Chapter 186 Unwanted guest
Chapter 186 Unwanted guest
ANASTASIA POV
“What would you like to get off your chest today, Ana?” Catherine, my therapist, asked softly, leaning back in her armchair.
I sank deeper into the plush fabric of the couch, fumbling with my words in my head, tearing at the skin around my cuticles before I finally forced it out. “My husband didn’t sign the divorce papers.”
Catherine hummed in response, her pen hovering over her notepad. “And I guess you didn’t want him to, right?”
I slowly nodded, staring down at my lap.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“Scared of what?”
“Of letting him in again? Are you scared that something might go wrong between you both again, and you're sort of not prepared to handle the fallout?”
“Yes… you can say that,” I said, the admission leaving me in a breathless, ragged sigh. “I’m not really sure what to expect from him anymore. I mean… he kind of fell in love with me when I was Rory. What if that’s the illusion he’s still seeing? I don't know if he can truly deal with me—with my trauma, my nightmares, and everything I brought back from the camp. Even though he refused to sign the papers and swore he would wait… can he truly? He barely even talks to me these days.”
Catherine shifted in her seat, leaning forward as something in my words piqued her professional interest. “What do you mean you barely talk to him?”
I let out a bitter laugh, recounting the endless, exhausting string of single-word responses.
“Let’s just say his favorite word right now is okay. He just completely agrees with me the second I tell him not to do something. I literally blocked his number the other day, and then I unblocked him not even twenty-four hours later.” I scoffed in pure frustration, throwing my hands up. “Gosh… I must sound like a desperate, wife who doesn't know what she wants.”
“You’re human, Ana, and everything you're feeling is entirely valid,” Catherine reassured me with a gentle smile. “But I don't think you should assume your husband doesn't want you just because he’s being brief, or because he fell in love with you again under a different identity.”
A small, sad smile touched my lips. “You should have seen him before, doc. Back when I was Rory and I was furious with him, he literally threw his expensive designer jacket over a mud puddle just so my legs wouldn't get dirty.”
Catherine’s smile widened slightly. “Actually, Ana… I invited someone who wanted to have a joint session with you today. They reached out to my office directly. Is it okay if I invite them in?”
A joint session? My brow furrowed in confusion. How many people were involved in my life right now? “Is it like… a family group session? Did my mother call you?”
“No, Ana,” Catherine said, her voice dripping with a knowing warmth. “But trust me, it’s going to help you.”
A sudden, nervous knot twisted tightly in my stomach. A part of me screamed that I was going to absolutely hate whatever was behind that door, but if it was going to help stitch my broken pieces back together, I had to try.
I nodded, my palms suddenly growing slick and sweaty. “Fine. Let them in.”
Catherine picked up the office intercom on her desk, speaking quietly to her receptionist.
I sat there, my heart hammering against my ribs in the silence. In less than a minute, the heavy wooden door clicked and swung open.
Instantly, every single hair on the back of my neck rose to life. A violent, electric shock rippled through every numb, dormant part of my body.
There was only one person on this entire earth capable of making my soul react like that.
I turned my head slowly to confirm the terrifying suspicion, and the moment my eyes collided with his, a soft, breathless gasp escaped my throat.
Never in my life—not in a thousand fucking years—would I have ever expected Alexander Miller to step foot inside a therapist's office. He had always made it brutally clear how he felt about them. No human should ever know what I think or feel, he’d say. He thought of therapists as overpaid exploiters who got off on the saucy gossips of ruined lives while charging a premium for it.
And seeing him standing here now? I was utterly speechless.
He wore a simple black round-neck shirt paired with a heavy black leather jacket, dark pants, and a black beanie pulled low over his head. He looked devastatingly, unfairly handsome, despite the dark, heavy bags bruising the skin beneath his eye. He looked exhausted. But the way he was looking at me was entirely soft—so raw, so agonizingly pleading, like he was silently begging me not to stand up and chase him out of the room.
I couldn't even remember the last time I had actually seen his face in person. Two weeks? Three? He hadn't texted me a single syllable since our last transactional "okay" conversation, but the deliveries had never stopped. The high-end food sent to my office, the endless boxes of designer flat shoes, the towering mountains of flowers. And I hadn't thanked him for a single one of them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, my voice cracking with sheer surprise.
“I asked the shrink if I could have a session with you,” he said calmly, his deep, gravelly voice washing over me like a physical touch. He gave a brief, tight nod toward Catherine.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Miller,” Catherine instructed.