Chapter 8 Captive Care
[Freya]
Marcus tried to pull his wrist free, but Emerson's grip was like a steel trap. I watched from the floor as my father's face contorted with pain and fear.
"Let go of me," Marcus wheezed, but his voice had lost all its earlier bravado.
"Leave," Emerson said, his voice carrying an authority that made even the nearby nurses step back. "Now. And if I see you harassing Dr. Harper again, you'll discover what happens to men who hurt what's mine."
The possessive words should have annoyed me, but instead they sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
Marcus stumbled backward the moment Emerson released him, clutching his wrist. "This isn't over," he muttered, but he was already backing toward the elevators, his earlier confidence completely shattered.
"Yes, it is," Emerson replied with quiet finality.
I watched my father practically run down the hallway, then became acutely aware of the audience we'd drawn. Other staff members and visitors were staring, some with concern, others with barely concealed curiosity.
"Show's over," Emerson said firmly, his authoritative tone dispersing the crowd. "Everyone back to what you were doing."
He turned to me, offering his hand. I took it, letting him pull me to my feet, acutely aware of the strength in his grip and the warmth of his skin.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes scanning me for injuries.
"I'm fine," I said automatically. Only then did I notice his gaze fixed on my forearm. Following his line of sight, I realized with horror that my sleeve had ridden up, exposing the telltale marks. I quickly tugged the fabric down, but from his expression, I knew he'd already seen everything.
"My office," he said quietly. "Now."
The walk to his office felt like a death march. I knew what was coming, knew I'd have to explain what he'd seen. My mind raced through possible excuses, but none of them sounded convincing even to me.
Emerson closed the door behind us and gestured for me to sit. He remained standing, his expression unreadable as he studied my face.
"Show me your arm," he said without preamble.
"Dr. Salvatore, I really don't think—"
"Your arm, Dr. Harper."
His tone brooked no argument. With trembling fingers, I pushed up my sleeve, revealing the neat rows of cuts that crisscrossed my forearm. Some were pink with healing, others still red and fresh from last night's breakdown.
Emerson's jaw tightened as he examined the self-inflicted wounds. "How long?"
"It's not what you think—"
"How long have you been cutting yourself?"
I couldn't meet his eyes. "Just... just since Mom... since the accident. Four or five days ago."
"These aren't from any fall," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "These are deliberate. Methodical."
I finally looked up at him, desperation creeping into my voice. "I know how it looks, but I'm handling it. It's just... it helps sometimes. When everything feels too overwhelming."
"You're not handling anything." His voice was firm but not unkind. "You're self-destructing."
"I'm fine," I insisted. "I just need to get through this rough patch with Mom, and then—"
"You'll be seeing someone tonight," he interrupted. "A therapist. After your shift ends."
"That's not necessary. I told you, I'm handling this."
"This isn't a request, Dr. Harper." His eyes met mine, his face darkening like storm clouds gathering. "Either you see someone about this, or I'll have to recommend you be placed on medical leave pending a psychiatric evaluation. Which would also mean delaying your residency advancement indefinitely."
The threat hit me like a physical blow. "You can't do that."
"I can, and I will. Your mental health is compromising your ability to function as a physician. I won't have you treating patients when you're clearly in crisis."
I stared at him, feeling trapped. Without this residency, I'd lose everything—my career, my future, any hope of paying for Mom's care.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "One session. But after that, you leave me alone about this."
"We'll see how it goes." He glanced at his watch. "Meet me in the lobby at six. We'll go together."
During my afternoon break, my phone buzzed with a friend request notification. I nearly dismissed it until I noticed the message attached: "Hi there! I'm Mark, Nancy's nephew. My aunt said you could use some friendly company. Hope you don't mind her playing matchmaker!"
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers against my temples, unable to suppress a weary smile. I'd completely forgotten about this. Nancy had actually followed through on introducing me to her nephew.
With a sigh, I accepted the request—rejecting Nancy's nephew outright would be awkward, and I'd have to face her disappointed questions tomorrow.
A message appeared shortly after: "Hi Freya! I'm Mark Bryant, Nancy's nephew. She mentioned you work at the hospital too - I'm a psychologist with a practice nearby. Hope you don't mind her playing matchmaker! Would you be interested in grabbing coffee sometime? No pressure, just thought it might be nice to meet."
I appreciated that he seemed polite and straightforward. I typed back: "Hi Mark, nice to meet you. I should mention I'm not really in a place for dating right now, but thank you for reaching out."
His response came quickly: "I completely understand. Thanks for being honest. Take care!"
And that was it. No pushing, no follow-up messages asking why or trying to change my mind. I had to admit, that was refreshing.
After a moment, I typed: "If Nancy asks, should we just say we met and it wasn't a good fit?"
"Good idea," came his quick reply. "Saves us both from her well-meaning interrogations. Thanks for being cool about this."
"Thank you for understanding," I responded, then put my phone away with relief.
My shift-end alarm saved me from dwelling on it further. I shoved my phone into my pocket and headed toward the lobby, where my therapy appointment awaited.
At six o'clock sharp, I found Emerson waiting by the main entrance. He'd changed from his white coat into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater.
"Let's go," he said simply, leading the way to his car.
As we drove through the city, I noticed we weren't heading toward the medical district where most therapists had their offices.
"Where exactly are we going?" I asked.
"You'll see."
The cryptic answer made me uneasy, but I assumed he was taking me to someone's private practice in a residential area. When we pulled into the underground garage of an upscale high-rise, however, my confusion deepened.
"This doesn't look like a therapist's office," I said as he led me to a private elevator.
"It's not," he replied, pressing his key card to the reader.
"What do you mean it's not?" Alarm bells started going off in my head. "Where are you taking me?"
The elevator opened directly into a sprawling penthouse apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning view of the city skyline, and everything was decorated with understated elegance that screamed money.
"Welcome to my home," Emerson said, shrugging off his jacket.
I backed toward the elevator, but the doors had already closed. "What the hell is going on? You said we were seeing a therapist."
"We are. He'll be here tomorrow." He moved to a bar cart and poured himself a drink. "Tonight, you're staying here."
"Like hell I am." I jabbed the elevator button repeatedly, but nothing happened. "Let me out. Now."
"I can't do that."
"You can't keep me here against my will! This is kidnapping!"
"This is intervention." His voice remained maddeningly calm. "You're a danger to yourself, Freya. I won't stand by and watch you destroy yourself."
I spun around to face him, fury overriding my fear. "You arrogant bastard! You don't get to decide what's best for me!"