I had paid $200,000 to learn how to stop being in control.
The irony wasn't lost on me as I pressed my palm against the helicopter window, watching the Norwegian fjord stretch black and endless below. Dr. Aethelreda Kaelen—Cognitive Behavioral Therapist, keynote speaker, architect of other people's breakthroughs—and I couldn't fix the one thing that mattered: the hollowness where desire should have been.
Three months. Twelve weeks of surrendering everything I had spent thirty years perfecting. That's what the contract promised. That's what I had signed without hesitation, because intellectual understanding had failed me, and I was desperate enough to try the one thing I'd never allowed myself before.
Submission. Yes, total submission.
Not the performative kind. Not the kind that was really just another form of control, carefully negotiated and managed. Real surrender—the kind that terrified me precisely because I couldn't predict it, couldn't therapize my way through it, couldn't maintain the polished facade I'd built my entire career around.
The Praxis Institute didn't promise to heal me. It promised to break me open.
I was counting on it.
"Dr. Kaelen, we'll be landing in three minutes." The pilot's voice crackled through my headset. It was professional and detached. He'd flown this route dozens of times, ferrying desperate, wealthy people to the edge of the world to fix what money and success couldn't touch.
I wondered if any of them had felt this particular cocktail of anticipation and dread. This sense of standing on a cliff edge, knowing the only way forward was to jump.
The Institute appeared through the mist like a dare—all glass and steel and sharp Scandinavian angles, perched on the cliff face as if gravity itself had yielded to someone's will. Minimalist. Uncompromising. Beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful.
It was perfect.
I'd done six months of research before applying. The Praxis Institute didn't advertise. It didn't need to. Word traveled through certain circles—therapists who'd exhausted traditional methods, high-functioning professionals who'd achieved everything and felt nothing, people who understood that sometimes the only way to reclaim your life was to voluntarily give it up.
Meric Solvang-Lykke's name had come up in a conversation I wasn't supposed to overhear. A colleague at a conference, three glasses of wine deep, whispering about a "behavioral methodology" that had "completely rewired" her sister's relationship with agency and desire.
"It's not traditional BDSM," she'd said, voice dropping even lower. "It's clinical. Structured. He's not a Dom—he's a facilitator. And the waiting list is two years long."
I'd submitted my application the next morning.
The helicopter touched down with a lurch that mirrored the flip in my stomach. The door opened, and Norwegian air—cold, clean, sharp—slapped away the last of my hesitation.
A woman stood at the edge of the landing pad. Tall, blonde, severe in the way Scandinavian efficiency is severe. She wore all black—tactical pants, a fitted jacket that suggested she was armed—and an expression that made it clear she'd seen everything and been impressed by nothing.
"Dr. Kaelen." The name was delivered as a confirmation, not a query. "I'm Vigdis Kjell, Head of Security. Welcome to the Praxis Institute."
I stepped out, forcing my legs steady, and extended my hand. Her grip was firm, impersonal, brief.
"Thank you," I said, and my voice sounded more controlled than I felt. Good. I wasn't ready to surrender control yet. Not until I understood exactly what I was surrendering it to.
Vigdis's eyes—pale blue, winter-cold—swept over me in a single assessing glance. I had the distinct impression I'd been catalogued, analyzed, and filed away in under three seconds.
"Your luggage will be brought to your suite," she said. "Mr. Solvang-Lykke is waiting in the Observation Wing. Follow me."
Mr. Solvang-Lykke. The formality was deliberate—a boundary established before I'd even crossed the threshold.
I followed her through glass doors that whispered open, and the Institute swallowed me whole.
Inside was even more austere than I'd imagined. Polished concrete floors. White walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the fjord like a study in loneliness. Everything was clean, quiet, and coldly elegant—the kind of space that demanded you bring nothing false into it.
My heels clicked against the concrete—the only sound besides Vigdis's near-silent footsteps and the distant hum of filtration systems.
"The Observation Wing is the primary corridor," Vigdis said without looking back. "Administrative offices, security operations, and the Praxists' private suites. Client accommodations are in the East Wing. You'll have access to common areas during Integration Periods, but your movements are restricted according to The Protocol."
The Protocol. Seventy-three pages of rules I'd memorized like scripture. Every boundary was meticulously defined. Every restriction was justified by safety or psychological efficacy.
Clause 4.2: Clients surrender all communication devices upon arrival.
Clause 7.3: The Praxist maintains clinical objectivity. Emotional attachment is prohibited.
Clause 12.1: Upon contract completion, all contact ceases for thirty days. No exceptions.
I'd signed without hesitation because I understood the logic. You couldn't excavate your own psyche while maintaining the performance of your public self. You couldn't learn to surrender while clinging to the illusion of control.
But walking through this sterile corridor, following a woman who moved like a weapon, I felt the first real tremor of doubt.
What if this was a mistake? What if I wasn't broken—just human? What if the hollowness was simply the price of success, and I just paid two hundred thousand dollars to make it worse?
Vigdis stopped in front of a frosted glass door. Through it, I could see the silhouette of a man standing with his back to us, hands clasped behind him, staring out at the water.
Waiting.
My pulse kicked up. This was it. The point of no return.
"He'll see you now," Vigdis said, and something in her tone made me think of ancient rituals. Petitioners delivered to the oracles. Sacrifices brought to altars.
She opened the door and stepped aside.
I took a breath—sharp, cold, steadying—and walked in.
Meric Solvang-Lykke turned to face me.
And everything I thought I understood about control dissolved.