Thalia's POV
The office door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly I can't breathe.
The walls close in. My vision blurs. Three years ago rushes back in a wave—the courtroom, the cameras, Damian's cold voice cutting me apart while everyone watched.
Sit down, both of you. Dr. Morrison moves toward her desk.
No. I back toward the door, my hand reaching for the handle. I'm leaving. This is insane. You're insane for thinking
Thalia, please. Damian's voice is soft, careful. Nothing like the sharp weapon it was in court. Just let her explain.
Don't talk to me! I whirl on him, my whole body shaking. Don't you dare pretend you care about what I need!
He flinches like I hit him. Good. I want him to hurt.
I'm not pretending, he says quietly. I know you don't believe that, but
You destroyed me! The words rip out of my throat. You stood in that courtroom and tore me apart piece by piece. You knew I was innocent. You knew Marcus was lying. But you didn't care because winning was more important than the truth!
You're right. His voice cracks. Everything you're saying is right. I was a monster.
Was? I laugh, but it sounds broken. You think quitting law and playing therapist makes you a good person now? You think working for your mother erases what you did?
No. Nothing erases it. He takes a step toward me, and I immediately step back. He stops, his hands raised. I don't expect forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But I need you to know that I see what I did. I see you. And I'm so
Don't! I slam my hand against the wall, the pain grounding me. Don't you dare apologize. Your sorry means nothing. It doesn't give me back the company I built. It doesn't give me back the three years I lost having panic attacks and nightmares. It doesn't
My voice breaks. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I hate myself for crying in front of him. For showing weakness to the man who used every weakness against me.
Thalia. Dr. Morrison's voice cuts through my spiral. I know this is overwhelming
Overwhelming? I spin to face her, rage replacing the tears. You lied to me! For three years, you let me trust you, tell you everything, and you never once mentioned that your son was the lawyer from my trial!
I couldn't tell you, she says calmly. Too calmly. You wouldn't have understood.
Understood what? That you're using me for some twisted therapy experiment? That you planned this whole thing?
I planned it because you both need this. Dr. Morrison sits in her chair, looking between us. You're both my patients. You're both stuck in the same trauma, unable to move forward.
I'm not his patient, Damian says sharply. I came here to help with your practice during maternity leave, not—
You've been seeing me for therapy twice a month for two years, Dr. Morrison interrupts. Or did you forget our sessions about your guilt? Your sister's death? Your father's abuse?
The color drains from Damian's face.
My brain stutters trying to process this information. He's your patient too?
Yes. And you're both trapped by what happened in that courtroom. Thalia, you can't trust anyone because of what he did. Damian can't forgive himself because of the harm he caused. Neither of you can heal while you're avoiding each other.
So you forced us together? I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter. You thought throwing us in a room would magically fix everything?
No. I thought giving you both a chance to confront what happened—face to face, honestly might help you move forward.
This isn't help! I grab my bag, my hand fumbling for the door handle. This is cruel. This is
Thalia, wait. Damian moves toward me again.
Don't! I yank the door open.
His hand catches my arm. Not hard. Not painful. Just enough to stop me.
Every nerve in my body screams danger. I wrench away so violently I stumble, my back hitting the doorframe.
Don't touch me! My voice is pure panic now. Don't ever touch me!
Damian jerks back like I burned him, his face stricken. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. I just—I need to tell you something before you leave.
I don't want to hear it.
I quit corporate law because of you. The words tumble out of him, desperate and raw. I watched you break down on that witness stand—break down because of questions I deliberately designed to destroy you—and something inside me shattered too. I won cases by breaking people, Thalia. That's what I was trained to do. But you—
Stop talking.
Two months after your trial, my sister killed herself. His voice breaks completely. She left a note. It said she couldn't live in a world where people like our father—and me—win. She told me I was becoming a monster, and she was right.
The pain in his eyes is so raw it physically hurts to look at.
That's not my problem, I whisper, but the words feel hollow.
I know. I'm not telling you to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you so you understand that I see what I did. I left law. I've spent two years in therapy trying to understand how I became someone who could hurt people and feel nothing. I pursued psychology because I needed to understand the damage I caused.
How noble. My voice drips sarcasm, but tears still stream down my face. The guilty lawyer finds redemption. What a beautiful story.
It's not redemption. It's penance. And it will never be enough.
Dr. Morrison stands. I've assigned you both to co-facilitate a trauma recovery group together. Starting next week.
The world stops spinning.
What? Damian and I say in unison.
You heard me. Three months. Twice weekly sessions. You'll work together to help six people heal from betrayal and trauma.
Absolutely not, I say.
I won't force her into anything, Damian adds immediately.
Dr. Morrison looks at us with something that might be sympathy or steel determination. The group has been together for four months. They're making real progress. If I cancel or reassign them, it will damage vulnerable people who are finally learning to trust again. Finding another qualified co-facilitator on short notice is impossible.
Then find someone else! I shout. Anyone but him!
There is no one else. Not who's qualified, not who knows my treatment approach, not who can start immediately. She pauses. I'm asking you for three months. If it's truly unbearable, we'll make other arrangements. But these people need you both.
You're manipulating us, I say. Using vulnerable patients to force us together.
I'm giving you both a choice. You can run—like you've been running for three years, Thalia. Like you've been running from yourself, Damian. Or you can face what happened and help others while you heal yourselves.
Silence fills the room, heavy and suffocating.
I look at Damian. Really look at him for the first time since the courtroom.
He looks wrecked. Guilty. Terrified. Nothing like the cold lawyer who destroyed me.
Why? I ask him. Why did you take Marcus's case if you're so reformed now?
His jaw tightens. Because I didn't know it was fraud. I had evidence, financial records, witness statements. I thought I was representing a victim of embezzlement. I was wrong, and by the time I realized it, the damage was done.
Would it have mattered? If you'd known?
He meets my eyes, and the honesty there steals my breath.
No, he says. The person I was then wouldn't have cared. I would have won anyway. That's what makes it unforgivable.
For the first time in three years, someone is telling me the truth about what happened.
And I hate that it's him.
Three months, Dr. Morrison says. That's all I'm asking. Professional boundaries maintained. You're not treating each other—you're helping others together.
I should say no. Should walk out. Should protect myself.
But six people are depending on us. Six people who are trying to heal just like me.
Fine, I hear myself say. Three months. But we're not friends. We're not anything. This is professional only.
Understood, Damian says quietly.
I grab my bag and walk out before I can change my mind, my whole body trembling.
As the door closes behind me, I hear Dr. Morrison's voice: That went better than expected.
And Damian's response, barely audible: Mom, what have you done?