I sat in my empty office at seven PM, staring at the digital recorder on my desk.
Maya had gone home hours ago. The building was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic forty-two floors below. But I couldn't leave. Not yet.
The recorder held everything. Alexander's confused whispers about blood under his fingernails. Ryan's crude threats and violent energy. Gabriel's cold warnings about things better left broken.
I'd been a psychologist for eight years. I'd seen severe cases before. Trauma patients. Violent patients. Patients who'd tried to hurt me.
But nothing like this.
I pressed play and Alexander's voice filled the room. Smooth. Cultured. Nothing like the rough edges Ryan had brought or Gabriel's military precision.
"There was blood in the sink. Under my fingernails."
I paused the recording and rubbed my temples. A headache was building behind my eyes. Too much caffeine. Too much stress. Too much thinking about blue eyes that changed personality like switching channels.
My phone rang.
I glanced at the caller ID. Unknown number. Probably a telemarketer.
"Dr. Roberts."
"Erica."
My breath caught. That voice. Deep. Warm. Like whiskey poured over silk.
"Alexander?"
"I wanted to call personally. To apologize." A pause. "For what happened today."
I leaned back in my chair. "Which part? When Ryan threatened me, or when Gabriel warned me off?"
"Both." Silence stretched between us. "I remember fragments. Pieces. Ryan was... aggressive."
"That's one word for it."
"And Gabriel can be overprotective."
"He said there were others. Other personalities who might not be as restrained."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"There are." His voice dropped lower. "But they're not why I'm calling."
"Oh?"
"I'm calling because I can't stop thinking about you."
The words hit me like a physical force. Heat bloomed in my chest, spread down to my stomach.
"Alexander—"
"Have dinner with me."
"What?"
"Tomorrow night. Let me apologize properly."
I stood up, started pacing behind my desk. This was wrong. So many levels of wrong.
"I can't. You're my patient."
"I'm asking as a man, not a patient."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Doesn't it?" Something in his voice made me stop pacing. "You felt it too, didn't you? Today, before Ryan took over. That moment when it was just us."
I had felt it. The electricity when he'd leaned close to my desk. The way my pulse had jumped when he smiled.
"That's transference," I said. "It's normal in therapeutic relationships."
"Is it?" He laughed softly. "Tell me, Dr. Roberts, do all your patients make you bite your lip when you're nervous?"
My hand flew to my mouth. I was biting my lip.
"Or click your pen when you're trying to stay in control?"
I looked down. The Mont Blanc was in my hand. I didn't remember picking it up.
"How do you know I do that?"
"Because I notice everything about you." His voice was pure temptation. "The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. How you straighten your blazer when you want to feel powerful. The little line that appears between your eyebrows when you're worried."
"Alexander—"
"Erica." The way he said my name made my knees weak. "One dinner. That's all I'm asking."
I should say no. Hang up. Refer him to another doctor immediately.
"Where?" The word slipped out before I could stop it.
"Le Bernardin. Eight o'clock."
Le Bernardin. Only the most exclusive restaurant in Manhattan. Tables booked months in advance. Michelin stars and hundred-dollar appetizers.
"I can't get a reservation there on short notice."
"I already made one."
Of course he did. Alexander Blackwood probably had tables permanently reserved at half the restaurants in the city.
"Alexander, this is complicated. I'm your doctor."
"For one night, forget you're my doctor."
"I can't just forget—"
"Then don't think of it as a date." His voice took on a teasing edge. "Think of it as an extended therapy session. Over very expensive food."
Despite everything, I smiled. "That's not how therapy works."
"How do you know? Maybe I'm breakthrough case. Revolutionary treatment methods."
"You're impossible."
"I'm persistent. There's a difference."
I walked to my window, looked out at the city lights. Manhattan at night was beautiful. Dangerous. Full of possibilities and pitfalls.
Kind of like the man on the phone.
"One dinner," I heard myself say.
"One dinner."
"And we maintain appropriate boundaries."
"Absolutely."
I didn't believe him for a second.
"I'll see you tomorrow night."
"Erica?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, trying to process what I'd just agreed to. A date. With a patient. With a man who had multiple personalities, at least one of whom had threatened me.
I was either brave or incredibly stupid.
Probably both.
The next evening, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, questioning every choice I'd made in the last twenty-four hours.
I'd changed clothes three times. The first outfit was too professional. The second too casual. The third made me look like I was trying too hard.
I'd settled on a simple black dress. Elegant but not obvious. Professional enough to maintain some boundaries, feminine enough to remind myself I was a woman, not just a doctor.
My hands shook as I applied lipstick. Red. Too red? I wiped it off, tried again with something more subtle.
This was insane. I was going to dinner with a patient. A patient with multiple personalities. A patient who'd sent me bloody roses and whose alternate personality had threatened me via text.
But it was too late to back out now.
Le Bernardin was exactly what I'd expected. Understated elegance. Dim lighting. Waiters who moved like ghosts and probably earned more than most college professors.
Alexander was already seated when I arrived. Navy suit again. Hair perfectly styled. When he stood to greet me, every woman in the restaurant looked.
I couldn't blame them.
"You look beautiful." He pulled out my chair.
"Thank you."
The maître d' appeared with menus and a wine list thick as a phone book. Alexander ordered for both of us without looking at the prices. Oysters. Lobster. A bottle of wine that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He leaned forward. "Besides, I have it on good authority that you survive mainly on Earl Grey tea and takeout Chinese."
"How do you know that?"
"You mentioned the tea yesterday. And there's a Chinese takeout container in your office trash can."
Right. He'd been in my office. Of course he'd noticed.
"You're very observant."
"Occupational hazard." He smiled. "Running a billion-dollar company requires attention to detail."
The wine arrived. Alexander went through the tasting ritual like he'd done it a thousand times. Probably had.
"Tell me about your company," I said when the sommelier left.
"Boring stuff. Real estate. Investment portfolios. Making money from money."
"That's not boring. That's impressive."
"Is it?" He tilted his head. "Sometimes I wonder if any of it matters. Numbers on a screen. Properties I'll never visit. Deals that only matter to other rich people."
There was something almost vulnerable in his voice. A crack in the perfect facade.
"What would matter to you?"
"This." He gestured between us. "Real conversation. Real connection. Someone who sees me as more than a bank account."
"Is that how people usually see you?"
"Usually." He took a sip of wine. "But not you."
"How do you know what I see?"
"Because you're here." His eyes met mine across the table. "Despite every professional instinct telling you to run."
He was right. Every ethical guideline I'd ever learned was screaming warnings. But sitting here, watching candlelight flicker across his face, it was hard to remember why those guidelines mattered.
The oysters arrived. Alexander showed me how to eat them properly. His fingers brushed mine as he handed me the shell, and electricity shot up my arm.
"Tell me about you," he said.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Why psychology? Why Manhattan? Why spend your life fixing broken people?"
I almost laughed. "What makes you think they're broken?"
"Aren't we all broken in some way?"
The question hung between us. Heavy. Loaded with meaning.
"Maybe," I said finally. "But broken doesn't mean unfixable."
"You really believe that?"
"I have to."
"Why?"
Because if I didn't believe broken people could heal, what was the point of my entire career? My entire life?
"Because the alternative is too depressing."
He laughed. A real laugh this time. Not the careful, controlled sound from our sessions.
"I like your optimism."
"I like your honesty."
"Do you?" Something flickered in his eyes. "Even when it's uncomfortable?"
"Especially then."
The main course arrived. Lobster so perfectly prepared it fell apart at the touch of a fork. We talked about everything and nothing. Books. Movies. Favorite places to travel. He was intelligent, funny, charming.
I could almost forget about Ryan's threats. Gabriel's warnings. The blood under his fingernails.
"You're thinking about them," he said suddenly.
"What?"
"The others. I can see it in your face."
I set down my fork. "Alexander—"
"It's okay." He reached across the table, covered my hand with his. "I think about them too. Wonder what they do when I'm not there. What they know that I don't."
His hand was warm. Strong. Normal.
"Does it scare you?"
"Terrifies me." His thumb traced across my knuckles. "Do you know what it's like to lose hours of your life? To wake up somewhere with no memory of how you got there?"
"It must be frightening."
"Not frightening. Empty." He squeezed my hand. "But when I'm with you, the emptiness goes away."
Dangerous words. The kind that made smart women do stupid things.
"Alexander..."
"I know this is complicated. I know it's probably impossible. But I can't help how I feel."
"How do you feel?"
"Like I've been waiting my whole life for you to walk into that office."
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was happening too fast. Too intense. But I couldn't seem to care.
"We should probably—"
"Go for a walk." He signaled for the check. "It's a beautiful night."
Twenty minutes later, we were strolling through Central Park. The same park I could see from my office window. But at night, with Alexander beside me, it felt like a different world.
We found a bench overlooking the lake. Sat close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For giving me this. For letting me feel normal, even for a few hours."
"You are normal."
"Am I?" He turned to face me. "Normal men don't have other people living in their heads."
"Normal is overrated."
He smiled. "Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Roberts?"
"That's my personal opinion." I found myself leaning closer. "And tonight, I'm not Dr. Roberts."
"No? Who are you tonight?"
"Just Erica."
"Just Erica." He reached up, traced his fingers along my cheek. "I like just Erica."
"Do you?"
"Very much."
He was going to kiss me. I could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his body shifted toward mine.
I should stop this. Pull away. Maintain boundaries.
Instead, I leaned into his touch.
"Erica." My name was barely a whisper on his lips.
"Yes?"
That's when his eyes changed.
Not the subtle shift I'd seen before. This was dramatic. Instantaneous. Like someone had flipped a switch.
The warm blue went cold. Calculating. Predatory.
And when he smiled, it wasn't Alexander's smile anymore.
"Hello, beautiful." His voice was different too. Smoother. More controlled. "We finally get to meet properly."