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“I deserve a man who’ll actively fix himself. I deserve someone who not only will put me first, but will make sure he’s taking care of himself so we have the best shot at a happy forever. You need to do the work, Rex. Velowake is easy, but it isn’t good for you. Indulging yourself in pleasure and alcohol will numb your pain, but it doesn’t change you. Words are cheap, action is hard. You need to put in the work, then we’ll talk.”
My chest aches, but I know it’s the right thing to do. I need to put in the work for myself too.
For the next few minutes, there’s nothing but the quiet sounds of our breathing. His deep gaze roves over my face, as if he’s reading my mind, my thoughts, as if he’s memorizing every inch of me.
And I do the same to him. His beautiful, expressive eyes. His soft lips. The thick, rough scruff hiding his jawline.
Rex rolls his lips inward, then straightens, a new determined glint in his eyes. My report crinkles in his tight grip.
He dips his head in a curt nod. “Understood.”
Then he steps out of my apartment, but before he turns away, he gives me a vow.
“You won’t be disappointed.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
I pull the billof my baseball cap low on my forehead as I slide my phone back into my pocket, satisfied at the email I just read from the private investigator I’d hired during the cruise.
Subject: Mission Accomplished (Almost)
Rex,
The item you asked me to track down has been located. Finally.
I’m confirming the details and ensuring the seller’s not trying to pull a fast one, but so far, everything checks out.
Do I have your green light to move forward with thetransaction?
Let me know. Preferably before they change their minds or vanish into the ether.
Regards,
Emerson
I, of course, told him he has carte blanche. Anything he needs to get the item to me.
Emerson Clarke is one of the best in the business, known to be snarky, discreet, but professional when needed. He helped Grace and Taylor unravel some sensitive issues a few years ago that could’ve derailed their lives.
A cool spring breeze drifts across my skin as I stop in front of the building housing Eataly in the Flatiron District. A faint whiff of basil and garlic wafts from the vents. Moisture clings to the air after the light showers this morning.
End of April in the city is beautiful.
At the recommendation of my new psychiatrist, Dr. Evan Sturgeon, who specializes in post-traumatic stress disorders, therapy isn’t only about talking and medication. It’s also about getting in touch with yourself and doing things that bring joy. Even if the joy is tinged with pain.
Considering how much I’ve improved in the last three weeks, the doctor knows his shit.
This is why I’m about to walk into a cooking class taught by none other than Giacomo Valenti.
Olivia was right. I’ve been officially diagnosed with PTSD since, as Olivia said, C-PTSD isn’t officially recognized in the States yet becauseit isn’t in the diagnostic manual. But Dr. Sturgeon said practitioners up to date with the newest science and the international standards will agree that’s what I have—C-PTSD with dissociative features.
Disassociation because of trauma, sleep deprivation, and the fucking Velowake. Apparently, I had unresolved PTSD from Mom’s death, which triggered hallucinations in the form of Casey. Things took a turn for the worse after Raya’s death. My mind then played tricks on me with the blackouts. The doctor said my consistent lack of sleep and heavy reliance on the Velowake I got from the black market deteriorated my condition, since both could cause these symptoms.
Who’d have thought it was that simple?
It’s a travesty no one made the connections until now, but then I wasn’t completely honest with my doctors before. I didn’t want to shed my mask or talk about my past. I was ashamed of my Velowake usage too—a grown-ass adult who needed pills to function.
It’ll be a long journey to undo the damage I’ve done to my mental and physical health, but we have a plan. I’m currently knee-deep in the first and second phases of a three-phase treatment plan.
