The shrink doesn’t speak right away.

Of course he doesn’t.

No, his pen talks for him, poised above the notepad resting on his lap. Like last time, he’s sitting across from me, and there’s a choreographed quality in the way he presents himself. Relaxed yet military-straight, every move meticulous. It’s almost theatrical.

Keeping my hands in my lap, I return his unwavering stare. The quiet between us builds, each moment chipping away at my resolve. The longer I sit here, saying nothing, the more my stubbornness frays. I’m going to lose this battle of wills, because I can’t stand to be in this room a minute more.

“Oliver thought I should come.”

Dr. Price nods. “I noticed you left the memorial the other day. What made you take off like that?”

My mind drifts to the sound of Sebastian’s name in his father’s mouth, to the man’s venomous lies, dressed in grief’s clothing.

“I left because of Mr. Stone.”

He writes something on his notepad, no doubt another mark added to whatever narrative he’s constructing about me. “You found his speech triggering?”

“Triggering?” My brow lifts. “Try infuriating. The man had the audacity to fake tears, going on about legacy and pride as if he didn’t spend every day of Sebastian’s life tearing him down. He’s a fraud of a father.”

“Grief can change a person’s perspective. Perhaps the loss forced him to reassess how he treated his son?”

I gape at him, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“Simply playing Devil’s Advocate. Grief can change people, as you’re well aware.”

“That man is incapable of change. The show he put on might’ve been his best performance yet.”

“You believe he was being dishonest?”

“I believe he’s evil.” I ease back against the cushions. “Like a lot of the men pulling the strings here.”

At my backhanded insult, Dr. Price doesn’t even twitch. Ever the man of composure, he jots something down, his pen scribbling hushed judgment across the page.

“How are your days?” he asks, flipping to a new page. “What do they look like?”

I let out a soft, joyless laugh. “A lot of nothing. I stare at the ceiling, watch the ocean, count the snowflakes. Sometimes I eat.”

“Sometimes?” His silver-grey eyes narrow, the point of his pen tapping a restless beat against the notebook.

“Most of the time,” I say, not sure if it’s more truth or lie.

“And your nights?”

“I sleep.”

“And before that?” A faint twitch pulls at his mouth, too restrained to be a smile. “Have you tried my control method?”

Last night blazes through my mind in vivid color, and warmth blooms on my cheeks. Oliver stood in my doorway, same as all the other nights.

No sound or shift.

Just him, holding tight to his infuriating status quo.

And me, swallowing down my moans.