It was finally the day of my therapy.
I got up, dressed, and went straight to the hospital. The security guard led me to the psychiatry department, where a nurse offered me a seat and told me to wait in line to see Dr. Jay Justin.
I couldn't help but wonder if it was fate that the doctor's name sounded so close to Aunt Taylor's son. But it couldn't be him. My doctor was Jay Justin, while Aunt Taylor's son was Jay Taylor. Still, the thought made my stomach twist.
And seriously, I was sure the guy wouldn't be any different from his uncle—after all, they shared the same blood. If only I knew how wrong I was.
He wasn't the same.
He was worse.
Or better.
I don't even know anymore.
Fuck it. That son of a bitch, Uncle Luke, had already made me hate everything that had to do with the Taylor family.
I waited for almost an hour before the nurse finally called out, "Number 222." That was me. My cue.
I stood, straightened my clothes, and followed her down the hallway. The fluorescent lights above buzzed quietly—too quiet, too sterile. She knocked on the office door, and a calm voice from inside said, "Come in."
"Sir, Miss Vivian Ray is here to see you," the nurse said as she ushered me inside.
He didn't look up immediately. Just nodded and muttered, "You can leave us."
The door clicked shut behind me.
Only then did he lift his head. For a moment, he stared, and I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes—something I couldn't name. I almost got angry. He didn't even offer me a seat.
Then he stood up and said softly, almost to himself, "I thought I was mistaken… but I'm not."
My mind snapped in irritation. What is this handsome creep talking about?
He stretched out his hand for a handshake, and I reluctantly took it. His palm was warm. Too warm.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you again, my dear Vivy," he said, smiling faintly. "Hope you missed me."
And that's all I remember.
Six months later, I woke up with no memory of what happened that day—or any day after it. Nothing about continuing therapy. Nothing about leaving the hospital.
The doctor said I had selective amnesia.
But I knew that wasn't true.
Something deep inside me whispered to go back—to find out what really happened—but another part of me screamed not to. Fear wrapped itself around every thought, pulling me back into silence.
Lily and Mia told me I'd been different—dark, distant, cold—for the last six months. I didn't believe them. That didn't sound like me.
And when I thought of Uncle Luke… I felt nothing. Not even emptiness. It was like he had disappeared. Gone forever.
Maybe that was it—maybe I was healed. Maybe I didn't need therapy anymore. Maybe whatever happened there fixed me.
At least, that's what I told myself.
That's what I chose to believe.
Because believing otherwise…
terrified me more than anything.