“Barely a month.” My legs are shaking. I curl them under me, but it doesn’t help. The trembling is internal now, bone-deep. “It started professional. He’s fascinating from a clinical standpoint—complex trauma, sophisticated defense mechanisms. But somewhere along the way…”
The words stick in my throat like broken glass.
“You developed feelings.”
“Yes.” The confession tears out of me, raw and shameful. Heat floods my face, and I can feel sweat beading along my hairline despite the office’s cool temperature. “And it’s not just attraction, Elena. It’s—Christ, this sounds insane—but he sees me. Really sees me.”
My hands won’t stop shaking. I clasp them together in my lap, but Elena notices anyway. She always notices everything.
“The dreams are back,” she observes quietly.
I nod, not trusting my voice. My chest feels tight, like I’m drowning in this office, in my confession, in the weight of what I’ve done.
“The drowning ones? 3:17 a.m.?”
“Every night. They started after I agreed to treat him.” I press my palms against my eyes again, harder this time. “But Elena, there’s something else. Something I—” My breath hitches. “God, this is so much worse than just developing feelings.”
She waits, patient as always, while I fall apart in front of her.
“He hacked into your computer system,” I whisper, the words burning my throat. “Read my files. Knows about the dreams, about my mother, about everything we’ve discussed.”
Elena goes completely still. The silence stretches until I want to scream.
“He accessed my patient files?”
“He told me directly. Said you need to change your passwords.” Nausea rolls through me in waves. “He’s been using that information, Elena. Knows exactly how to get under my skin, exactly which buttons to push, and I—” My voice breaks. “I let him.”
“How does that make you feel, knowing your privacy was violated that way?”
The question should be simple. It’s not.
“Angry,” I manage, then immediately shake my head. “No, that’s not— I was angry at first. But then…” I take a shuddering breath. “Then I felt understood. He wasn’t using it to hurt me. He was trying to connect with someone who might understand his pain.”
Elena’s expression doesn’t change, but I see something flicker in her eyes. Concern. Maybe disappointment.
“Mila.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “That’s a textbook trauma response. Finding connection in violation, romanticizing someone who’s shown they’re willing to cross fundamental boundaries.”
The words hit like a slap. My face burns with shame because I know she’s right. Every clinical instinct I have screams that she’s right.
“I know how it sounds,” I say desperately, my voice rising. “I know all the terms, all the red flags. I’ve diagnosed this exact pattern in other people, Elena. But you didn’t see him when hetalked about his sister. The way his whole body changes when he’s with his nephew.”
My throat closes up. I’m defending him. Defending a man who disregarded my privacy, who’s killed people, who’s dangerous in ways I can barely comprehend.
“And the brutality? His history?”
The question makes my stomach clench. “He’s capable of terrible things.” The admission tastes like copper in my mouth. “I’m not naive about that. I know what he’s done, what he could do. But Elena, he chooses not to. Every single day, he chooses to be better.”
Even as I say it, I can hear how desperate I sound. How far I’ve fallen.
Elena makes a note, and the scratch of her pen feels like fingernails on glass. “You mentioned he makes you feel seen. Tell me about that.”
“Like I’m not just going through the motions anymore.” The words pour out, unstoppable now. “Like I’m not just trying to make up for not being there when my mother died. Growing up around Katarina’s family, around the Bratva, I learned to read danger, to stay invisible around powerful men. But Yakov…”
I swallow hard, tasting salt. Am I crying? When did I start crying?
“He makes me feel alive, Elena. For the first time since my mother died, I feel like I’m living instead of just surviving.”
“Alive how?”
