Page 8 of The Birthday Girl
“Yes. I want to hurt him,” she replied, her tone devoid of any emotion but anger. “I want to take his face in my hands and squeeze it until every blood vessel ruptures. I want to see his teeth push through his cheek and then, maybe, I’ll be finished with him.”
“What else?” Dr. Farrell’s pencil began moving again, and the timing of it felt theatrical.
She shrugged, though her skin felt like it was shrinking over her bones. “That’s it. I want to hurt him, and then I want to be done.”
Dr. Farrell leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees. “What would it mean for you to be done with him?”
“It would mean I’ve gotten retribution for him humiliating me in front of the world.”
He didn’t write right away. Instead, he set the pen across his lap, folded his hands, and studied her as if weighing the density of her words. “Retribution?” he repeated slowly, carefully. “Not justice. Not closure. Retribution?”
Her chin lifted. “Justice is for courtrooms, and closure is for people who can afford to forgive. Vengeance is for me.”
His brow shifted, the closest thing to surprise she had seen from him. “So you believe hurting him balances the scales?”
“I don’t believe. I know,” she said matter of factly.
Dr. Farrell’s lips threatened a smirk, but professionalism kept it contained. He sat back, watching her body language. It told more than her words ever could.
“Retribution can be satisfying in the moment, but it comes with a cost,” he said.
She crossed her legs slowly, the heel of her shoe tapping against the rug. “Everything worth having comes with a cost, Dr. Farrell. That’s what separates the rich from the reckless. We know what we’re willing to pay.”
His eyes never left hers. “And what exactly are you willing to pay for this?”
“What do you want me to say? That I’ll risk everything?” She shook her head, lips pressed tight. “I don’t move recklessly. Not anymore.”
He leaned back, unbothered by the edge in her voice. “You sound certain, and yet…” His gaze flicked to her clenched hands before returning to her face. “Your body tells me you’re still at war with yourself.”
She unfolded her legs, crossing her arms instead. “I’m not in crisis, if that’s where this is going.”
“That’s not what I see.”
“My body is just reacting to caffeine and four hours of sleep. Don’t overread it. I’m thriving.”
“So the sudden change in schedule to visit me, and the lack of sleep, are signs of thriving?”
Her head tilted, her diamond studs catching the light. “They’re signs of being busy. Billionaires don’t get to rest eight hours, Doctor. We get meetings in Tokyo at three in the morning and conference calls before the sun comes up. Sleep is for people who can afford to be average.”
His lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And yet you still made time to come here.”
“That’s because you’re useful. Don’t let it go to your head.” Her arms folded tighter.
“You’re here because being useful isn’t enough anymore. I think you’re closer to causing someone harm than you’re willing to admit.”
“You told no lies, so that’s where you come in. I need your help regulating my emotions. That’s why I’m here.”
Dr. Farrell studied her, fingers still steepled beneath his chin. “Regulating them, or weaponizing them?”
Her laugh was low, humorless. “Same difference.”
“No,” he said, voice calm but cutting. “One keeps you from losing control. The other makes you dangerous to everyone in your orbit, including yourself.”
She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, eyes locked on his. “Danger doesn’t scare me. Losing control does. I’ve survived too much and fought too hard to hand the wheel to rage. That’s why I’m sitting in this chair instead of putting my hands around Tyriq’s throat.”
The pen in his lap stilled again. “You want me to keep you safe from yourself?”
Her chin lifted, a smile ghosting across her lips. “No, Doctor. I want you to teach me how to sharpen the blade without cutting my own hands.”
