Page 190 of Sinful Lies

Jade

23 years old

Seven years ago

“Why the drugs, Jade?”

I scoffed, my legs on the couch, my arms crossed tight. “Why the twenty questions?”

Dr. Morano sipped her coffee, her face calm, steady—unshakable. “It’s my job to ask questions, to get past whatever wall you’ve built around yourself. The more I know?—”

“The better the diagnosis?” I cut in, my voice biting. “Pretty sure we already agreed I’m crazy.”

Her smile was soft, infuriatingly patient. “We agreed you weren’t crazy, Jade. You’re just?—”

“Weak? Selfish? Stupid? A mess of bad decisions, wrapped in guilt?”

“Hurt.”

That single word hung in the air, too heavy, too simple, and yet impossible to argue with.

“Ah, pain,” I muttered, letting out a bitter laugh as my eyes drifted to that awful painting on her wall. A picture-perfect family walking through a field of sunflowers. It was insulting, really. “My one and only constant companion.”

It had been two years now.

Two years since Stella and Thomas had died.

A year and a half since I’d crawled out of the psych ward and started wandering through life like a ghost, hollow and aimless.

Three months ago, I tried to fill the void—or drown it—with ink on my skin.

That tattoo set off the spiral. Cocaine. Alcohol. Nights I could barely piece together.

For the first time in two years, I thought I cracked the code and found the answer to the pain.

I overdosed.

But instead of rotting away in the bathroom of my favorite bar, I woke up in a hospital bed. They couldn’t even let me die right. The ER doctor handed me two choices, like I had any say in my own fate: rehab or therapy.

I chose therapy. Not because I wanted to. Rehab just sounded worse.

And that’s how I’d ended up here again, in Dr. Morano’s office, after over a year of avoiding it.

When she opened the door and saw me, her eyes flickered—sadness, pity, maybe even a flash of disappointment. She didn’t say a word, just motioned me inside.

I didn’t hesitate to throw myself onto the couch, shutting my eyes.

In a way, facing her was harder than facing myself.

Dr. Morano didn’t push—not yet.

She let me stew, probably waiting for me to crack first.

I stared at the ceiling, letting out a dry laugh. “What’s the plan here? Sit there all day until I finally break down and bare my soul?”

“Only if that’s what you need, Jade.”

I rolled onto my side, my eyes landing on that sunflower painting again.

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