Page 33 of Taken Online

I hate it.

And I think, finally, that I’ve reached the end of it.

"How have you been doing, Asher?" His voice is smooth and steady, that rich tone I used to crave now reduced to background noise.

"Fine," I say, maybe too quickly. My voice is tight, the edge obvious. But he doesn’t comment on it. He just nods and writes something in his damn notepad.

That stings more than it should.

When the session finally ends, he offers me one of those small, patient smiles, tight at the corners like he’s sorry for something he won’t say out loud. His eyes are soft. Too soft.

It cracks my pride in half.

I’m not a child. I don’t want to be treated like one. And whatever pity he’s been holding back since the party, he can take it and shove it somewhere dark and unspeakable.

I won’t tolerate it.

So, naturally, I make a decision. Not a good one. Not even a smart one. But a necessary one.

I decide to break into his house.

It’s not like I’m planning to do anything. I’m not going to steal or vandalize. I just want to see it. I want to understand him, find something real, something that proves he’s not this pristine, unshakable therapist he pretends to be.

Maybe I’ll find something weird in his house. Maybe a hidden drawer. A sketchy receipt. A closet full of secrets. I don’t know.

But what I do know is that I want him to treat me seriously. I want to knock him off his pedestal. I want to feel like we’re on even footing, instead of this strange one-way dynamic where he’s always three steps ahead and I’m left trying to claw my way up.

And maybe, if I’m honest with myself, I want to be caught.

When I get to his house, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

I peer through the windows. Nothing.

I check the back door. Locked.

Figures.

But unlucky for Blake, I know how to pick locks. I learned the old-fashioned way. I’m not proud of it, but it comes in handy more often than it should.

I crouch down with a pin and twist the lock until I hear the satisfying click.

Yes.

The door creaks open, and I step inside.

It’s just like I remembered. Immaculate. Tasteful. Almost clinical in its neatness. The same grand chandelier hangs above the open entryway, casting golden light across the polished floors. There’s something almost sterile about the space. Like it’s a model home, not one a person actually lives in.

I scoff under my breath.

Why does he need so much space? Two stories, vaulted ceilings, multiple guest rooms? What’s he compensating for?

I never confirmed if he had a girlfriend. I don’t think he does. At the party, I could’ve sworn the hot brunette with the glasses tried to flirt with him, and he turned her down. I even overheard the secretary whispering about it the next week.

I move up the stairs as quietly as I can, but the wood creaks beneath my feet. I wince and slow my pace.

There’s a faint buzz coming from upstairs, maybe a television or a sound machine. It’s hard to tell.

I remember his bedroom is on the left.

---