Henry Ronan first saw Lucy Ansley in the CBD district of Fragrant River City.
The late autumn sky was swept by a biting cold wind, and in just a few minutes, a gentle drizzle began to fall.
At the intersection, a Mercedes MPV business vehicle stopped in the left turn lane. Inside the cabin, a man with a graceful and urbane demeanor lazily glanced toward the street upon hearing the rain, encountering an unforgettable scene.
It was rush hour, with pedestrians hurriedly and anxiously heading home.
Just as the city lights were beginning to glow in the misty rain, a slender and fragile figure stood near the line marking the division between people and vehicles, lost in thought.
Sudden and captivating.
Some people called out to her, while others whispered among themselves, yet she seemed oblivious to any of it.
It wasn't until a traffic warden came forward to pull her onto the side path that the young woman blinked her vacant eyes and murmured something.
The dramatic episode briefly caught Henry Ronan's attention but did not overly concern him.
Perhaps, he thought, it was just a young girl having an unlucky encounter, venting her feelings alone on the street.
At twenty-seven, Henry Ronan had endured the sediment of time, losing his once tender-hearted compassion, leaving only stability and reservedness.
...
At eight-thirty in the evening, Lucy Ansley returned to the old house on Cloudsea Road, soaked to the skin.
The house was a bit rundown, with patches of its exterior plaster crumbling away due to years of neglect, and even the small twenty-square-meter courtyard was overgrown with weeds.
Lucy Ansley unlocked the old double wooden doors and walked through the backyard path into the house.
As soon as she took off her cold, wet coat, her phone vibrated.
It was a text from the mental health center, reminding her of her appointment tomorrow.
Lucy Ansley set down her phone and absentmindedly began to zone out.
On her way home that evening, she knew her symptoms had flared up again.
The out-of-body, muddled sensation was utterly uncontrollable; her eyes couldn't focus, her movements were not autonomous, her whole body felt numb and heavy, like a soulless marionette.
Lucy Ansley leaned listlessly against the sofa, her gaze fixed on the altar opposite her and the black-and-white photos on the wall, engulfed by a sense of being abandoned by the whole world.
...
The next day, at eight in the morning, she had a consultation at the private mental health center in Fragrant River City. This privately-run hospital ensured top privacy since no records would be linked to public hospital networks.
Following the receptionist's guidance, Lucy Ansley navigated the corridor to the left reception room.
She knocked softly at the door, heard a response from inside, and then pushed it open to enter.
Unlike the warm-toned reception room from her previous visit, the hues here were cooler, predominantly gray and white.
Lucy Ansley briefly scanned the surroundings before her gaze settled on the spot by the window.
A towering figure stood in the autumn sunlight; the classic combination of a white shirt and black trousers exuded both steadiness and style—an outfit commonly seen on psychology therapists.
The man seemed to be on a call, his white shirt drenched in sunlight softening the angles and contours of his profile, exuding an aura of calmness and composure.
Lucy Ansley silently stood by the wide desk, holding her appointment slip, patiently waiting.
At that moment, the man ended the call and turned around to face the light, noticing Lucy Ansley, a flash of surprise crossed his eyes, "Do you need something?"
The man's voice was low-pitched, with a husky allure. His tall frame moved forward, inadvertently adding a touch of pressure to the 'reception room.'
Lucy Ansley lifted her hand to offer the appointment slip, deliberately ignoring the man's seemingly restrained yet unmistakable aura, "Hello, I've come to collect my psychological evaluation report."
Just as she spoke, urgent knocking sounded from outside. Thomas Chapman popped his head in, his expression nervous as he said, "Mr. Ronan, sorry, the front desk said she went to the wrong..."
Henry Ronan gave Thomas Chapman a mild glance, slightly raising his wrist, "It's fine, you can leave."
Thomas Chapman stared dumbfoundedly at the man for a few seconds, then mechanically turned around to close the door.
What happened? What's Mr. Ronan doing?
Outside, the receptionist mumbled worriedly in Thomas Chapman's ear, "Brother Chapman, what's happening inside? I swear it wasn't on purpose, I explicitly told her to the left reception room, not Mr. Ronan's lounge."
Expressionless, Thomas Chapman stood where he was, pondering what exactly was going on.
...
Henry Ronan had not anticipated seeing Lucy Ansley again so soon.
The scene from yesterday evening on the street lingered in his memory, making her easy to recognize.
Lucy Ansley, now wearing a fisherman's hat, sat across from Henry Ronan, her clean, cool aura difficult to reconcile with the disoriented figure from the street.
The young girl looked barely over twenty, her eyes clear yet vacant, lacking vitality; her delicate and beautiful face seemed wooden and awkward due to the absence of spirit.
Intrigued, Henry Ronan opened the computer on the desk, logged into the health center's system, and quickly retrieved Lucy Ansley's consultation record and psychological evaluation report.
Name: Lucy Ansley.
Age: Twenty-one.
Mild nihilistic feelings, avoidant personality, occasional severe emotional detachment, lack of empathy and compassion.
Psychological Evaluation Results: Urgent need for psychological guidance and intervention therapy.
Evaluator: Robert Harris.
After reading, Henry Ronan turned the computer screen toward Lucy Ansley, "Willing to accept guidance therapy?"
Lucy Ansley glanced at the text report on the computer and then at the man before her, seemingly pondering her words.
Henry Ronan leaned back slowly, his inherent elegance evident in every gesture, fully embodying the calm indifference of a mature man.
As he waited for Lucy Ansley to answer, he raised his brows slightly, his voice deepening, "Are you willing or not?"
"How much does guidance therapy cost?" Lucy Ansley asked instead.
"Three thousand per session."
"Treatment period?"
"A minimum of three months, up to a year."
Lucy Ansley lowered her head, contemplating something faintly.
Henry Ronan didn't rush her, casually picking up a rosewood handpiece from the edge of the table, fiddling with it at his leisure.
It was evident that the young girl before him might be short on funds.
Yet, it aroused his curiosity why someone in the prime of their youth harboring nihilistic feelings and emotional detachment disorder?
...
A half-hour later, Lucy Ansley left the health center ahead of schedule.
She expressed a need to think it over and noted down Henry Ronan's phone number.
Shortly after Lucy Ansley departed, the therapist who had conducted her psychological evaluation, Robert Harris, arrived at the lounge.
"Mr. Ronan? You intend to personally consult... Lucy Ansley?"
Henry Ronan stood up leisurely, maintaining a poised and relaxed demeanor, a paragon of elegance.
Robert Harris, unsure of his intentions, stepped forward with a slightly stern expression, "Mr. Ronan, you've never interacted with patients since the establishment of this health center. Patients with psychological disorders often carry uncertain factors. If you rashly consult them, what if..."
The man's gaze turned displeased, yet a faint, uncharacteristic smile formed at the corners of his thin lips, "Rashly?"
——
Author's Note: View the synopsis, [mistaking Henry Ronan for a therapist], the male lead is not a psychologist.