Conceal

But my main issues were getting caught.

This way, I won’t. The warmth of the liquid in my mouth gives me enough time not to argue, and by the time I swallow, I know he’s right.

I need to talk to someone.

“When?” I ask.

“He’s expecting you in two hours.”

I place my mug down. “Wait. What? That soon.”

“The sooner you move on, the sooner the nightmares will stop.”

“I won’t move on until I have something on him.”

Jax worries his lip at my words, and I instantly feel bad. He’s trying. I know he’s trying. It’s not his fault my ex seems untraceable.

I can’t even call him my ex at this point.

Are we even legally married?

Probably not. That much is for sure.

Not if he married me under false pretense.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and he shakes his head.

“No. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

There is nothing more that either of us can say. It’s a rough situation. So instead of speaking, I walk up to him and wrap my arms around his stomach and bury my head into his chest.

He kisses my head and holds me.

And even if it’s only for a few seconds, everything feels right in my world.

Two hours pass by way too quickly. I raise my hand to knock on the door. I knock once before the door opens.

Standing in front of me is a man in his mid-to-late thirties, and he’s handsome in a serious way. He’s wearing a suit and glasses on his face, and I wonder if he’s supposed to be at his office right now, and I’m the only reason he’s here, or if he often takes clients at his home.

“Hello, you must be Willow,” he says as he extends his hand toward me. “I’m Preston.”

I go to move my hand, but it won’t move. I’m cemented in place. It’s as if all the nightmares have erased all the strength that I have gained through self-defense class. Touching him, someone I don’t know and trust, makes me shaky.

“It’s okay,” he responds, pulling back his hand. I give him a small smile.

“I thought I had moved past that . . .” I say, and he nods in understanding. He steps back, allowing space for me to pass before lifting his hand and gesturing toward what must be his office.

“Would you like to talk for a bit?”

I want to say no because, at the moment, having to relive the past few months makes me ready to dash. What I want to do is bury my head in the sand and pretend I don’t need to be here. But if I ever want to sleep again, I need to be here. And maybe Jaxson is right. As much as I hate my husband, there is a void still inside me from where the lie and my love used to be. Maybe I need to discuss it to fully understand why.

Or maybe I’ll never know the why?

Shit. I don’t know.

My head shakes back and forth as I try to clear my brain and find the strength to do this.

“It will be okay,” he says.

I look back to the door and then to his office.

My foot decides for me as I stride to the open door. But not the one that leads outside, the one that leads to something scarier.

The past.

When we step through the door, I’m taken aback by the room. It’s a full office with a couch and desk. It’s very professional, like this man. This man, who is asking no personal questions about who I am.

“Please sit,” he says as he walks over to his desk. He grabs a notebook and a pen, and I watch the movement with a steady gaze. “I know you’re not my patient, but I’d like to keep notes if you’re okay with it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I won’t put your name down. It’s only for me.” I incline my head in agreement and then sit down on the black leather couch.

“Okay, Willow,” he says as if he’s collecting his thoughts of what he can and can’t ask. “Let’s start by me asking simple questions at first. Would that be okay?”

“Yes, it’s okay,” I answer.

“How long have you been having nightmares?”

That’s the simple question? I want to laugh. There is nothing simple about that question. When I don’t answer, he gives me a soft smile. “How about this . . . you talk, and I’ll listen. Tell me anything you want. Start from the beginning or the end.”

I feel so stupid starting from the end, so even though I don’t want to, I start from the beginning. I tell him about my parents. About the accident that killed my mom. I tell him about my father drinking and eventually dying from supposed alcohol abuse. I tell him how I met my husband and fell madly in love, and then by the time I tell him about the phone call I heard, I’m shaking, and tears are dripping down my face.