I was still lying in the same position Vincent had left me in, strapped by my wrists to the table, the hard surface biting into my spine. The dress did little to keep me warm, and for once, I actually missed those awful grey sweats. But that was the least of my problems now.
James walked to the back of the room, dragged the visitor chair over, and sat beside me. I didn't look at him. My eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the tiles and making out shapes.
"I'm guessing you're not thrilled to see me," he muttered as he sat down, more to himself than to me.
My fingers twitched. Part of me wanted to scream, cry — do anything other than smile at him. Not that it was his fault.
He let out a breath — a short, disbelieving laugh or an exasperated sigh. He adjusted the chair, sat back, crossed his legs, and tried to settle into some therapeutic rhythm, like he hadn't just walked into a room with a ticking time bomb. I could tell he was nervous.
"So, stupid question, but... how are you feeling today? On a scale of one to ten."
I chuckled bitterly. Didn't answer.
"Come on, Emily, work with me here. I can't help if you won't talk."
"I don't need your fucking help," I retorted, finally speaking.
He didn't press, just exhaled slowly and nodded, like he'd expected it.
Yes, I was being stubborn, but I wasn't in the right mindset to be "helped." I'd already made up my mind, I wasn't going to tell him anything.
"Alright," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "No help then. Just conversation."
I gave a short, dry laugh. "Same thing."
He ignored it. "I heard you've had quite the week. Dr. Thorne filled me in on your recovery, and... I heard about what happened with Dylan."
I hummed. He waited. Gave me a full ten seconds to say something before continuing.
"Look, I'm not here to interrogate you. I know you're not going to spill some great secret. But I'd like to understand..." he gestured vaguely, "this version of you. The one that came back from the ward. Because this isn't the Emily I knew before."
I let the silence stretch long enough to become hostile. Then I muttered, "You're wasting your time."
"Maybe. But I'd rather waste it here than pretend everything's fine on paper. Dr. Thorne thinks we should resume therapy. And I agree."
I rolled my eyes.
"Emily," he said, gently now. "Last time we spoke, you had a full-blown panic attack and were terrified of what was happening to your mind."
My silence answered for me. What was I supposed to say? That I wasn't scared anymore? That I was past that, even though I wasn't?
Truth is, I was scared. Underneath the tough exterior, pretending to be okay, and the reckless determination. The whole situation scared me, how could it not? I was still myself, somehow. Just not the same. I'd built walls, and he could see that, even heard it in the tone of my voice and the sarcasm.
"You're different now," he said.
He glanced at the strap around my wrist, probably thankful I was restrained. He folded his hands, sat still for a beat, and looked at me over his glasses.
"Fear's not the enemy. But recklessness is. And the way you're going, it'll be your downfall."
"Oh, save it," I snapped, finally turning my head towards him. "I've lived in fear my whole life! My father, Tyler, this place! And what did that get me? It's about time I fought for once!"
He paused when I mentioned my father. His eyebrows pulled slightly, but he didn't ask. He made a note on the clipboard. A few sentences. I watched the pen move.
"And after everything, you're still here," he said quietly, still writing. "That has to mean something."
"What are you writing?" The edge in my voice had gone now, replaced by something less certain. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.
He paused mid-scribble, then glanced up at me like he was weighing whether or not to lie. "Observations," he said, voice low and steady. "What I see. What I think... might be good to talk about later."
I hated how calm he was. How much sense he made, even when I wanted to tear him apart. I hated that some part of me still wanted him to be right.
"Observations," I repeated, scoffing. "Like what? That I'm 'agitated'? 'Uncooperative'? Showing 'signs of delusion' again?"
"No," James said, setting the clipboard down slowly, carefully. "That you're tired, upset, and angry. And that maybe, for the first time, you don't know what to do with it."
I inhaled… because he was right.
The silence now felt thick. Not negative this time. Like something was settling between us.
"You're acting like you've lost everything," he said after a while. "But I see someone who still wants something. Otherwise, you wouldn't be fighting so hard. You wouldn't be this scared."
"I'm not scared," I whispered.
He nodded. "Okay."
I hated that answer. That okay meant 'I know you're lying, but I'll let you say it anyway.'
My wrists ached from the restraints, but I didn't ask to be let out. Some part of me — some sick, fractured part — felt safer like this. Contained. Manageable.
"What about Tyler?" he said, changing the subject with a sharp exhale.
I blinked. "W-What about him?"
"What's going on between you two?"
The air shifted. My body went still, like something inside me locked up. I stared up at the ceiling again. That same crack in the tile. My lifeline.
"I don't know what you mean," I lied. I didn't want to talk about him. Not right now.
"Emily—"
And then, without meaning to, I broke. I hissed through clenched teeth, my eyes burning, chest aching. "I'm sick of his shit."
"The way he talks to me. Looks at me. Touches me. Teases me. Makes me fear him. Makes me..." My mouth and eyes clamped shut. I didn't mean to say that much. It just slipped out. But it was too late.
"Makes you what? Has something happened between you? Emily?"
I didn't know what to say. My voice caught in my throat. I blinked once, hard, and swallowed it all back.
'The deal, the tension, the soft threats, the way I...' It was all there, right behind my teeth, but I held it. "No," I said, barely a whisper.
I chose not to indulge him — the deal, the whole thing with Dylan, my promise to save Tom — it was none of James's business. He would only ruin it for me. Ruin the plan.
When he leaned forward again, slowly, pressing his elbows to his knees, he looked me dead in the eye. Mine widened briefly.
"I know Tyler," he said, his voice turning serious. "I know how he works. He's cunning, unpredictable, manipulative... and he always plans three steps ahead. He knows your next move before you do."
My hands curled into fists. The tears fell. I bit the inside of my cheek. My resolve was starting to splinter.
"He thinks he owns me," I said quietly, voice shaking.
James nodded, but it didn't feel like approval. More like confirmation. Like something he'd suspected. "Has he touched you in any way, perhaps... inappropriately?"
I flinched. A tiny, involuntary movement. I kept my mouth shut.
"Emily," he said again, voice lower now. "Has he done anything to you?"
I shook my head. My throat closed around the words. "Not outside of Acts, and never inappropriately... He's too careful."
James just listened, like every word was sacred.
I continued. "He knows how to get in your head before he ever lays a hand on you. So when he does, it's just an extension of something he already took."
"He hasn't gone too far..." I added, quieter. "Yet."
"But you think he will."
My silence said everything.
Finally, he stood. Took a slow breath and moved towards the counter. With his back to me, he said: "You won't win against him, Emily. No one does."
I gulped.
"Whatever you think you're planning," he said, with a beat between the words, "it's not going to work. Not in the way you think it will."
My pulse flared. Did he know? Did he already know about the deal or my plans? Or both?
'Fuck.'
"I can handle it," I whispered. My voice cracked halfway.
He didn't soften. "No. You can't. Believe me... You're not the only who's tried."
That hit a nerve. I looked away, jaw tight.
"That's all for today," he said. "You'll stay on your current meds. No sedatives for now. But if things shift, I'll need to reassess."
I sighed and let my head fall back against the table.
He moved to the tray, picked up the paper cup. I opened my mouth, let him drop the pills in. The bitterness hit instantly and clung to the back of my tongue as he filled a cup of water from the sink and handed it to me. I gulped them down with a wince.
Then he turned to the drawer. Opened it. I tensed automatically.
He took out a vial — deep purple, unmistakable — and a prepped syringe. No hesitation. No commentary.
"James—"
He didn't look at me as he drew the liquid and tapped it.
"Time for your IPD, Emily," he said. "Tyler wants you ready for tomorrow."
My chest tightened. "W-What?"
"Act four... I'm sorry."
A chill went through me. Whatever fight was left in me kicked up, adrenaline rising. "No," I said, voice low, panicked, pulling at the restraints like they might snap if I tried hard enough. "James, wait—"
But he was already moving, the syringe steady in his hand. Not menacing like Dylan, not cold like a nurse. Gentle in the face but detached in the actions.
"I'll make this quick," he said gently. "Try to stay still for me."
I jerked, wrists twisting harder against the leather brackets. I needed to move, to do something. I kicked my legs. But it was useless. I was locked down.
He leaned over, pressing one hand to my jaw, pushing my head back to expose my neck, firm but not rough.
I cried out in panic. "Don't—please—"
The needle slid into the side of my neck.
White heat. Then cold. A sharp burn that dissolved into dizziness before I could finish a scream. My back arched off the table.
The room swayed, fractured, then spun outright.
I started hyperventilating. My stomach clenched. I felt powerless. Violated.
James stepped back, already capping the syringe. "It's okay," he said, trying to soothe me, but the words were just hollow. "Try to relax, it's okay."
But I blacked out.