Page 80 of The Illusion
Fucking bitch. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and laugh. “Thank God for that. I would have hated to fire you. You don’t strike me as a worker.”
Take that, princess. I can tell by the way she stiffens that she got the insult. Good. Tit for tat. I should do this more often. Stop letting her use me as a goddamn punching bag. Thankfullywe're getting close to the therapist's office now. Just a few more minutes and I can drop her off and get some time to myself.
"You know," Devon says, and there's something different in her voice now. Something sharper. "Ireallyappreciate you doing this. Taking me to therapy. I know it's probably not how you wanted to spend your afternoon."
"It's fine."
"I just want you to know that I see how hard this is for you. Having me inyourhouse."
This is a trap. I can feel it. "You've been through a lot," I say. "We want to support you."
"That's really sweet." She smiles. But it looks fake as hell. "Asher swears you understand. He says you're really good at putting other people first."
That's me. A mix between a martyr and an idiot. I have to bite back a snappy retort. Luckily we've arrived. I pull into the parking lot of the therapist's office, a professional building that must cost a fortune to rent space in because the hourly rate for this therapist is eight hundred dollars. The price makes me a little nauseous.
"Well," I say. "Here we are."
"Here we are," she echoes. But she doesn't move to get out of the car. She's just sitting there, twisting her hair, looking at me with those wide blue eyes.
"Aren't you going to like, walk me in?"
Why the hell is she asking for this? I want to say no but the path of least resistance dictates that I just get it over with. So she doesn't narc me out to my husband later and say I was rude. "Sure."
We get out of the car and walk toward the building. Devon walks slightly ahead of me, her blonde hair swinging with each step. I follow, feeling like I'm in her shadow, like some fucking ogre or something.
The office is on the second floor. We take the stairs—Devon's choice, she says exercise is important and gives me a side eye, like my size eight ass is worrisome. I bite my tongue as I trail behind her, watching her small hips sway as she walks. Everything about her is a show. Even the way she climbs stairs.
The waiting room is exactly what you'd expect at a concierge therapist's office. High end upholstered chairs, deep, plush carpeting, the faint scent of lemon and cedar, and deep gray walls decorated with what are clearly original works of art. An impeccably coiffed woman is seated behind a desk to the left of the door. She smiles at Devon.
"Hi, Devon. Dr. Reeves will be ready for you both in just a few minutes. Would you like me to make you anything to drink?"
You.Both.
My stomach drops. "What?" I say.
The receptionist looks confused. "Would you like something to drink?"
"No, you said—" I turn to Devon. "What did she mean by 'you both'?"
Devon's expression is perfectly innocent. "I'm not sure."
But sheissure. I can see it in the smug look she gives me before she looks away. Before I can press her, the door to the inner office opens. A woman steps out, and I have to actively stop myself from staring.
Dr. Reeves is young. She's stunning, like she just walked out of a copy of Vogue. Her long dark hair is pulled back in a high, sleek ponytail, her face is obscenely perfect, definitely with the help of plastic surgery, and the red lipstick she’s wearing looks like it was applied with surgical precision.
She's wearing a slim black pencil skirt and a crisp white silk shirt styled like menswear, unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive but without being unprofessional. The red ChristianLouboutin heels that match her lipstick so perfectly it has to be intentional.
Her jewelry catches the light as she moves. Gargantuan diamonds at her ears, a Cartier Love bracelet on one wrist. Her nails are a perfect French manicure, her fingers long and elegant. I feel less than, and hate that I do.
"Devon," she says warmly, and her voice is smooth and cultured. "Come on in, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The familiarity in her tone makes my skin prickle. Then she looks at me, and her expression shifts. Cooler. Assessing. She takes me in from head to toe in seconds. "Soyou’reJulie," she says. "It was so nice of you to arrange to be here today.”
"I'm just dropping Devon off," I say.
“No, Julie.” Dr. Reeves tilts her head, her smile never wavering. "We're doing a family session today. I think it will be really beneficial for everyone."
My heart starts pounding. "I didn't—no one told me?—"
