The door to Chase’s office opened.
A woman in her late 20s stepped out—blonde, cardigan, sensible flats. She didn’t look at anyone. Just kept her eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched, lips pressed into a thin line like she was holding something back. The same look I’d seen on every female patient who’d left his office today: troubled, distracted, almost haunted.
The men, though?
Different story.
A guy in his 40s had walked out twenty minutes earlier—broad shoulders, easy smile, practically humming as he passed reception. Another one, younger, maybe early 30s, had left whistling. Butterflies in their steps. Content. Satisfied.
Something was off.
"Mr. Marlowe."
Chase’s voice carried from inside the office. I looked up. He was visible through the open doorway—seated behind his desk, glasses perched on his nose, pen in hand, looking every bit the calm, empathetic shrink.
"You’ve been here early," he said, not accusatory, just observant. "I saw you a couple of times when the door opened."
"Didn’t want to miss it, Mr. Bellings."
He gave a small, professional smile. "Well then, please, come in."
I stood, pocketed my phone, and walked inside. The door clicked shut behind me—soft, final.
I sat down with a sigh.
Chase leaned back slightly, pen tapping once against his notepad.
"Now..." he said, voice measured. "What would you like to talk about today?"
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and met his eyes.
"Actually, nothing in particular," I said. "I just feel like this place is good for my soul, to be honest."
"Ah, well that’s good to hear, Mr. Marlowe," he chuckled. "I’m glad you’re enjoying the job I do here. That flatters me."
"I mean, how do you even keep up with all the patients you have? There have to be over fifty, right?"
"It gets confusing at times," he admitted. "But I value my patients and work hard for them."
"You don’t take notes somewhere?" I asked casually. "Without notes it has to get messy. People blend together."
"It really isn’t," he replied. "After a while, you recognize faces. In a delicate profession like mine, you have to take responsibility. You can’t misname someone who already feels like no one listens to them."
"Mm."
Those didn’t sound like the words of some careless misogynist therapist. Either he wasn’t what I suspected, or he was very good at performing. I couldn’t just confront him about the reviews or accuse him of treating women differently. That would only make him cautious around me. I needed proof first.
"So, Mr. Marlowe," he said, clapping his hands once, "enough about me. Let’s talk about you."
I nodded. "Sure. Let’s talk about me."
╭────────────────────╮
SHOP [Page 2]
==========================
• Hypnotic Perfume (40c)
• Time Stop (90c)
• 500 Dollars (50c)
• 1 Ability Point (150c)
• 1 Mastery Point (160c)
• Desire Aura (100c)
• Reputation Point +30 (200c)
• Mastery Evolve (1500c)
• Random Passive Skill (1700c)
==========================
Credits: 5159c
╰────────────────────╯
Another Time Stop.
The world froze in place. I stood up calmly, walked around his desk, slipped his phone out of his pocket, and unlocked it with Face ID.
"Alright, Chase," I muttered. "Let’s see what you’ve got."
I checked his messages first. Ivy’s name was near the top. They barely texted, but the call logs were long. Twenty-five minutes yesterday morning. An hour two days ago. I frowned. What do you even talk about for an hour? Planning to end world hunger or something?
I closed the messages and opened his notes app. Everything was alphabetically organized. Aaron. Ahmad. Anne. Bill. I scrolled slowly until I found my name: Evan Marlowe.
I tapped it.
"Evan Henrik Marlowe." I frowned. How did he know my middle name? Probably background digging.
I kept reading.
"Social anxiety. Avoidant conversational tendencies. Frequently redirects questions back to therapist. Possible ulterior motive."
Ulterior motive? Seriously?
"Friend of Ivy. Began sessions shortly after relationship started. Coincidence or fixation?"
Wow. So now I was a potential stalker in his eyes.
"According to Ivy, two exes: Lily and Julia. Consider contacting for additional context."
I shook my head. Ivy really told him that much.
I backed out and began checking other names. I couldn’t find Ivy’s file, which was odd, so I tapped the closest female patient I saw. Irene. The note was short. Basic description. A couple of observations. Around a hundred words.
I checked another female patient. Similar length. Minimal detail.
Then I opened a male patient’s file. It was extensive. Over five hundred words. Detailed behavioral notes. Homework tracking. Specific examples from sessions. I checked another male patient. Same thing. Thorough, structured, meticulous.
I went back and compared a few more at random. The pattern held. Female patients had short summaries. Male patients had in-depth documentation.
What was this guy’s problem?
It wasn’t illegal. The notes weren’t inappropriate. But the difference in effort was obvious once you saw it. Either he subconsciously took male patients more seriously, or there was something else influencing how he treated women in therapy.
My Time Stop wouldn’t last forever. I locked the phone, slipped it back into his pocket, returned to my chair, and let time resume as if nothing had happened.
Now I just needed to figure out what to do with what I’d learned.
A few seconds later, Time Stop ended.
"I’m listening, Mr. Marlowe."
Was he really listening, or was he still categorizing me as the guy who showed up right after he started dating Ivy? Either way, I didn’t care what he thought about me personally. What mattered was whether he was actually the professional he pretended to be. The headlines, the interviews, the polished reputation, it all could have been branding. He was handsome, articulate, media-friendly. That alone could launch a career fast. And if tragic cases had put his name in the news, that kind of exposure could easily be spun into credibility.
"I talked with someone today," I said. "A woman. I think we hit it off pretty well."
"Oh?" He leaned forward slightly. "What did you talk about?"
"Just random stuff. I met her at a bar."
"That’s good, Mr. Marlowe. Did you notice any stuttering? Any anxiety spikes?"
"Maybe. I don’t really remember."
"If you can’t recall a specific embarrassing moment, that usually means the interaction went smoothly. Congratulations."
"Yeah. After my two exes, I think I needed that."
"Your exes?" he asked, as if this was new information.
"Julia and Lily."
"I see. What happened with them?"
"Lily wanted more," I said. "Money. Status. She left me for a richer asswipe. Sorry for the language."
"No judgment here," he replied calmly. "What can you tell me about him?"
"Not much. Nice car. I think he had a house in Italy. That’s about it."
"And Julia?"
"That one was more mutual," I said. "She was wealthy. I wasn’t. It felt cliché. I couldn’t keep up."
"Keep up financially, or emotionally?"
"Both, probably. She liked expensive brands, luxury trips, high-end everything. I was barely holding myself together. It started as a high school thing. We met online, realized we went to the same school, started hanging out, dated for a few months, and that was it."
"Do you think she felt relieved after the breakup?" he asked. "From what you’re describing, you felt inadequate."
"I don’t know. Maybe. You never really know what someone is thinking."
He nodded slightly. "I won’t assume her perspective. But I’m hearing that a lot of your self-worth is tied to money."
I shrugged. "When you’re constantly comparing yourself to people who have more, it’s hard not to."
The session continued with me talking about the "homework" he had assigned, breathing exercises, grounding techniques. I exaggerated a bit. He didn’t press too hard, which told me he either believed me or chose not to challenge it. Either way, he seemed less guarded than before. That was good. The less suspicious he was of me, the better.
"That’s the end of our session, Mr. Marlowe," he said eventually. "This one went better than the others. You were more open."
"Yeah," I replied. "It actually helped."
"That’s what we’re aiming for." He stood and extended his hand. "Take care. And don’t forget the homework."
I stood and shook his hand. "I won’t, Mr. Bellings."
I walked out of the office feeling like I’d made progress, not as a patient, but as someone slowly lowering his guard.
❤︎❤︎❤︎
I pulled the Jeep into the hotel’s circular drive, tires crunching softly over the thin layer of fresh snow that had started to accumulate on the pavement. The doorman in his long black coat spotted me immediately and waved the valet forward. I killed the engine, stepped out into the sharp evening cold, and handed over the keys with a quick nod.
"Thanks," I muttered, zipping my jacket higher as the valet slid behind the wheel and pulled away smoothly toward the garage.
Snowflakes drifted down in lazy, fat spirals, catching the warm glow of the hotel’s exterior lights and melting almost instantly on the heated stone steps. Holiday wreaths hung heavy on the brass handrails, red ribbons fluttering weakly in the breeze. A small crew of staff was unloading crates of champagne flutes from a delivery van parked to the side, New Year’s Eve preparations already underway, even if the city still felt half-asleep under the gray sky.