Rowan's breath caught—once—then her hand snapped up, grabbing Isadora's wrist mid-motion and yanking it away. Hard.
"You can't push everyone," Rowan said—voice low, trembling with fury. "I'm not yours."
Isadora didn't pull back. She let Rowan hold her wrist—pulse steady under Rowan's fingers—and leaned even closer until their faces were inches apart.
"Oh, Doctor," she whispered, smile widening into something feral. "You say that like it's a fact. But we both know the truth. You're shaking right now—not from anger. From restraint. You're holding my wrist so tight because if you let go, you're afraid you'll pull me closer instead of pushing me away."
Rowan's grip tightened—nails digging into Isadora's skin.
"Let. Go," she said—voice cracking on the last word.
Rowan's hand jerked—releasing Isadora's wrist like it burned.
Isadora straightened slowly—rubbing the red marks Rowan's nails had left, eyes never leaving Rowan's face.
"Ryan's bleeding," she said quietly. "Because he thought he could take you from me. Because he thought he could whisper poison and charm you into his bed. He was wrong. And you know it. You told me yourself—he's nothing. He's cheap. He's desperate. And he'll never have what I have."
Rowan stood—chair scraping back—chest rising and falling too fast.
"Get out," she said—voice shaking. "Session over."
Isadora didn't move.
She stepped around the desk—slow, deliberate—until she was inches from Rowan again.
"You can end the session," she whispered. "You can document every word. But tomorrow? I'll be back. And the day after. And every day after that. Until you stop pretending you don't feel it. Until you stop lying to yourself that you hate me more than you want me."
Rowan's eyes glistened—anger, fear, something rawer.
She looked up at Isadora—calm, deliberate, eyes steady.
"I'm going on a date tonight," she said quietly. "With someone normal. Someone who doesn't threaten me. Someone who doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my mind every time he speaks."
Isadora's face hardened instantly.
The shift was visible—pupils dilating, jaw clenching, the casual lean in the patient chair vanishing as every muscle locked. Her breathing changed—shallow, sharp, like something inside her had just snapped taut.
Isadora dropped to her knees in front of Rowan's chair—sudden, violent—hands shooting up to grip Rowan's chin. Fingers dug in—too tight, bruising, forcing Rowan's face down until their eyes were level, inches apart.
"You won't," Isadora hissed—voice low, shaking with fury. "I won't let you. You're mine. Get that in your head."
Rowan's breath caught—pain flaring where Isadora's fingers pressed—but she didn't pull away.
Instead she leaned in—closer—until their noses nearly touched.
"You don't own me," Rowan said—voice steady, cold, cutting. "You don't get to decide who I see. Who I kiss. Who I let touch me. You think kneeling here, bruising my face, makes you powerful? It makes you pathetic. Desperate. You're not claiming me—you're begging. And I don't give in to beggars."
Isadora's grip tightened—knuckles whitening, nails biting skin.
"You think some nobody lawyer can take what's mine?" she whispered—voice cracking. "You think he'll make you forget how my finger felt trailing down your chest? How my lips brushed your cheek? How your body reacted even when you hated it?"
Rowan's eyes flashed—anger, defiance, something rawer.
"My body reacted because you violated my space," she said—slow, deliberate. "Because you ignored every boundary. Because you're a child who thinks touching someone makes them yours. It doesn't. It makes you look weak. And tonight? When I sit across from someone who actually respects me? I won't be thinking about you. I'll be thinking about how good it feels to breathe without your shadow suffocating me."
"You're lying," she whispered. "You'll think about me. Every second. You'll compare him to me. You'll hate how boring he is. How safe. How nothing. And when he tries to kiss you goodnight? You'll flinch. Because it won't be me."
Rowan leaned down—slow, deliberate—until their faces were level again.
"Maybe," she said softly. "Maybe I will. But at least he won't bruise me. At least he won't threaten me. At least he won't make me feel like I'm losing my dignity every time he opens his mouth."
She straightened—chair rolling back an inch.
"Get up," she said. "Session's over. And tomorrow? Don't come back unless you're ready to be a patient. Not a predator."
Isadora stayed on her knees—breathing ragged, eyes locked on Rowan's face like she was memorizing every flicker of emotion. The room felt smaller now, the air thick with the aftermath of Rowan's words. Rowan's chin still throbbed where Isadora's fingers had gripped it moments ago; the red marks were already blooming into faint bruises.
Isadora's gaze dropped to Rowan's lips—once, twice—then she moved.
She reached up suddenly—both hands gripping the arms of Rowan's rolling chair—and yanked it forward, turning it sharply so Rowan faced her completely. The wheels squeaked against linoleum; Rowan's knees bumped Isadora's shoulders.
Before Rowan could speak, Isadora surged up—still on her knees but high enough now—hands flying to Rowan's face. She cupped Rowan's jaw with bruising force, thumbs pressing into the soft skin beneath her ears, and crashed their mouths together.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative.
It was hard—too hard—lips smashing, teeth clashing, Isadora's tongue forcing past Rowan's teeth without permission. Rowan couldn't breathe—nose crushed against Isadora's cheek, air trapped in her lungs. Panic flared hot and immediate.
Rowan's hands flew up—pushing at Isadora's shoulders, then her chest—trying to create space, trying to break free. Isadora only pressed harder—leaning her full weight forward, one knee braced between Rowan's legs, pinning the chair against the desk so it couldn't roll back.
Rowan's lungs burned.
She tasted blood—Isadora's—sharp and metallic.
Then Rowan bit down—hard—on Isadora's tongue.
Isadora jerked back with a choked gasp—blood welling instantly on her lower lip, bright red against pale skin. She stared at Rowan—eyes wide, shocked, then narrowing into something darker.
This time she grabbed Rowan around the waist—both arms locking like steel bands—and hauled her out of the chair in one violent motion. Rowan's feet left the ground for a heartbeat; she landed hard against Isadora's chest, hands trapped between them.
Isadora's face was inches from hers—blood smeared on her lip, eyes blazing.
"No one gets to you," she hissed—voice low, shaking with rage and something rawer. "Kiss is far away. You won't go tonight with anyone. Or I swear I'll do something you won't like."
Rowan's hands were still trapped—pressed against Isadora's ribs—but she didn't struggle. She stared back—breathing hard, lips swollen, chin bruised, eyes glassy but unflinching.
"You already did," Rowan said—voice hoarse, trembling with fury. "You just assaulted me. In my office. During a session. You think that makes me yours? It makes you a criminal."
Isadora's grip tightened—arms like iron—then loosened—just a fraction.
She leaned in—lips brushing Rowan's ear.
"You bit me," she whispered—almost reverent. "You fought back. Finally."
Rowan shoved again—harder this time.
Isadora released her—stepping back, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.
Rowan stumbled—caught herself on the desk—chest heaving.
"Get out," she said—voice cracking. "Now. Or I call security. I file the report. I end this."
Isadora stared at her—chest rising and falling too fast, blood still on her lip, eyes dark with something that wasn't just anger anymore.
Hurt.
Possession.
Obsession.
She licked the blood from her lip—slow, deliberate—then smiled—small, dangerous, broken.
"You'll call security," she said softly. "You'll file the report. You'll try to end it. But tomorrow? I'll be back. Because you didn't call them yet. Because you're still standing here. Because part of you—small, angry, honest part—wanted to bite me harder."
Rowan's hands clenched on the desk edge—knuckles white.
"Get. Out."
Isadora stepped back—slow—toward the door.
The door opened.
Isadora stepped through.
It closed—soft, final.
Rowan stood alone—lips swollen, chin bruised, chest heaving.
She touched her mouth—fingers coming away with a faint smear of Isadora's blood.
She stared at it.
Then—slowly—she wiped it on her white coat.
And whispered—to the empty room, to the ghost of Isadora's grip, to herself—
"I won't break."
But her voice shook.
And the tears came anyway—silent, unstoppable.
Because she knew—
tomorrow Isadora would be back.
And Rowan wasn't sure how many more times she could push before she finally cracked.
Or how much longer she could pretend she didn't want to.
She ended the session early—door slamming shut behind Isadora before the hour was even halfway done. She sat in silence for a full minute after, fingers pressed to her still-throbbing chin, tasting copper where she'd bitten Isadora's tongue. The marks on her face would bloom into faint bruises by morning. She didn't cry this time. She was too angry.
Her phone buzzed on the desk—Carlos.
Carlos:
Hey Rowan, still good for tonight? 8 pm at La Scala on 7th? I made a reservation. Can't wait.
She stared at the message for ten seconds.
Then typed back—fingers steady now.
Rowan:
Yes. 8 works. See you there.
She hit send.
Closed her eyes.
Breathed.
Then she stood, gathered her things, and left the office—white coat folded over her arm, chin held high even though every step hurt.
Back in Brooklyn Heights, Rowan walked into the brownstone at 6:45 p.m. The house smelled like Clara's lavender candle and something faintly floral—probably Mrs. Delgado's doing again. Noah was out at basketball practice; Clara was in the kitchen humming while she chopped vegetables for tomorrow.
Rowan slipped upstairs without announcing herself.
She locked her bedroom door.
Stood in front of the full-length mirror.
Looked at the faint purple marks on her chin—finger-shaped, unmistakable.
She touched them—winced—then turned away.
Showered—hot water, long enough to turn her skin pink.
Dressed carefully.
Black dress—simple, knee-length, modest neckline, long sleeves. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed "trying too hard." Black heels—low, comfortable. Hair down—loose waves, soft around her face. Minimal makeup: concealer over the bruises, mascara, nude lip.
She stared at her reflection.
She didn't look like a woman going on a date.
She looked like a woman going into battle.
Her phone buzzed again—Carlos confirming the reservation.
She exhaled once—long, slow.
Then she walked downstairs.
Clara looked up from the kitchen island—smile instant and warm.
"You look beautiful," she said softly. "Really beautiful."
Rowan managed a small smile.
"Thanks, Mom."
Clara stepped closer—eyes searching Rowan's face, catching the faint discoloration under concealer.
"Honey… your chin. What happened?"
Rowan touched it reflexively—then dropped her hand.
"Patient got… agitated," she said quietly. "It's nothing. Bruised ego more than anything."
Clara's brow furrowed—concern deepening.
"You sure? If someone hurt you—"
"I handled it," Rowan cut in—gentle but firm. "I'm okay. Tonight… I just want to eat good food and talk about anything except work."
Clara studied her for a long moment—then nodded slowly.
"Okay," she said. "But if you need to come home early, you call me. No questions. I'll be here."
Rowan leaned in—kissed Clara's cheek.
"I will," she said.
And somewhere in Manhattan, in a penthouse of glass and steel, Isadora Ravencroft stared at her phone—scrolling through Rowan's Instagram (private, of course, but she'd found a way), looking for clues, for proof, for anything that said tonight wasn't real.
Her knuckles still ached from yesterday's punch.
Her tongue still stung where Rowan had bitten her.
And her chest ached—sharp, possessive, terrified—with the knowledge that tonight Rowan was going to sit across from someone else.
Someone safe.
Someone kind.
Someone who wasn't her.
Isadora's grip tightened on the phone until the screen cracked.
She just smiled—small, dark, broken.
And whispered to the empty suite:
"You won't go through with it."
But deep down—
she wasn't sure anymore.
And that uncertainty?
It terrified her more than anything Rowan had ever said.
Because if Rowan actually went…
If she actually laughed with someone else…
If she actually let someone else touch her…
Then Isadora Ravencroft—possessive, obsessive, ruined—might finally lose the only thing she'd ever truly wanted.
And she wasn't ready to lose.
Not yet.
Not ever.
So she opened her phone again.
Typed a message—to no one in particular.
Then deleted it.
She paused in the doorway—still in the charcoal trousers and black turtleneck from the session, sleeves rolled up, faint bruise on her knuckles from yesterday's punch barely visible under the low light. She knocked once on the open frame—soft, almost hesitant.
Marcus looked up.
"Isadora."
She stepped inside—slow, careful—hands loose at her sides.
"I want to go to a restaurant tonight," she said quietly. "With my friends. Lexi and Jade. No drugs. Nothing. I promise."
Marcus studied her—long, searching. No immediate refusal. No automatic lecture.
She kept going—voice steady but low.
"Just dinner. Somewhere quiet. No clubs. No after-parties. I'll be home by midnight. Security can follow if you want. I just… need to breathe. Outside this tower. With people who aren't trying to fix me or use me."
Marcus set the brief aside. Took off his glasses. Rubbed the bridge of his nose once—slow, tired.