Chapter 97 Therapy 1
The waiting room of Dr. Evans’s office was not what I expected.
There was no sterile green paint, no humming fluorescent lights, no stack of outdated magazines. It was a corner office in a high-rise building with sweeping views of the city, furnished in warm leather and dark wood. It looked more like a study than a clinic.
It was Tuesday afternoon, our scheduled appointment time.
Tristan sat next to me on a plush leather sofa. His right arm, free of the sling now but still moving with cautious deliberation, was resting on his thigh. He looked tense. He was wearing a dark suit—no tie, the collar unbuttoned—but the sharp, impenetrable mask of the CEO was firmly in place.
I was wearing a simple, comfortable sweater and jeans. I felt small. I felt exposed.
"We don't have to stay," Tristan murmured, turning his head slightly to look at me. "If you're not ready, we can leave right now."
He offered the out, but I knew he wouldn't take it himself. He had promised we would do this together.
"I'm ready," I lied softly. My hands were trembling slightly where they rested in my lap.
The heavy mahogany door to the inner office opened.
Dr. Evans stepped out. He was a man in his late fifties, with graying hair and kind, perceptive eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He didn't wear a white coat. He wore a simple tweed jacket over a button-down shirt.
"Ms. Hayes. Mr. Johnston," Dr. Evans said, offering a warm, professional smile. "Please, come in."
We stood up. Tristan instinctively reached out with his left hand, lightly touching the small of my back as he guided me into the room.
The inner office was larger, dominated by a large, comfortable couch and two armchairs arranged around a low coffee table.
"Have a seat wherever you feel comfortable," Dr. Evans offered, closing the door behind us, sealing us in the quiet space.
Tristan and I sat on the couch, leaving a small, tense gap between us. Dr. Evans took one of the armchairs, picking up a small notepad and a pen.
"Thank you both for coming," Dr. Evans began, his voice calm and even. "I know that seeking therapy, especially for a couple navigating complex trauma, is an incredibly difficult first step."
He looked at me, his gaze gentle but unwavering.
"Tristan mentioned on the phone that you experienced a severe panic attack recently, Minerva. Is that correct?"
Hearing him say my name, addressing the incident directly, made my chest tighten. I wanted to look away. I wanted to look at Tristan for backup. But I forced myself to meet the doctor’s eyes.
"Yes," I answered, my voice small. "It was... unexpected."
"Panic attacks often are," Dr. Evans nodded. "Would you mind telling me what triggered it?"
I swallowed hard. The word felt toxic, heavy on my tongue.
"Someone in a restaurant used the word 'mistress'," I said quietly. "It wasn't directed at me. It was just a joke between strangers. But it..."
I stopped, struggling to find the words to describe the visceral, suffocating terror.
"It pulled you back," Tristan finished for me, his voice rough. He was staring at the coffee table, his jaw clenched tight. "It pulled her right back to the courtroom."
Dr. Evans shifted his attention to Tristan.
"The courtroom," the doctor repeated softly. "The trial five years ago."
"Yes," Tristan said, a muscle ticking violently near his ear.
"Minerva," Dr. Evans said, turning back to me. "When you hear that word, or words like it, what is the physical sensation?"
"I can't breathe," I admitted, my hands twisting together in my lap. "The room starts spinning. I feel like... like I'm drowning. And I feel this overwhelming sense of shame. Even though I know I didn't do anything wrong. The shame is still there."
"The shame is a conditioned response," Dr. Evans explained gently. "You were publicly vilified. Your character was systematically dismantled on a global stage. The truth coming out recently doesn't automatically rewire the neural pathways formed during that trauma. Your brain still perceives the judgment as an active threat."
He set his pen down on the notepad.
"And Tristan," Dr. Evans continued, his gaze shifting. "What is your response when Minerva experiences these attacks?"
Tristan finally looked up. His amber eyes were dark, filled with a storm of suppressed emotion.
"I protect her," Tristan stated simply. It was a fact, not a boast. "I get her out of the situation. I make it stop."
"You intervene," Dr. Evans nodded. "You shield her. That's a very natural, protective instinct. Especially given the recent physical threats you've both faced."
The doctor paused, letting the silence settle in the room for a moment.
"But I want to explore something deeper," Dr. Evans said, leaning forward slightly. "Tristan, when Minerva has a panic attack triggered by the events of five years ago... what do you feel?"
Tristan stiffened. The question was a direct hit against the armor.
"I feel anger," Tristan said, his voice dropping into a low, defensive register. "Anger that she’s still hurting. Anger at the people who caused it."
"Anger at Ida," Dr. Evans clarified.
"Yes."
"And anyone else?"
Tristan went completely still. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I looked at him, my heart breaking at the rigid set of his shoulders. I knew the answer. He knew the answer.