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"He used me."

Savannah said the words slowly, each syllable weighed down with something heavier than grief. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she didn't bother to wipe it away.

The woman across from her in the softly lit room sat still, pen poised over a notepad. Her name was Dr. Moore gray at the roots, early fifties, and rumored to be the most effective therapist her insurance plan could afford. She blinked once, jotted something down, and asked in a measured voice, "When you say ‘used you,’ do you mean you had sex with him?"

Savannah's eyes met hers, dry now but unreadable. Was the woman serious? Had she really not grasped it? Hadn’t "He used me" said everything that needed to be said?

"Yes. And no," Savannah said quietly. “It wasn’t just sex.” She paused. “He used me. That’s the only way I can put it.”

Dr. Moore scribbled something. Then she underlined a word. Rape? With a question mark. "So, what’s the difference?"

Savannah’s jaw tensed. Another tear welled in her eye, then slipped free. Anger followed grief sharp, unrelenting. She suddenly wanted to yell, to take the neat little notebook and fling it across the room. Instead, she took a long breath and stayed seated.

If you’re tied to a butcher’s table in someone else’s kitchen, bent over, climaxing so hard your legs give out while a man pushes into you like he owns every inch of you that’s not lovemaking. That’s not connection. It’s use. That’s the word.

She came back to herself, to the quiet room, to Dr. Moore's expectant face.

“It’s not what you think,” Savannah said finally. “It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even angry. He just…” She struggled again. “He used me.”

"And how did that make you feel?" Dr. Moore asked, pen moving again.

Savannah gave a bitter smile. “You want the list?” She looked up at the ceiling. “Violated. Small. Dirty. Broken. And…” she hesitated, shame crawling across her skin, “Aroused. Wanted. Terrified. Alive.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It was everything all at once. I can’t explain it.”

Dr. Moore paused. “Do you love him?”

Savannah shook her head instantly. “No. It’s not love. There’s nothing soft about how I feel for him.” She clenched the tissue in her hand. “It’s more like… craving. Like something addictive. I hate him sometimes. But I want him. God help me, I want him.”

The therapist finally set down her pen. "Okay," she said gently. "Let’s go back to the beginning."

Savannah let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped for days. “The beginning,” she echoed, like the word itself was too heavy. “I don’t even know when it started. And if you ask me about my childhood, I might just walk out of here.” Her lips twitched. The weak joke cracked the tension, just a little.

Dr. Moore allowed a faint smile. “We can go back there if you want. But I was thinking of starting with how you met Damien.”

Savannah closed her eyes for a second, then nodded slowly. “June fifth,” she said. “It was my thirty-second birthday. I only remember because my husband made me breakfast.” The thought of Marcus sweet, dependable Marcus sent a sharp pang through her chest.

She couldn’t meet Dr. Moore’s eyes. Marcus would leave her, she knew it. Maybe he should. She loved him. She really, truly loved him.

So how had this happened?

Even now, with a crumpled tissue in her palm and the walls closing in, part of her wanted Damien. She hated herself for it. But the pull was undeniable. Like a smoker catching the scent of nicotine after a year clean it was hunger. It was a need.

And that’s what terrified her most.

“Marcus made me breakfast that morning,” she repeated softly, almost to herself.