We don't speak on the flight back to L.A.
There are no words big enough to fill the silence.
We exist in separate orbits of dread, strapped into ridiculously comfortable leather seats, hurtling through the sky toward our own personal judgment days.
He has his board to face.
I have Dr. Sharma.
When we land, a black car is waiting for him.
Another is waiting for me.
His version of a clean break.
"I'll call you," he says before he slides into his car.
It's not a promise.
It's a threat.
A reminder that our lives are now tethered, whether we like it or not.
I don't go home.
I go to my office.
It's 3 a.m.
The clinic is dark and silent, a ghost of its usual self.
My office, usually my sanctuary, feels different.
It feels like the scene of a crime I have yet to be convicted for.
I don't sleep.
I sit in my chair, the one my patients usually sit in, and stare at the empty couch across from me.
I try to diagnose myself.
But I have no professional distance.
I am just a raw, exposed nerve of panic and regret.
At 7:45 a.m., I shower in the private bathroom I had installed for overnight sessions.
I put on my armor.
A severe black sheath dress.
Sensible heels.
My hair pulled back in a tight, unforgiving bun.
I am Dr. Elara Voss.
I am in control.
I am a liar.
Dr. Anya Sharma's office is a testament to minimalism.
White walls.
A single, perfect orchid on a glass desk.
No clutter.
No personal effects.
It's a room that offers no comfort and tolerates no excuses.
Much like the woman herself.
She sits behind her desk, her hands folded neatly on top of a single file.
My file.
"Elara," she says, her voice calm and even. "Sit down."
I sit.
My posture is perfect.
My hands are steady in my lap.
Inside, I am screaming.
"I assume you know why you're here," she says.
"I have some idea," I reply, my voice a flawless imitation of professional calm.
"The board has been fielding calls all morning," she says, her dark eyes never leaving my face. "From reporters. From concerned patrons. TMZ, for God's sake, Elara."
She says 'TMZ' like it's a particularly virulent strain of bacteria.
"Anya, I can explain."
The script Theo and I rehearsed feels flimsy and absurd in this sterile, silent room.
"It was… unexpected," I begin. "Theo and I reconnected at the conference. There were feelings there that neither of us had acknowledged before. It was a classic whirlwind romance."
I almost choke on the words.
Dr. Sharma just watches me.
She lets the silence stretch.
She is a master of the therapeutic pause.
It is excruciating.
"A whirlwind romance," she finally repeats, her voice flat. "You, Elara. The woman who once scheduled her romantic encounters in her Outlook calendar and color-coded them by potential for long-term viability."
My face burns.
She remembers that conversation.
From seven years ago.
"People change," I say weakly.
"Some people do," she agrees. "But you are a creature of control and meticulous planning. You do not do 'whirlwind.' You do risk assessment. So let's stop with the story you've concocted for the media and you can tell me what really happened."
My throat goes dry.
She knows.
She doesn't know how, but she knows it's a lie.
Before I can formulate a new strategy, she slides a piece of paper across the desk.
It's a printout of an email.
"This arrived an hour ago," she says. "From an anonymous source."
I look down at the paper.
It's a single paragraph.
My eyes scan the words, but my brain can't seem to process them.
It's a short, clinical statement.
It alleges that my new husband, the tech billionaire Theo Raine, is not just a passing acquaintance.
He is a former patient.
A patient whose treatment I personally managed.
A patient whose file is locked in the archives of this very clinic.
The air leaves my lungs in a silent rush.
It's over.
The lie is gone.
The story is gone.
All that's left is the truth.
The worst possible version of the truth.
"This source," Dr. Sharma continues, her voice still impossibly calm, "also took the liberty of forwarding this information to the state medical board."
I look up at her, my carefully constructed composure crumbling to dust.
"Who?" I whisper. "Who would do this?"
"I don't know," she says. "But they knew exactly what to say to cause the most damage. They knew his history with this clinic."
Someone on the inside.
Or someone Theo trusted.
My phone buzzes in my purse, a harsh, unwelcome vibration.
I know it's him.
I ignore it.
"The board is launching a formal inquiry, Elara."
Dr. Sharma's words are sharp, precise.
Each one a nail.
"They're questioning everything. The timeline. The nature of your previous relationship. The ethics of this… marriage."
"It's not what they think," I say, the denial reflexive and pathetic.
"Then you'll have a chance to prove that," she says, standing up. "But until this inquiry is concluded, you're on administrative leave."
Leave.
She's benching me.
"You want me to step away from my patients?"
"I want you to protect this clinic from the fallout of your personal life," she corrects, her voice finally showing a flicker of steel. "Get your house in order, Elara. Because right now, it's a category five hurricane, and it's heading directly for us."
The dismissal is clear.
I stand on shaky legs.
I walk out of her office.
I walk down the hallway, past the doors where my colleagues are changing lives.
The life I built here feels like it's already part of the past.
I make it back to my own office and shut the door.
My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely unlock my phone.
A text from Theo.
My board meeting was a bloodbath. They're invoking the 'key person' clause in my contract. Threatening to remove me as CEO if the stock drops another point. Call me.
His consequences are financial.
Mine are existential.
I stare at my computer screen, my fingers frozen over the keyboard.
An email pings into my inbox.
The subject line makes my blood run cold.
Formal Notice of Inquiry - The State of California Medical Board.
My heart feels like a stone in my chest.
I click it open.
It's a wall of text.
Legal jargon.
Statutes and codes.
My eyes scan, looking for the part that matters.
And then I see it.
A sentence, buried in the third paragraph.
A sentence that seals my fate.
"…the focus of this inquiry will be to investigate the potential for undue influence, dual relationships, and gross ethical violations…"
I keep reading, my breath held tight in my chest.
"…which, if substantiated, could result in immediate suspension and permanent revocation of your license to practice psychotherapy in the State of California."
Permanent revocation of your license.
The words blur.
They repeat in my head.
Revocation.
Revocation.
It's no longer a possibility.
A fear.
A worst-case scenario.
It's here.
In writing.
A formal, bureaucratic threat to erase my entire existence.
To take away the only thing I've ever been.
Dr. Voss.
And leave just… Elara.