Page 10 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

We sit like that for a while, not speaking. The silence is comfortable, layered with history. I’d spent so many hours in this room growing up—being scolded, being encouraged, being seen.

He finally speaks. “You’ve done well, Elise.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re succeeding.”

There’s something weighted in the way he says it. Like he knows more than he lets on. He always has.

I glance at the mug on his desk. “Still drink that same terrible tea?”

“Every day,” he says, grinning. “Ritual matters.”

“Ritual is how we survive,” I say, almost to myself.

He watches me with those kind eyes, the ones that always made me feel like I mattered, even when I was just a scared kid afraid to hope.

“You’re thinking of something,” he says softly.

I pause. Then nod. “I don’t know what, but I feel like something’s coming. Something I can’t name.”

William leans back in his chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the side of his mug. His eyes haven’t left me, but there’s no weight behind them—just that calm steadiness he’s always carried. I think that’s part of why I still come here. Why this office, this chair, this man—make everything else quiet for a little while.

“So,” he begins with a gentle smile, “tell me about your life.”

I let out a soft exhale, shifting in my seat. “There’s not much to tell that isn’t about work. Long shifts, endless rotations, not enough sleep.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like you’re doing it right.”

I tilt my head, lips quirking. “That’s one way to look at it.”

He sips from the mug, grimaces a little, then sets it aside. “And med school, how’s that treating you?”

I can’t help it—a laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “William, I’m already a doctor.”

The look he gives me is pure delight, tinged with mock embarrassment. “Ah, yes. Of course you are. How time flies.” He shakes his head, eyes glinting. “I still see that little girl who used to climb trees and stitch up her own scrapes with the sewing kit she stole from Marsha’s office.”

I groan, laughing under my breath. “You still remember that?”

“You nearly passed out when you saw the blood, but refused to let anyone else touch it. Said, ‘If I’m going to be a doctor, I better start acting like one.’” His smile softens into something else. “You were always relentless.”

I look down, letting the warmth of his words settle somewhere deep inside. There aren’t many people in my life who remember me before I wore the white coat. Before the name badge. Before the late nights and blood and bruises and broken people.

With William, it’s different. He sees every version of me all at once—the child, the teen, the woman I’ve become—and he makes space for all of them.

“Sometimes I don’t feel like her anymore,” I admit quietly.

“Who?”

“That little girl. The one who used to believe she could fix things.”

His expression gentles even further, and he leans forward slightly, arms folded over the desk. “You didn’t stop being her, Elise. You just forgot where she lives.”

I look up at him, and for a moment, I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

The room quiets around us, filled with the low tick of the clock above the door, the distant sound of children’s laughter echoing from the far end of the building.

Then William’s phone buzzes against the wood.

---