Chapter Text
The car drops you at the edge of the property line. The gates rise before you—high, black, and curling inward at the tips like iron thorns. The Wassermann estate doesn’t announce itself with warmth. It looms. A white monolith in the distance, its windows so polished you see sky instead of glass.
You pause a moment, adjusting the collar of your blazer, fingers lingering at the lapel. The wind is quiet out here. Your reflection in the metal gate looks paler than it should.
“Therapist, right?”
A security staffer, clean-shaven and grim-faced, scans your ID. You nod.
He doesn't look at you again.
Inside, the home is air-conditioned to clinical perfection. White floors. White walls. Large glass panes and sharp furniture with edges you could cut a fingertip on. There's a faint smell of eucalyptus—too sterile to be inviting.
You're led to a sitting room, where she’s already waiting.
Mona Wassermann.
She wears cream. Not white— cream . Deliberate. Understated. Her blouse is silk, her pants tailored. A minimalist gold chain rests along her collarbone. Her hair, slicked back and severe, it shows a sharp widow’s peak. She doesn’t rise when you enter. She studies you from her lounge chair like she’s observing a painting she hasn’t decided if she’s going to hang or burn yet.
“You’re younger than I expected.”
“Not that young,” you answer, smiling politely. “You’re Mona Wassermann.”
A beat. She tilts her head—just slightly.
“How old are you, exactly?”
You don’t flinch.
“Old enough not to answer that kind of question at the start of a professional session.”
Her mouth lifts at one corner. Not quite a smile. Almost amused.
You settle into the seat across from her—low, deep, too soft for your posture. A control trick. You know it immediately. You don’t adjust.
“Do you always walk into rooms like you’ve already been insulted?” she asks, delicately crossing one leg over the other.
“Only when the rooms come with preloaded expectations.”
Now she smiles. Full. Sharp.
You open your folder. Professional. Calm.
“Shall we begin?”
“If we must.” Her voice is smooth as satin, but cool. “Let’s pretend I’m not being forced into this.”
“It’s a voluntary referral.”
“Of course it is.” She smiles again. “And you think that makes it more honest?”
You pause—not because she’s wrong, but because the way she says it makes the room colder.
“Would you prefer we talk about something else?”
“Yes.” Her gaze doesn't leave yours. “I want to talk about you.”
You blink. Not caught off guard, but… surprised by the speed of it.
“I’m not the subject of this session.”
“Aren’t you?” Her voice lowers. “You’ve been looking at me like you’re trying to read the fine print on a contract you already signed. That’s not analysis. That’s doubt .”
“I look at every new patient the same way. Without assumptions.”
“ Liar .” She smiles. “But you’re well-trained. I’ll give you that.”
You lean forward, folding your hands over your notebook.
“You don’t intimidate me.”
“But you wish I did.”
She leans in too, now. The space between you feels like a wire, pulled taut. Her eyes—those pale, intelligent eyes—trace the line of your mouth before they return to your gaze. The temperature drops another invisible degree.
“Don’t you ever get tired of pretending you’re the one in control?” she asks, voice low, slow, smooth as a scalpel sliding out of velvet.
You match her tone, heartbeat steady.
“You paid for this hour, Mona. But I own it.”
A pause. Her expression shifts—just for a moment. The slightest dilation of her pupils. Then she sits back, folds her arms, and exhales a slow, amused breath.
“This might be fun after all.”
You leave that first session standing a little straighter. But as you walk toward the gate, you feel something… watching.
No cameras. No eyes.
Just her .
The next morning, a note arrives at your office.
No envelope. No sender.
Just a single card, typed cleanly in black serif font:
“Same time next week. Let’s make this one personal.”