Chapter 120
Rowan's POV
Minutes passed. Gradually, the tremors subsided. Her breathing evened out, though she still wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Do you want me to call someone?" I asked carefully. "Emily?"
She shook her head, pulling away slightly. "I'm fine. I just need... a minute."
Fine. The word she always used when she was anything but.
I watched her push herself up, movements stiff and deliberate. She was already rebuilding that wall of composure, brick by careful brick.
"Lena." I kept my voice gentle. "What you just saw—that's not something you can just push down."
"I've been handling worse things for years." Her voice was steadier now, controlled. "I just need to organize my thoughts. Process the evidence properly."
"You need to talk to someone. A professional."
Her spine stiffened. "A therapist? No."
"Lena—"
"I don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, Rowan." She turned to face me, and her eyes were hard. Determined. "Marcus is still out there. He broke into my home. He's planning his next move. And you want me to what—spend weeks lying on some couch talking about my feelings while he destroys everything?"
"That's not how trauma therapy works—"
"I don't care how it works." Her voice was sharp now. "I can't afford to be vulnerable right now. I can't afford to let him see that he's gotten to me. That's exactly what he wants."
I took a careful breath. "No one's saying you have to be vulnerable in front of Marcus. But you need help processing what you just remembered."
"I can process it myself." She moved toward her desk, her movements precise and controlled.
"Lena, you're pushing yourself too much."
"No, it works." Her jaw was set. "I don't need them to pity me."
The bitterness in her voice made my chest ache.
"I'm calling Emily," I said, pulling out my phone.
"Don't—"
But the call was already connecting.
Her eyes flashed with anger. "You have no right."
"I have every right to make sure you're safe. Even if that means protecting you from yourself."
---
Emily arrived twenty minutes later. Lena's expression was ice when Martha showed her in.
"I told Rowan not to call you," Lena said flatly.
"He was worried." Emily's voice was gentle but firm. "I'm worried."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." Emily pulled up a chair uninvited. "Rowan told me what happened. What you saw."
Lena's hands clenched. "It's just information. Evidence. I'm handling it."
"By compartmentalizing? By telling yourself you can't afford to feel anything because Marcus might win?" Emily leaned forward. "Honey, that's not strength. That's survival mode. And you can't live in survival mode forever."
"I can live in it long enough to take him down." Lena's voice was cold. "That's all that matters."
"And what happens after? When the case is over and you've won and you're left with all these memories you never processed?"
"I'll deal with it then."
"That's not how trauma works." Emily's tone shifted, more clinical now. "It doesn't wait patiently for a convenient time. It breaks through when you least expect it. In the middle of a deposition. During a court appearance. When you're alone at night."
Lena looked away.
"You had a severe dissociative episode," Emily continued. "You lost awareness of where you were, who was with you. That's not something you can just push through with willpower."
"I've pushed through worse."
"And look where that's gotten you." Emily's voice was gentle but relentless. "You can't sleep without nightmares. You have panic attacks. You're constantly on edge. And now you're having flashbacks triggered by evidence you need to use in court. How long before that affects your ability to function?"
Lena's jaw tightened, but she didn't answer.
"My colleague Jessica Taylor specializes in trauma," Emily said. "She can help you process this in a way that won't interfere with building your case. In fact, it'll make you stronger. More focused."
"I don't need to be stronger. I need to not be weak." Lena's voice cracked slightly. "I can't give Marcus that satisfaction. I can't let him know he broke me."
"He doesn't have to know." Emily's expression softened. "This is private. Just you and Jessica. No one else has to know you're struggling."
"I'll know."
The words were barely audible.
Emily reached across the desk, but Lena pulled back.
"One session," Emily said quietly. "That's all I'm asking. Jessica has an opening this afternoon. If you hate it, if it doesn't help, you never have to go back. But at least give her a chance."
Lena was silent for a long moment. I could see her calculating, weighing costs against benefits, trying to find a rational framework for something that defied rationality.
"What if I can't do it?" she finally asked. "What if I go and I... and I can't hold it together?"
"That's what Jessica is there for. To help you process it safely. In a controlled environment where Marcus can't touch you."
Another silence.
Then Lena's shoulders sagged, just slightly. The first crack in her armor.
"Fine," she said. "One session. But if it's not helpful, I'm done."
Emily's relief was visible. "Jessica can see you at two."
"I'll drive her," I said.
Lena looked at me, and for a moment I saw the exhaustion beneath her carefully maintained control.
"You wait in the lobby," she said. "Not in the room."
"I wouldn't presume otherwise."
---
An hour later, we pulled into Dr. Taylor's parking garage. Lena had been silent the entire drive.
In the waiting room, Emily was already there. She hugged Lena tightly.
"How are you holding up?"
"I'm here." Not an answer.
A door opened. Dr. Jessica Taylor emerged—fifties, kind eyes, calm presence.
"Lena Grant?"
Lena straightened her shoulders. "That's me."
"I'm Jessica Taylor. Why don't you come with me?"
Lena nodded. Started toward the door. Paused. Glanced back at me.
She looked terrified.
"I'll be right here when you're done," I said quietly.
Something flickered across her face—gratitude, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
Then she disappeared through the door.