dragging me back to a time I’d give anything to go back to.