Page 7 of The Birthday Girl
When he reached for her hand, she pulled it back before his fingertips could graze her skin. “Don’t,” she whispered.
It was the first word she had given him since telling him how long he had in her presence.
“Tahlia—”
She glanced down at her Cartier. “Time’s up,” she said, rising, her pant legs whispering against the marble floors as she walked away, each step measured and deliberate.
Behind her, Tyriq’s voice cracked. “Tahlia, please—” His desperation bled through every syllable.
She didn’t stop. Not when he slammed his fist into the floor. Not when she heard the scuffle of his shoes as he scrambled to chase her.
Ignoring him, she exited her home, and by the time the front door shut behind her, her chest was tight, but her face was calm. She didn’t look back at the man she had left kneeling on the Persian runner. Instead, she slid into the back seat of the idling BMW, her silence a message the driver was wise enough to heed.
Her phone lit up. Two missed calls from her lawyer. One unread message from the head of Crisis & Reputation at Prince and Parks. A single bottom-bar notification from Tyriq. Too many things were happening at one time. She couldn’t focus on any of that right then.
The car peeled away from the curb, the city unfolding itself through tinted glass. The PR firm was waiting for her on the penthouse floor of a building polished enough for the cover ofArchitectural Digest. However, that wasn’t where she was headed. Instead, she told the driver to stop at the nearest Starbucks.
When he did, she bought a latté, then slipped out, walking a block to the park. She sat on a bench under a tree, watching petals rain down as she pressed her therapist’s number with a thumb that trembled only slightly. He answered on the second ring.
“I think I’m having an episode,” she told him. It wasn’t the right word, but it was the only one large enough to describe what she was feeling inside.
“Are you safe?”
“I’m not going to harm myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Or anyone else?”
Her laugh startled a pigeon nearby. “If I say no, I’d be lying.”
He didn’t ask if she wanted to come in. He told her she should. Then he gave her the code for the back entrance.
“See you in twenty minutes, then.”
“I’m on my way.” She drained the latté, wiped a stray drop from her lip, tossed the cup into a trash bin, and headed back to her driver.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the therapist’s office. It was located inside a converted Victorian on the north side of Piedmont, painted matte black with gold numbers hammered into the wood grain. The back entrance cut through a garden, a flagstone path slippery with last night’s rain. She nearly went down twice before reaching the door.
Dr. Farrell met her there. “Good morning, Ms. Banks. You made it here fast,” he said, greeting her with a polite smile.
She brushed past him, not in the mood for pleasantries, and went straight to the only room in that stuffy office that felt tolerable. The lights were low, the walls an uninspired shade of linen, but the couch was soft.
Seated in his chair, he waited patiently until she crossed her legs and met his eyes. Dr. Farrell was handsome, and he carried himself as if he knew it but had no need to announce it. His brown skin was smooth, his jawline cut sharp and softened only by the hint of stubble. His hazel eyes, flecked with green, held a patience most men didn’t own.
Tall and broad across the shoulders, his suits were tailored so precisely they looked poured onto him. Even the way he loosened his tie at the end of a session felt deliberate, as if he understood the power of subtle gestures. His smile was controlled. Rare. The kind you had to earn, and when you did, it lingered heavy in your chest long after you left.
Dr. Farrell opened with the same question he always did, the one she both hated and depended on. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything,” Tahlia said. “I feel nothing and everything all at once, and neither is bearable.”
Dr. Farrell nodded. “Describe everything.”
“Rage. Disgust. Disappointment. Loathing, but it’s a toss-up. I don’t know if it’s directed at Tyriq or me.”
He steepled his fingers, waiting for her to say more, until the silence lingered too long. “Go on.”
“You ever wonder what it would be like to just—” She hesitated, tasting the word. “Snap?” She popped her knuckles, a gesture that would have echoed if the room were quieter.
Dr. Farrell’s face stayed neutral, but the pen in his hand stilled above the pad. “Does Tyriq make you feel that way?”
