Page 4 of Forbidden Bratva Virgin

Harold was sweet and all, and I absolutely treasured each and every opportunity I had to converse with people like him. But I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up with the quirky clients and goofy stories. If it wasn’t a conspiring cat tale, then the monkeys in some continents were going extinct. Or if it wasn’t either of those, then I found myself listening to unending stories of karma and curses and the lady with the hood and magic ball who was after a client’s destiny.

How much was I being paid to sit through all of that?

Not enough, that’s for sure.

As a certified therapist, with more than enough degrees to prove my qualification, I was much more deserving of realcases to tackle. A greater life called my name. More hard-nut cases-slash-clients were just waiting for me beyond the four walls of my current reality.

The timer on my iPad went off, jolting me back, and coincidentally, Harold concluded his narration.

I kept the iPad aside with one leg crossed over the other. “Okay, Harold, I hear you. However, we’re going to try a little something different.”

“Different?”

“Oh, yes. Just a tweak on your expectations. It’ll be somewhat of a test. So, I’m not going to recommend your cat to go see a priest, but I will recommend….”

I started with a list of things Harold could do, highlighting the ultimate trick: cat care.

By the time I was done, he looked skeptical, but I was positive that it would cure whatever problems the poor kitty had encountered due to his current living conditions with a frightened owner.

“Honestly, your cat might be suffering from the effects of neglect and is doing all it can to get your attention. Let’s try feeding it more often and playing, amongst the other things I mentioned, and we’ll see how that works out during our next session.”

“I’m not sure, but…whatever you say, Ms. Sinclair. Whatever you say.”

***

The moment Mr. Harold Plumley was up and out of my office, the smile slipped off my face, and I marched down to the program director’s office, fueled by the determination to spill my guts. Otherwise, I was going to burst, either in tears or frustration. Or maybe both.

Through the partially transparent glass walls gleaming in the light, I found her seated, her face almost buried in the screen of her computer and her fingers rapidly clicking away on the keyboard.

Three rapid knocks on the door disconnected her attention, and she raised her head. When our eyes met, a small smile settled on her red-painted lips, and she gave a curt nod, granting me permission to enter.

“Dr. Greystone. Good day, ma’am.” I shut the door behind me and momentarily got distracted by the ambiance of her office.

It got to me every single time I stepped foot through her door—all of it. This included the lights and their immediate calming effect intentionally installed for the sake of the clients, the cool air from the air-conditioning, the stunning view of the city from the tall windows, her small touches of life with abstract landscape paintings, and a healthy green potted plant. But most of all, how it perfectly suited her. The beautiful, kind, warm, and yet no-nonsense woman who controlled the activities that went on in this building. She was a huge inspiration for me to dream of becoming a powerful and successful career woman who was well-respected by everyone.

I clasped my fingers together, composing myself and the words that would flow from my mouth while ignoring the stings of my fingernails biting into my skin.

She leaned backward on her chair with folded arms across her bosom and a tease in her grin. “We’ve talked about the formalities, Hazel.”

If I could have a look in the mirror, I knew for a fact that my cheeks and neck had the glow of a ripened cherry.

In addition to her competence and charisma, she was stunning—front-page-magazine-worthy.Thatsort of beauty. She had everything other women struggled to get: the perfect slender hourglass figure, blue ethereal eyes, hair that spilled over her shoulders for days, and an incredible bone structure.

At thirty-four, she didn’t look a day older than twenty-five, and I dared to rate her a solid fifteen over ten.

If she decided to ditch this profession and quit helping people, she’d land a good deal overnight in the entertainment or fashion industry. And with that commanding aura, she was sure to boss her way to the front lines.

“I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Amelia.”

Chuckling, she gestured to the chair across her desk. “Have a seat and tell me how it went today with Mr. Plumley.”

Back to earth and to the real reason I came here. The weight on my chest suddenly felt heavier than it was seconds ago.

I clutched the edge of the desk, reeling my chair closer. Then, I swallowed. “Amelia, I love my job.”

“I’ll take that as an ‘it didn’t go well.’” The brightness in her eyes dimmed considerably, and she shook her head. “I knew he was going to be a handful, but I thought you’d be able to handle—”

“No, no, please. It did go well. It did.” I nearly bit my tongue.How do I tell her?“It’s just…how do I put this?”

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