Page 41 of Blackmailed to the Altar

Even naked, I could see she had her doctor’s cap on.

DID. The term hung between us, a cold, clinical diagnosis that made my stomach twist. I couldn’t let her see how the words affected me, but inside, my mind was spinning. I thought back to Riccardo, and to all the missing pieces of my life that were suddenly making a horrific kind of sense.

“What do you do for someone like that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “How do you… help them?”

Mya looked at me, her eyes softening with something that might’ve been pity, or maybe just compassion. “It’s not easy. Therapy is the cornerstone; building trust between the identities, learning to cope with triggers, and working through the trauma that caused the fragmentation. Sometimes medication can help manage symptoms, but it’s not a cure. It’s a long, difficult process, and the goal isn’t necessarily to ‘get rid’ of the other identities, but to find a way for them to coexist peacefully.”

“What if that patient told you they felt like they were going crazy. Like they were an alien in their own body.” I stared at her sincerely.

“My best guess?” she whispered.

“Yeah, what would you tell the patient?”

“Well, first, I wouldn’t be so blunt about it. I would ask more leading questions to make an accurate diagnosis.”

I waved away all her professional mumbo jumbo with a gloved hand. “And your thought process on the diagnosis?”

“That there is a possibility this patient suffers from DID, more commonly known as Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Her calm voice helped me brace for the news.

“What?” I couldn’t fathom her response. “Wouldn’t a person know if they had other identities?”

She shrugged. “Everyone is different. While some patients know, more often than not they don’t, unless the other identities want to make themselves known.”

“How does a patient like that figure out how many identities they may have?” I gulped, dreading the answer.

“They need major psychological help before it spirals out of control. Without the proper doctors and medications, a disorder of this magnitude could affect the patient’s daily, and personal, life on every level.”

Shit, if my men found out I was battling voices in my head, they would kill me and take over. Loyalty only went so far, and no one wanted to work for a mad king. Not while my father was lying on his deathbed.

“Is there something you want to disclose to me, Sebastian? I promise this is a safe space.”

I almost snorted. There was no way I could tell good old Dr. Mya that I had possible multiple personalities. I sat thinking about all the times business should have gone south, and when I woke up the next day, everything was running smoothly.

I forced a smile, cutting her off before she could delve any deeper. “That’s… that’s interesting. Thanks for indulging my curiosity, Doc.” I rolled onto my side, facing her, but my thoughts were a million miles away. I needed to get out of this room, away from her knowing gaze, and the truths she was unraveling about me.

“Yeah, of course,” Mya said, watching me closely. She looked like she wanted to say more, to dig further, but I wouldn’t let her. Not today.

I pushed myself up, pretending like I hadn’t just asked her for the answers to my own nightmare. “You hungry? Let’s grab some breakfast. The maids probably laid Nonna’s feast out already.” I flashed her the most convincing smile I could muster, burying my fear beneath layers of charm.

Mya hesitated, clearly sensing the abrupt change in topic, but she didn’t push. Instead, she nodded, and we both climbed out of bed, each pretending that nothing had changed. But as I led her toward the door, I couldn’t help but glance back at the rumpled sheets, the spot where I’d woken up with Mya in my arms.

I knew I couldn’t let this go on. I was losing control, and sooner or later, everyone would see it. But for now, I’d keep pretending, pretending I was whole, pretending I was in charge. And maybe, if I was lucky, that illusion would be enough to hold everything together, at least for a little while longer. How people feared me even though I didn’t have a crazy reputation. The men listened to my orders without question, even when my father first fell ill. The blackouts. The panic and anxiety, bordering on paranoia.

I pulled myself from Mya, mumbling a fake excuse about washing my hair in the sink. I think she bought it, for sure. I’d used the same line to get off the phone many times with success. I walked into the bathroom, took off my gloves and clothes, and stood underneath the shower spray.

What are you doing living in my head?

Did you really need to ask that question?

The intrusive thought startled me.

“Who are you?” I asked aloud, the water drowning out the noise.

I’m you.

“No. No, you’re not.” I shook my head and grabbed my shampoo, trying to drown out his words.

Deny me all you want, but I’m still going to be here.

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