The Session

Three red flags in the first thirty seconds.

That's what I count as I read the intake form for my newest client. History of termination from previous therapists—four, to be exact. Refusal to complete the standard questionnaire. And the handwritten note at the bottom, scrawled in aggressive black ink: I don't discuss my childhood. Don't ask.

I should decline this referral. Any sane therapist would.

But Dr. Evelyn Shaw doesn't take the sane cases. I take the ones no one else will touch.

My practice is built on discretion and results. Politicians who can't afford scandal. Hedge fund managers whose stress manifests in ways that would make their boards very nervous. Men who control empires but can't control their own minds. I've treated them all, and I've never once broken.

Until Roman Ashford walks through my door.

He's early. That's the first thing I notice—powerful men are never early. They make others wait as a demonstration of dominance. But here he is, fifteen minutes before our scheduled appointment, standing in my reception area like he owns it.

The second thing I notice is that every photograph I've seen of him is a lie.

The financial papers paint him as cold, calculating, the kind of man who destroys companies before his morning coffee. The society pages show a different creature—charming at galas, photographed with models and actresses on each arm, always smiling that practiced smile.

Neither version prepared me for the reality.

Roman Ashford is devastating. Not handsome—that word is too polite, too civilized. He's the kind of attractive that feels dangerous, like a warning sign you can't stop yourself from ignoring. Dark hair, cut short and precise. Eyes so pale gray they're almost silver, and they fix on me with an intensity that makes my professional composure falter.

"Dr. Shaw." Not a question. He already knows exactly who I am.

"Mr. Ashford. You're early."

"I don't like wasting time." He moves past me into my office without waiting for an invitation. His suit is charcoal gray, obviously bespoke, and he moves inside it like a man who's never worn anything off the rack. "Yours or mine."

I follow him, closing the door with a soft click. Already he's claimed the space, standing at the window that overlooks Central Park, hands in his pockets. Most clients gravitate toward the couch, uncertain, seeking the comfort of traditional therapeutic furniture.

Not him.

"Please, sit." I gesture to the leather chair across from mine. The arrangement is intentional—no desk between us, no barrier. Eye level. Equal footing.

He turns, studies the chair, then studies me. Something flickers in those pale eyes—assessment, calculation. Like he's running numbers in his head about exactly what I'm worth.