Too late I realize I’ve opened the door to an old argument.

“I hate to beat a dead horse, Hudson, but if we met in my office instead of here, you’d have a chance to escape that stress, if even for a short time.”

I throw him a glare. “If I had to meet in your office, I’d never pull myself away.”

“That’s a problem, Hudson. I’ve tolerated it for the past two years, but I feel we’re at a point in your therapy that this will no longer work. If you want to continue with your recovery, you need to make it your priority. You must decide that pulling yourself away is more important, that your mental health is more important than the work you leave behind.”

I feel my jaw twitch. I agree that my therapy is at a standstill. He’s likely right that to progress further, I’d need to rearrange my current priority list. However, that’s not going to happen. I have no desire to pull myself away. I don’t believe that I am more important than the work I leave behind. I don’t believe that I am more important than anything. And while working with Alberts has kept me from ruining other people’s lives, it hasn’t given my own life any more dimension than it had. I still haven’t found a way to fill the emptiness that resides inside. At least the game was enough to distract me from that. Now I’m ever aware of my hollowness, of my inability to feel more than a dull hum of emotion.

In the past, when the topic to meet in his office instead of mine has come up, I’ve persuaded him to leave things the way they are. Today, I sense he won’t let it go. And I’m not sure that I want to fight him any longer. I have the tools I need to continue on as I have without seeing him any longer. Could he fix me if I gave in? If I made more of the effort that he suggests I haven’t before? I don’t know. That’s what I must decide. Either I play it his way, or I don’t need him. I’m not ready to give a firm answer.

“Touché,” I say. “I concede that this arrangement is no longer working. Perhaps we should end our relationship altogether.” It’s a manipulation technique, I know. Like a child pouting. If I don’t get to play my way, I won’t play at all.

But my psychologist is too good to fall for my tricks. “If that’s what you want to do. You know this only works if you’re a willing participant.”

Part of me wants to cut him out of my life and move on, but I’m not comfortable with impulse-driven decisions. “I need to think about it.”

“Do that. If you decide you want to meet with me again—in my office—than call my secretary and make an appointment.” He stands, our session clearly over even though we still have another thirty minutes on the clock.

I suppose there’s no point in continuing if I have no real interest in progress.

I get to my feet and shake his hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I hope I see you again,” he says, the twinkle in his eye more of the look a grandfather would share with his grandson than a psychologist with his patient. He’s fond of me. I wonder what he could possibly see in me to feel that way.

Maybe I haven’t given him the chance I should.

Though I’m more concerned that if I did give him the chance, he’d still be unable to help me.

He’s almost at the door when he turns to me. “Remember, Hudson, true progress only happens with work.” With those words, he leaves me.

I shake my head in frustration. Of course I remember that. I’ve worked my ass off to get Pierce Industries to what it is today. If he thinks I don’t understand the value of hard work, then he has no understanding of what I do, of what I am. But in the back of my mind, I know that he’s talking about a different kind of work, and while I’ve already spent some time in the department of self-repair, I’m not sure that I’m willing to spend more.

At this particular moment of my life, the only thing I want to spend time on is finding out more about Alayna Withers.

The minute Alberts is gone, I pick up my phone and dial my secretary. “Were there any calls?” She knows not to interrupt me when he’s here, and I’m hoping my investigator has called.

“No, sir.”

I give a quick thank you and hang up, pausing only a moment before I’m calling him myself.

“Jordan here,” he answers on the first ring. The man used to be Special Ops and I’ve found his skills are beneficial in many situations.

“Have you found anything out yet?” I realize I’m being impatient. I’ve only given him a few hours to look, after all.

“Not much. I’m still waiting for her medical history and complete background check.”

Her medical history can’t possibly inform me of anything useful, but the background check might. “What do you know so far?”

“The basics. Her full name is Alayna Reese Withers, born and raised in Boston. Her parents died in a car accident when she was sixteen. She lives between Lexington and Third, near the Waldorf. She got her BA in business at Boston University and is set to graduate from NYU with a Masters in Business next month. Right now she’s working as an assistant manager at The Sky Launch.”

The Sky Launch? I wrack my brain trying to place the name. “The nightclub?”

“Yep.”

She can’t possibly be planning to work at a nightclub after her graduation. She has to have another offer. “Can you tell if anyone else has pulled her information recently?” If she’s got a job waiting, they’ll have checked into her.

I hear muffled movement as if Jordan’s cradling the phone on his shoulder while he looks for the answer. “The system says there was one other pull of her credit history. Yesterday.”

“Dammit.” I wonder which of my competitors was lucky enough to earn her yes. “Find out who ordered that.” Then I’ll prepare my counter proposition.

“On it.”

“And call me the minute anything new comes in.”

“Yes, Mr. Pierce.”

I’ve just hung up when Patricia calls me again. I pick up the receiver to answer when my office door is flung open and Celia parades in.

“I’m sorry, sir,” my secretary says in my ear. “I was calling to announce her and she just walked in.”

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of her.” I hang up, cursing under my breath. Celia’s the last person I’m in the mood for, but Patricia isn’t any sort of bouncer.

Celia slinks in and half-sits on the far corner of my desk. “You’ll take care of me, will you?”

I ignore her suggestive tone. “Two days in one week, Celia. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I put enough bitterness in my final word that she can’t mistake that there is anything pleasant about her visit at all.

Immediately I feel a pang of guilt. It’s not Celia’s fault that I no longer want to be around her, rather it’s my fault. All of it, my fault.

She doesn’t let my tone ruffle her. “Oh, come on, Hudsy. Don’t be that way. I’m not the enemy.”

No, she’s not. I’m the enemy. She’ll never see it, though, so it’s my job to keep the distance. “Why are you here?”

There’s a gleam in her eye when she smiles. “I have something that I know is going to interest you.”

“Oh?” I sound bored, and I am.

“I’m serious. You’re going to want in on this.”

In on this? She can only be proposing a game. “Celia, I’ve told you, I don’t play anymore.” I shift my focus toward my computer screen, pretending to go back to whatever I was doing before she arrived.

She doesn’t get that I’m dismissing her—or doesn’t care. “You’ve told me, you’ve told me. Now I’m telling you, you’ll want in on this.”

I should kick her out now, pour out the bottle before I’ve even taken a sip, so to say, but I can’t help myself. Even with my attention turned, my pulse has quickened and the moisture in my mouth has increased. Her eagerness is contagious. And I’m curious. Too curious.

I can’t let her know. “I won’t want in on anything. But since you’re here,” I casually turn back to face her, “what is it you’re planning?”