Thalia's POV
The door clicks shut behind us, and I whirl on Dr. Morrison.
How could you? My voice shakes with rage and betrayal. How could you do this to me?
Dr. Morrison moves calmly to her desk, sitting down like this is a normal therapy session. Like she didn't just ambush me with my worst nightmare.
I understand you're angry
Angry? I laugh, but it sounds broken. You've been my therapist for three years! I told you everything about that trial! About what he did to me! And you never once mentioned that the lawyer who destroyed me was your son?
I couldn't tell you, Dr. Morrison says quietly. You wouldn't have understood.
You're right! I don't understand! I don't understand how you could lie to me for three years!
I never lied, Thalia. I simply didn't disclose information that would have prevented your healing.
My healing? I'm shouting now. You think bringing him here helps me heal?
Damian stands frozen near the door, his face pale. Mom, what is she talking about? You've been treating Thalia for three years?
Yes. Just as I've been treating you for two years. Dr. Morrison looks between us. You're both my patients. You're both stuck in the trauma from that trial. And you both need to confront it to move forward.
My brain struggles to process this. He's your patient too?
I've been seeing her twice a month, Damian says quietly. Dealing with guilt from my legal career. My sister's death. My father's abuse. He turns to his mother. You knew Thalia was the woman from that case? The one I told you about?
Of course I knew. You described the case in detail during our sessions. Your guilt over what you did to her has been central to your treatment.
The room spins. Dr. Morrison has been treating both of us separately, knowing exactly who we are to each other, and never said a word.
This is unethical, I say. This has to violate every rule about patient confidentiality and
It's unconventional, Dr. Morrison interrupts. But not unethical. I've never shared your confidential information with each other. I've simply created an opportunity for you both to heal.
By forcing us together? My hands clench into fists. By ambushing me?
By giving you both what you need. Dr. Morrison leans forward. Thalia, you can't trust anyone because of what happened in that courtroom. You've built walls so high that you're suffocating behind them. And Damian, you can't forgive yourself because you've never faced the person you harmed most.
So this is therapy? I gesture wildly between Damian and myself. Throw us in a room and hope we magically fix each other?
No. This is an opportunity. Dr. Morrison pulls out a folder. I'm assigning you both to co-lead my trauma recovery group. Together. For three months.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Absolutely not, I say immediately.
I agree with Thalia, Damian adds, his voice firm. I won't force her into anything. Mom, this is—
Necessary. Dr. Morrison opens the folder, pulling out photos. Six faces stare up at me from the pages. This is Maria, Devon, Claire, James, Aisha, and Marcus. They've been together for four months, building trust, making real progress toward healing from betrayal and trauma.
She spreads the photos across her desk.
Maria finally left her abusive husband three months ago. She's learning to trust her own judgment again. Devon is managing his financial anxiety for the first time in two years. Claire just applied for a new job after eighteen months of being unable to work.
Each word is a knife, carefully placed.
If I cancel this group or reassign them to a stranger, I undo months of progress. These people have opened up, become vulnerable, started healing. Disrupting their treatment now would be devastating.
Then find someone else to lead it, I say, but my voice is weaker.
There is no one else. Not who's qualified, not who knows my treatment approach, not who can start immediately. Dr. Morrison looks directly at me. And honestly, Thalia, these people need someone who understands their pain. Someone who's lived through betrayal and survived.
That's manipulation, I whisper.
That's truth. She doesn't look away. You have a choice. You can walk away—abandon six vulnerable people who are finally learning to trust again. Or you can help them while helping yourself.
I'm not doing this to help myself. I'm doing it for them.
Then you're already thinking like a healer instead of a victim. That's growth.
I want to scream at her. Want to throw the photos back in her face and storm out.
But I can't stop looking at the faces on her desk.
Maria, 34, who finally escaped her abuser.
Devon, 29, who's learning to trust again.
Claire, 42, who's trying to rebuild her career.
They're all versions of me at different stages. All broken by betrayal. All trying desperately to heal.
Three months, Dr. Morrison says. Just until I return from maternity leave. Professional boundaries maintained. You're not treating each other—you're helping others together.
And if it's unbearable? I ask quietly.
Then we find an alternative. But I'm asking you to try.
I look at Damian. He's watching me with an expression I can't read—regret, fear, something that looks almost like hope.
Why did you quit corporate law? The question comes out before I can stop it.
He meets my eyes. Because of what I did to you. Because my sister died two months after your trial and left a note saying she couldn't live in a world where people like me win. Because I spent my whole life being trained to destroy people, and I finally saw what that made me.
The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest tight.
And now you want redemption?
No. I want to help instead of hurt. I'm not asking for forgiveness, Thalia. I don't deserve it. But these people deserve help, and I can provide it.
He turns to his mother. But only if Thalia agrees. I won't force her into this. If she wants to walk away, I'll handle the group alone or you find someone else.
Dr. Morrison starts to protest, but Damian cuts her off.
No, Mom. She gets to choose. Not you. Not me. Her.
Something about him supporting my right to refuse makes my walls crack slightly.
I look at the photos again. Six people who need help.
Three months, I hear myself say. But we're not friends. We're not anything. This is professional only.
Understood, Damian says quietly.
And if I say stop, we stop. Patients or no patients, if this breaks me, I'm done.
Agreed. He doesn't hesitate.
Dr. Morrison looks between us. The first session is Monday at six PM. I'll be there to introduce you both to the group and observe the first meeting. After that, you're on your own.
I grab my bag, needing to escape before I change my mind. I need to leave. Now.
Damian steps aside, giving me space to pass.
I make it to the door before his voice stops me.
Thalia.
I don't turn around.
Thank you. For giving this a chance. For helping them.
I'm not doing it for you.
I know. But thank you anyway.
I walk out without responding, my whole body trembling.
Behind me, I hear Dr. Morrison's voice: That went better than expected.
And Damian's response, barely audible: Mom, what have you done?
I'm halfway down the hallway when my phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number: This is the support group reminder line. You're scheduled for Monday 6 PM. Looking forward to meeting you! - Maria
My hands shake as I stare at the message.
One of the group members already has my number. Already expects me to show up.
There's no backing out now.
I've just agreed to spend three months in a room with the man who destroyed my life.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small, terrified voice whispers: What if he destroys you again?