Chapter 10
Two Years Ago…
"I will kill you!!! I swear on my life!" I screamed at the mirror, my voice echoing off the cold, tiled walls of the bathroom. My reflection stared back at me, a disheveled mess.
My lips were split and bleeding, but that was nothing compared to the rest of my face. My left eye was swollen shut, my cheeks mottled with bruises, my nose crooked and tender to the touch. My hair, usually sleek and perfect, was a tangled nest. I had fled to the bathroom, the only sanctuary in this gilded prison, to gather myself. I studied my face and body in the mirror, cataloging the damage.
I let out another scream, this time out of sheer frustration, my hands gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white.
The physical pain didn't bother me. It was my face. The expensive facial treatments I'd invested in, gone. A few beatings wouldn't change anything. I had what I wanted, and this was just part of the game. But my face? He shouldn't have touched my face. I'd told him a thousand times, but that old fool never listened. He was on his usual drunken rampage again, and I was the unfortunate target of his rage.
I pulled myself together, dabbing at the blood with a damp cloth and carefully applying makeup to cover the bruises. Foundation, concealer, powder. I worked methodically, erasing the evidence of his violence. When I was done, I looked almost normal, save for the faint swelling around my eye. I straightened my dress, ran a brush through my hair, and left the bathroom, ready to face the world.
"What a beautiful sight," I scoffed under my breath, stepping over the wreckage in the bedroom. Clothes, shattered glass, and overturned furniture littered the floor. The room looked like a war zone, but I didn't care. I grabbed my glasses from the vanity, slipped them on, and headed downstairs.
The house was a mansion. A sprawling, opulent testament to Gerald Hayes' wealth and status. It had more rooms and bathrooms than anyone could ever need, each one meticulously decorated to impress. The room I'd just left was my master bedroom, where I'd left my unconscious, drunken husband to sleep off his latest episode of "stretching his muscles." Gerald Hayes, the most beloved and award-winning retired actor and businessman, was my husband. At 76, he was a relic of Hollywood's golden age, but his penchant for young women like me had never faded.
We'd met at a gala I'd invited myself to. By "hit it off," I mean I wore a skimpy red dress that left little to the imagination, and he couldn't take his eyes off me. I wouldn't have given Gerald the time of day if his son, Gregory, hadn't made a snarky comment about me being a gold digger. But I had to prove him right, didn't I?
In the main living room, I found Gregory already seated, his long legs stretched out on the sofa. He hated it when I called him "Gregory" or "Stepson," so I made sure to do it every chance I got. The way his face turned red and his neck stiffened brought me endless joy. I decided to ignore him and head to the office, but Gregory had other plans.
"Someone might think he actually beats you," Gregory said with a smirk, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He lounged on the sofa, his arms spread across the backrest like he owned the place.
"Serves you right for marrying your grandpa," he added, his tone mocking.
That comment stopped me in my tracks. My day had started horribly, and I wasn't about to let Gregory ruin it further. I turned to face him, a sweet smile plastered on my face.
"Gregory, my dear," I said softly, walking toward him. My heels clicked against the marble floor, each step deliberate.
"Daddy just got a little carried away with our dirty samba in bed, that's all. You could join us if you want to see for yourself." I reached out and began stroking his arm, my touch light but deliberate.
"Get your filthy hands off me, you bitch!" he snapped, jumping off the sofa like I'd burned him.
Gotcha. I thought, smiling to myself as I made my way out.
"Oh my! Where is my head? Stepson!" I called out, turning back to him. "Daddy has given me access to all the accounts. So if you want some spending money, come to Mommy. I'll sort you out. Mwah!" I blew him a kiss, watching as his face turned crimson. He stormed upstairs, no doubt to confront his father. With a satisfied smile and the day looking brighter, I headed to the office.
---
The Office
My office was pristine, a sanctuary of order and control. I'd secured the space right in the middle of town, and everything about it was perfect—the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the city, the sleek modern furniture, the carefully curated art on the walls. It was a reflection of me: polished, calculated, and untouchable. I beamed at my reflection in the window, momentarily forgetting the damage to my face, and immersed myself in the luxurious ambiance.
As I settled into my chair, my assistant, Claire, walked in with a file. She was efficient and discreet, exactly what I needed.
"The government has assigned you a new case," she said, placing the file on my desk. "It's… unusual."
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Unusual how?"
"The patient has a condition they're calling 'physical transformation.' There's no medical explanation for it. The government wants you to evaluate him. Diagnose his behavior and, if possible, find a way to… fix him."
I opened the file, scanning the sparse details. The patient's name was redacted, but the description was enough to pique my curiosity. A man who could physically change? It sounded like something out of a science fiction novel, but the government didn't waste time on fiction. This was real, and they wanted me to handle it.
"Make arrangements for me to meet him on Friday," I said, closing the file. "Clear that day for me."
---
Friday
The young man sitting in front of me looked out of place in my pristine office. He was thin, almost frail, with a pale complexion and dark circles under his eyes. But it was his gaze that caught my attention—sharp, calculating, and utterly devoid of emotion. His eyes were black, like two voids, and they seemed to see right through me.
He glanced around the room, not with curiosity, but with a detached indifference, as if he was only looking because he had eyes. Finally, his gaze landed on me. He tilted his head, studying me for a moment, then smirked. It was a small, almost imperceptible gesture, inviting.
"Most people think I'm creepy," he said, his voice low and measured. "But you… you look like you've met your kind. That's why you're observing me."
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs. "Why do you say that?"
"You're not curious. And if you were, you don't look too keen. You want something, and you know I can give it to you. That's why I'm saying that." He stood and began walking around the office, his fingers trailing over the surfaces of my desk, the bookshelves, the art on the walls. Normally, I'd be annoyed, but I wasn't bothered. Not by him.
"I'm the therapist here," I said, half-joking. "I checked your files. Something about you 'changing.' Is it true?"
He smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. "I like you. Straight to the point."
He paused, then continued. "I grew up in an abusive home. My dad was always hitting my mom. She had four miscarriages, four siblings I never got to meet. She was always hurt, always bleeding from somewhere. We endured it for years, and I hated it. I always wished my mother would die. By something or by my hands. Then I turned 18. The beatings were still going on, so I stepped in. I hit my father on the head with an iron. Three times. He fell. My mother stood there, screaming her lungs out." He chuckled at the memory, as if it were a fond one.
He continued, "That night, I slept peacefully for the first time. I woke up to sunlight streaming through the window, and everything looked beautiful. I'd never noticed it before. My mom cooked breakfast, unbothered, for the first time. From that day on, I was in a happy place. Things around me became beautiful, and my life became… human again."
"You're lying," I said, standing up and walking toward him. His back was to the window now, and his expression darkened, though his eyes remained amused.
"There's some truth to what you're saying," I continued. "Your mom is in a mental institution, as you well know. You didn't answer my question. I've seen your tactics before. You make people assume an answer and divert with a pity story. I'm impressed."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "People fall for it all the time. The doctors always cry when I tell them. Too bad."
"What you did to your father, no one knows. Only your mother, and it's driven her to where she is now. You're right. I do want something, and you're the best person to offer it. I won't ask just yet. You and I will make good partners, I'm sure of it." I smiled cheerfully.
"I want to hear more of your stories. Let's make this a frequent meeting. You don't need any scientific explanation. You're perfect. Here." I handed him the evaluation form with a smile. "They'll release you with this, so we can meet more often."
"One more thing," I added. "I have something… cooking. I've been planning it for a long time, and my first trial is ready to go. Care to help me accomplish this goal? If you're interested, be here at the agreed time, and I'll give you the details. The pay's good."
I smiled as he took the form and left, already envisioning the possibilities. This was just the beginning.