The elevator dinged softly as I reached the forty-second floor. Another Tuesday. Another damaged billionaire who thought money could fix everything.
I pushed open the glass doors to my practice, breathing in the familiar scent of Italian leather and Earl Grey tea. The morning sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across Central Park below. At fifteen hundred dollars per square foot, this view came with a price. But then again, so did everything in my world.
My heels clicked against the polished marble as I walked to my office. The sound echoed in the empty hallway. I was always the first one here. Always had been, ever since I'd opened my practice three years ago.
"Good morning, Dr. Roberts." My assistant Maya looked up from her computer. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She'd been working late again.
"Morning. Coffee?"
"Already brewing." She gestured toward my office. "Your nine o'clock canceled. Something about a family emergency."
I nodded and pushed open my office door. The familiar calm washed over me. This was my sanctuary. My kingdom. Here, I held all the power.
I set my leather briefcase on the German oak desk and ran my fingers along its smooth surface. Cold. Like most of the people I treated.
The intercom buzzed. "Dr. Roberts? There's a gentleman here to see you. Says it's urgent."
I glanced at my silver watch. Eight forty-five. "I don't have any appointments until ten."
"He says his name is Alexander Blackwood."
My pen stopped moving across the patient file I'd been reviewing. Everyone in Manhattan knew that name. Blackwood Industries. Forbes cover stories. More money than some small countries.
"Did he make an appointment?"
"No, ma'am. But he's... very insistent."
I bit my lower lip. Taking walk-ins wasn't my style. But Alexander Blackwood wasn't exactly a typical walk-in.
"Send him in."
I straightened my blazer and tucked a strand of honey-brown hair behind my ear. Professional. Composed. That was my brand.
The door opened.
And my world tilted sideways.
He was tall. Six-two, maybe six-three. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it. But it was his eyes that made my breath catch. Crystal blue. The kind of blue that made you think of deep ocean water and dangerous storms.
"Dr. Roberts." His voice was smooth whiskey and dark chocolate. "Thank you for seeing me."
He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Every line tailored to perfection. But it wasn't the expensive clothes that made him magnetic. It was the way he moved. Like a predator who knew he owned the room.
"Mr. Blackwood." I gestured to the chair across from my desk. "Please, sit."
He didn't move toward the chair. Instead, he walked to the window. Slow, deliberate steps. Like he was mapping the territory.
"Beautiful view." He kept his back to me. "You can see everything from up here."
"It helps with perspective." I stayed behind my desk. Distance was safety. Control. "What brings you to my office today?"
He turned then. Those blue eyes locked onto mine, and I felt something flutter in my stomach. Something that had no business being there during a professional consultation.
"I have a problem, Dr. Roberts."
"Most people do. That's why they come to see me."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not most people."
No kidding. Most people didn't make my pulse race just by breathing in my direction.
"Why don't you tell me about this problem?" I picked up my pen, a silver Mont Blanc my father had given me when I graduated medical school. The familiar weight steadied me.
He moved closer to my desk. Not close enough to be threatening. But close enough that I caught his scent. Something expensive and masculine. Something that made me want to lean in instead of back.
"I lose time, Dr. Roberts."
I clicked my pen. Once. Twice. "Can you be more specific?"
"I'll be in a meeting. Everything's normal. Then suddenly I'm somewhere else. Sometimes hours later. Sometimes days." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I can't remember how I got there. Can't remember what I did."
Dissociative episodes. Not uncommon in high-stress individuals. Especially those with traumatic backgrounds.
"How long has this been happening?"
"Years." He sat down finally, crossing one long leg over the other. "It's getting worse."
I made a note on my pad. "Have you seen anyone else about this?"
"Three psychiatrists. Two neurologists. One hypnotist." His laugh was bitter. "They all said the same thing. Stress. Executive burnout. Prescribed pills and told me to take a vacation."
"But you don't think it's stress."
"I know it's not stress." Something flickered in his eyes. There and gone so fast I almost missed it. "This is something else."
The way he said 'something else' made my skin prickle. Like he knew exactly what it was and didn't want to name it.
"What do you think it is?"
He leaned forward. The movement was fluid, graceful. But there was tension in his shoulders. Like a coiled spring ready to snap.
"I think there are other people living in my head, Dr. Roberts."
The room went quiet. Even the city noise from forty-two floors below seemed to fade away.
"Other people," I repeated.
"Different voices. Different... preferences. Different memories that aren't mine." His hand moved to his neck, fingers tracing what looked like a thin scar. "Sometimes I wake up and my apartment's been rearranged. Sometimes there are things in my closet I don't remember buying. Art I would never choose. Books I would never read."
Classic dissociative identity disorder symptoms. But there was something about the way he described it. Something that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Mr. Blackwood, what I'm hearing suggests—"
"Multiple personalities." He said it like a diagnosis he'd heard before. "I know what you're thinking. I've heard it from every doctor I've seen."
"Then why come to me?"
He smiled. A real smile this time. The kind that transformed his entire face. Made him look younger. More vulnerable.
"Because you're different."
"How so?"
"You're not afraid."
He was wrong about that. Something about Alexander Blackwood scared me. Not in an obvious way. Not in a way I could put my finger on. But there was something underneath that perfect surface. Something dark.
"I'm not easily intimidated, if that's what you mean."
"That's exactly what I mean." He stood up, smoothing his suit jacket. "I'd like to schedule regular sessions. Whatever your rate is, I'll double it."
I set down my pen. "Mr. Blackwood, I appreciate the offer, but I don't adjust my fees based on—"
"Triple it."
The words hung in the air between us. Triple my rate would be fifteen hundred dollars an hour. More money than most people made in a month.
"This isn't about money," I said.
"Everything's about money, Dr. Roberts."
"Not in my office."
He studied me for a long moment. Like he was seeing something that surprised him.
"No," he said finally. "I don't suppose it is."
He pulled out a business card and placed it on my desk. The cardstock was thick, expensive. Embossed lettering that probably cost more per card than most people spent on dinner.
"Think about it," he said. "I'll call tomorrow for your answer."
He turned toward the door, and I found myself speaking before I could stop myself.
"Mr. Blackwood?"
He paused, hand on the doorknob.
"These other voices. Do they have names?"
For a second, his entire body went still. Not relaxed still. Predator still.
When he turned back to me, his smile was different. Sharper. Like broken glass wrapped in silk.
"Oh yes, Dr. Roberts. They have names. And they're very excited to meet you."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I stared at the business card on my desk, my heart hammering against my ribs. Something about that last smile. The way his voice had changed. Lower. Darker.
Like someone else had been speaking through his mouth.
I picked up the card. Alexander Blackwood, CEO, Blackwood Industries. A phone number with too many digits for a local call. An address in the most expensive part of Manhattan.
My silver watch caught the light as I reached for my appointment book. Three o'clock tomorrow was open.
I shouldn't take him on as a patient. Every instinct I had was telling me to refer him to someone else. Someone with more experience in severe dissociative disorders.
But there was something about Alexander Blackwood. Something that called to the part of me that had always been drawn to puzzles. To challenges. To broken things that needed fixing.
I opened my appointment book and wrote his name in tomorrow's slot.
The ink was still wet when my phone rang.
"Dr. Roberts?" Maya's voice sounded strange. Shaky.
"Yes?"
"There's a delivery for you. Flowers."
I frowned. I didn't get flowers. Ever.
"What kind of flowers?"
"Roses. Red ones. But Dr. Roberts... there's something else."
"What?"
"There's no card. No sender information. And..." She paused. "They're still covered in blood."