I spent the rest of the morning trying to follow her advice.
Be aware of what I was feeling.
Frustrated. Aroused. Obsessed with a man I barely knew who'd touched me in ways that had unmade me completely.
And aware of why.
Because for thirty years, I'd controlled every aspect of my life. And for ninety minutes last night, I'd given that control to someone else and felt more real than I'd felt in a decade.
It was intoxicating.
It was also dangerous.
Because I could feel myself starting to conflate the methodology with the man. To believe that my response to the Praxis was somehow about Meric specifically, rather than the framework he represented.
That was transference. Basic psychology.
And knowing it didn't make it less powerful.
By early afternoon, I was restless again. I'd read. Meditated—badly. I ate lunch in my suite because I didn't want to risk running into anyone.
I needed to move.
I left the East Wing and crossed through the boundary doors into the Observation Wing, telling myself I was just exploring. Learning the Institute's layout. Perfectly reasonable.
The corridor was quiet. Sunlight streamed through the windows, turning the fjord below into hammered silver. I passed The Quiet Suite—door closed. Passed several unmarked doors that were likely administrative offices.
And then I saw Meric's office.
The frosted glass door with his name in small steel letters.
I should have kept walking.
I didn't.
I glanced down the corridor—empty—and tried the handle.
It turned.
The door opened.
I stood in the doorway, pulse kicking up, knowing this was absolutely a boundary I shouldn't cross.
But I stepped inside anyway.
Meric's office was exactly as I remembered: minimal, precise, controlled. The desk was clear except for a single tablet and a closed leather journal. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with texts on psychology, neuroscience, and behavioral modification. The other wall was the window overlooking the fjord.
And on the corner of the desk, partially hidden by the tablet, was a small locked box.
Brushed steel. Maybe six inches square. No markings.
I crossed to the desk, my curiosity overriding every rational instinct I had.
The box was heavier than it looked. I lifted it carefully, testing the lock. Definitely secured. But something inside shifted when I tilted it.
Papers, maybe. Or something heavier.
"Dr. Kaelen."
I froze.
Vigdis stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
I set the box down carefully. "I was just—"
"Somewhere you're not supposed to be," Vigdis finished. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. "This area is for staff only. You know that."
"The door was unlocked," I replied.
"That doesn't make it an invitation." She moved closer, her gaze dropping to the box I'd just been holding. "What were you looking for?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I just... needed to understand."
"Understand what?"
"Him." The word came out before I could stop it. "Meric. Who he is outside of the sessions. What he's thinking. Whether—"
I stopped.
"Whether he's as affected as you are," Vigdis said quietly.
I looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
"Aethelreda." Vigdis's voice was gentler now. "I know what transference looks like. You're not the first client to develop feelings for their Praxist. It's normal. Expected, even."
"I'm a therapist," I said tightly. "I know what transference is."
"Knowing it and experiencing it are different things." She gestured to the door. "Come on. You need to leave before he comes back."
"What's in the box?" I asked.
"That's not your concern."
"Is it about me?"
Vigdis paused; her expression was unreadable. Then: "No. It's not about you. It's... old Institute business. Nothing you need to worry about."
But the way she said it suggested I absolutely should worry about it.
She escorted me back to the East Wing in silence. At the boundary doors, she stopped.
"I like you," Vigdis said. "You're smart, you're honest, and you're doing the work. But you need to stay in your lane. Don't go into Meric's office again. Don't ask questions about things that don't concern you. And don't confuse the Praxis with the Praxist."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." Her pale blue eyes held mine. "Which is why you need to be careful."
"And Meric?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Is he—"
Vigdis took a step back, her expression hardening completely. "Meric Solvang-Lykke has guided over two hundred clients through the Praxis without incident, Dr. Kaelen. He adheres to Clause 7.3 without exception."
"That wasn't the question," I said, meeting her gaze.
"It was the only answer you need," Vigdis stated, her voice cold and final. "Your concern is your own surrender. His concern is the integrity of the methodology. Do not confuse the two."
She left me standing there, heart pounding, mind racing.
That wasn't a denial.
It was a threat.
Meric's professionalism was the only boundary protecting both of us. If he was human—if he was capable of being affected—then Vigdis had just warned me that his control was the one thing keeping the entire structure from collapsing.
I was alone with the question.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my suite, pacing.
Forty-eight hours had sounded manageable yesterday.
Now it felt impossible.
I kept thinking about the locked box. About Vigdis's warning. About the way Meric had looked at me after removing the blindfold—like he'd seen something he hadn't expected.
I was spiraling.
Obsessing.
Exactly what he'd warned me not to do.
At 6:00 PM, my tablet chimed.
A message appeared on the screen:
FROM: M. SOLVANG-LYKKE
SESSION TWO SCHEDULED: DAY 6, 8:00 PM
THEME: EXPOSURE
PREPARATION: REVIEW SESSION GUIDELINES, SECTION 4.3
ARRIVE ON TIME.
I stared at the message.
Theme: Exposure.
I pulled up the Session Guidelines on the tablet and navigated to Section 4.3.
EXPOSURE PROTOCOLS:
Sessions focused on exposure require clients to verbalize desires, describe fantasies, and remain visually present (no blindfold). Clients may be required to observe themselves via mirror or video feed. The goal is to confront shame, inhibition, and self-perception distortions.
My pulse quickened.
No blindfold meant I'd see him touching me.
Verbalize desires meant I'd have to tell him exactly what I wanted.
And mirrors meant I'd have to watch myself surrendering.
The thought terrified me.
It also made me unbearably aroused.
I closed the tablet and pressed my forehead against the cold window glass.
Twenty-four hours.
I just had to survive twenty-four more hours.
And then I could have him again.
Not him, I corrected myself sharply. The Praxis. The methodology.
But even as I thought it, I knew I was lying.
Because what I wanted wasn't just the surrender.
It was Meric's hands on me while I surrendered.
His voice commanding me. His eyes watching me break apart.
And that—that specific, dangerous want—was exactly what Vigdis had warned me about.
I closed my eyes and let myself admit the truth I'd been avoiding since last night.
I was in trouble.
Deep, complicated, boundary-violating trouble.
And I had no idea how to stop.