Page 5 of When Hearts Unravel

But the opposite is true. Admitting you need help is the strongest step you can take.

A muscle pulses in his jaw. Then, his dark eyes—the Anderson eyes, since all of them, save Grace, have the same striking slate-gray eyes—soften in clear resignation.

“Fine. You got me. I have five pills left. Damn it, you’d think I could control my social anxiety after three years of therapy. I run a multi-billion-dollar corporation, for God’s sake.”

My lips twitch. “Mr. Anderson, I’ve told you my spiel before. This is body chemistry. It isn’t you. It isn’t personal. You wouldn’t tell a diabetic not to take insulin. Why wouldn’t you take meds for your anxiety?”

He protests, and I know what he’s going to say.I’m the head of an old-money dynasty and responsible for the livelihoods of thousands of people. People rather throw themselves into the fire than piss me off. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

I hold my hand up. “Nope. Not hearing it. You, mister, are a patient in this room. I’m the boss. I’m the queen of this hallowed space.”

Twirling my finger in the air, I motion at the luxurious private room inside the gentlemen’s club at The Orchid, which is a city in and of itself—Michelin starred restaurants, nightclubs, luxury apartments, a place where, if you were lucky enough to be a member, all your wishes could come true.

“Lucky me. Technically, I own this building,” he mutters.

“And technically, I’m good friends with your wife.” I send the refill to the pharmacy and shut my laptop. “I only do house calls this late for your family. So, lucky you.”

Maxwell smirks and stands before buttoning his navy three-piece suit. He, like his siblings, must have some Viking blood, because he towers over me. Then again, that’s not too difficult since I’m only five-foot-four.

After donning a wool coat, which is wise since the February chill in New York City is brutal, he turns to me.

“You know there’s a thing called HIPAA, right? You aren’t supposed to tell Belle what we discuss in our sessions.”

“I don’t need to tell Belle anything. I just need to mention her husband and baby daddy isn’t behaving and she’ll get it out of you.”

Maxwell chuckles. “Ball-buster.”

Someone knocks on the door as I gather my things. I curse myself for leaving my coat in the rideshare earlier when I was running late. This is what I get for ignoring my schedule and squeezing in a few last-minute patients this morning.

Seconds later, another tall man with the same striking good looks as Maxwell—thick dark hair, the same sharp jawline and piercing eyes—pops his head in.

He doles out a sly grin. “Olivia. What’s the verdict? Is the asshole healed?”

“Ryland,” I shake my head at Maxwell’s fraternal twin and hide my smile, “you know that’s not how it works. I’m a psychiatrist, not amagician. I can only help patients keep their symptoms at bay and teach them better ways of managing their conditions.”

Ryland chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If anything changes before our next appointment, Mr. Anderson,” I turn back to Maxwell, “let me know. I can be flexible.”

I’m always flexible for my patients because they need me. When dealing with mental health issues, one misstep can mean life or death.

He nods. “Why do you call me Mr. Anderson and Ryland by his name?”

My jaw tightens and a lump forms in my throat.

Because it’s safer. It’s a reminder for me to maintain professional distance. That way, I don’t miss the red flags.

And I won’t lose anyone else.

“Slow down, Mia!”

“Olive, live a little. The street’s empty.” She guns the gas and the car lurches forward.

I cling onto the handle for dear life while she laughs and cranks open the windows.

“We’re flying and free!” she hollers over the loud roar of the wind. To my horror, she then yanks open the passenger seat compartment and pulls out a box. “Open it!”

“What? You crazy? Slow down, Mia!”