“Good evening, Miss Roth. Bria du Mont, please feel free to call me Bria,” I respond and extend my hand. Her kindness engulfs me, putting me at ease. She reminds me of Quinn.
“Very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say and turn to the gentleman standing beside her.
“Good evening, Miss du Mont. Patrick Cole at your service as your private butler and gourmet chef.” His gravelly voice echoes around us, and he bows in my direction. He wears a black morning coat, a gray vest, and white-collar dress shirt. His light auburn hair in which a few strands of silver pop up and his emerald-washed eyes follow my every gesture. A few moments later, Patrick excuses himself to return to his duties.
After a quick tour of my bedroom, Elizabeth says, “Miss du Mont . . . er, Bria, if there’s nothing else, I’ll let you settle in. I’m available at any time, please don’t hesitate to ask for whatever you need. My contact information is on the entry table.”
“Thank you,” I say and look forward to relaxing for a few moments outside on the terrace, until I remember Dr. Bertrand. Glancing around, I find him sitting on the couch in the living room. He glances from me to his watch as if he realizes I almost forgot him. He points at the armchair in front of him. I sit down, my finger caressing the velvety armrest.
This is how the next two months of my life will look. My back digs into the seat as the soft material cocoons me in. Silence rings in my ears, a déjà vu passes through me, and I say, “If you’re waiting for me to start, neither of us will leave this room soon.”
His bushy eyebrows arch as he counters, “I see.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult, but I don’t like being challenged, and this seems like a power game.” I gesture between us and lean over my knees. ‘‘This isn’t my first session.”
His forefinger burrows in his cheek, his eyes boring into mine, and I wiggle in my chair. “Miss du Mont, for the next two months, I’ll be your psychotherapist. We’ll spend several hours a day together. After the first assessment I, together with another four specialists, will prepare a therapy plan to ensure we achieve the best results possible for you.”
He doesn’t blink as his light brown eyes hidden behind thick black glasses focus on me. He has a solemn attitude accompanied by the style to emphasize it too—a dark blue tailored suit, black shoes, and a black leather briefcase resting beside him. He emanates discipline and professionalism. David imposes a certain respect.
“The assessment is at nine tomorrow morning.”
He stands, strides to the door while I trail after him. I fidget with my fingers as I lift my chin while he eyes me. He grips the doorknob, and I blurt, “I hope I’m reparable.” Surprise flickers in his eyes for a second, and then his slim lips spread into a satisfied smile.
“Miss du Mont, there are few truly irreparable things. Allow me to help you.” I offer him a nod, and he continues, “Trust is fundamental.”
“Dr. Bertrand, trust isn’t something I easily give. I’ve lived mostly as a recluse for the past seven years. But I’m here because whatever I thought was living was no life at all.”
“You already took the most important step in the right direction. You asked someone for help. Good night. Until tomorrow.”
I stare at the door closing in front of me, and I frown, hoping he’s right.
Patrick appears behind me, his deep, low voice jolting me from my thoughts. “Miss du Mont, shall I wake you up tomorrow morning?”
“Mr. Cole, that’s unnecessary but thank you.”
I climb the stairs to my room, change into a pair of silky pants and top and crash on the mattress.
A light smell of lavender caresses my nostrils. But sleep eludes me. My brain plays catch up and remembers everything back to my first memory. Ugh! I groan into the pillow, turning and tossing in my bed, ruminating everything while self-doubt scrapes at my core.
But one question haunts and taunts me—who am I? I buried the old me years ago in a hospital bed when I lost everything that mattered and made me who I used to be. That carefree, loving, attentive girl is long lost. I’ve lived in a self-imposed numbness. And I buried a detached and only-passing-through-life self in another hospital bed where I survived and received another chance at living. Who am I except for the roles given to me at my birth? Who am I except for a daughter and sister to estranged parents and brother? Who am I except for the adopted child of Quinn and the string for a family bond to Alex? Who am I except being Damien’s?
Trapped inside my body and longing for a past I put to rest, with time I lost any sense of identity. I stand and stumble toward the mirror in front of my bed and ask my reflection, “Who are you?” My hazel eyes stare back at me, heavy and framed by dark circles from lack of sleep. I lift my fingers and trace the contours of my face and body as if to anchor me to the here and now.
Unable to find an answer, I swirl around and drop on the sheets enveloping me in cotton softness. My brain shuts off, while sleep carries me away.
BRIA
I rub the sleep from my eyes, stretch my body in lazy motions, and awake to the first rays of sun picking at my lashes. I amble to the bathroom, soak in a bubble bath for the next half hour while following the sun’s path upward. I close my eyes and bask in this feeling of peacefulness surfacing in me.
Freshly clean and refreshed, I put on a bathrobe, and dry my long, golden-brown hair into loose curls. I apply light makeup consisting of foundation, mascara, and blush. I twirl before the mirror, content with my outfit—an apricot lace, short-sleeve A-line knee-length summer dress that goes with my nude pumps.
Downstairs, Patrick doesn’t take long to notice me. “Good morning, Miss du Mont. What shall I bring you for breakfast?”
“Orange juice, a croissant, and some strawberry jam, please.”
He bows, and I slip outside through the living room doors toward the outdoor table. I set my napkin on the plate, and my counselor appears.
“You’re an early riser, Bria.”
I lift my gaze to her and respond, taking in her casual knee-length cream dress and matching ballerinas. “A self-learned habit.” She slides in the chair in front of me, and her tone drops to serious.
“I’d like to tell you about my exact role for the time you’ll spend here. As a counselor, I’m here to help you explore your feelings and show you alternative ways in which you can do certain things. I’ll treat everything you disclose with absolute confidentiality. The goal is to reduce your confusion regarding your feelings and to cope with various challenges. Counseling combined with the talking therapy has a purpose to improve your well-being and find the best way in which to achieve it.”
I tilt my head, my eyes staring into the distance where boats float by awakening me to so many memories.
“Where to begin?” I gulp, questioning more myself.
“With what you feel comfortable, for now.” Her soft voice encourages me.
“There’s nothing comfortable about my story,” I say, and inhale a mouthful of fresh air.
“Bria, you realized you needed help and came here where specialists advise and treat you. It’s a process until you learn how to manage your feelings. Learn to be patient with yourself. I’m not here to push your limits or boundaries but to find the balance you need to be comfortable. Every human being is exposed and susceptible to pain. But it takes great effort and strength to channel all the emotions toward moving on.” Everything she says sounds logical, and still, the doing part is the hard one.
My glance follows the boats gliding on the lake in the distance. I squint trying to distinguish our patch of land on the right side, and my heart constricts in my chest.
“My entire life has been about and because of Damien du Sky, my first and only love, the reason for my great turmoil and downfall. You should remember his name as I’ll mention it constantly. I loved him until my heart literally broke and my mind went numb as my body shattered at the loss of my unborn child. This all happened when I was eighteen.” My voice brea
ks, my lips quiver, and nothing comes out. I can’t say the entire story aloud. In the depths of my core, it sounded muffled and bearable, but aloud, it chokes me.
“We can take a break if you’d like.”
I jump to my feet and stammer, “I’m done for today.” I plod down the patterned stone alley. Birds chirp above me, and the leaves jiggle with their play.
A storm gathers inside me as I retreat to the living room where my second appointment for today awaits. Dr. Bertrand scans me through his glasses and points at the same armchair, a sad witness to a sad story. If it were a vivid thing, it would’ve turned black by now with every confession and story it has heard.
“Shall we begin, Miss du Mont?”
I nod, but when he peers through his glasses and slides them up his nose, I murmur, “Yes, and please call me Bria.”
“Why are you here?” My eyes wander from him to the wall where a detail-rich abstract painting of a sunflower hangs. A great question.
“To find my way back to myself and life, I presume.”
His nostrils flare with annoyance, but it disappears with me blinking.
“Miss du Mont . . . Bria, if this is to work, you have to give me more. We’ll waste a lot of time and energy if I need to drag complete answers out of you.”
My eyes widen, and my mouth drops. Irritation laces my words. “Dr. Bertrand, shouldn’t you be more tolerant and patient?”
His posture switches to him bending his upper body toward me, his sharp eyes boring into mine.
“I don’t intend to be harsh, but helpful. You won’t let me in if I don’t smash your defenses.” I cross my arms around me. He pauses, his features soften, his voice lowering gently. “Let me put it this way . . . you’ve spent a lot of time building an imaginary fortress in which reality can’t affect you. You’ve altered reality by constructing one in which everything was under your control and acceptable to you. It’s difficult for you to give all that constructed control up. But still, it was you who decided it was time. Time for what exactly, Bria? Why now?”
I grip my armchair, my knuckles whitening, and my nostrils flaring. “For starters, I’m broken and damaged. I had heart surgery a while ago. Miraculously, I survived it.”
“Didn’t you expect to survive it?”
“No.”
“Why accept it then?”
“No one is ever ready to go. As long as we live, we’ll always hope there’s a chance we’ll make it.”
“Did you want to die?” My heart thumps in my chest reminding me it beats, strong enough to keep me alive. I also hope for long enough.
“I prepared myself for it.”
“Please, explain.”
“Since I was eighteen, I’ve lived knowing I won’t live long. The heart attacks shredded my heart. It took me a while to realize the implications, the fact I would die without having even lived. Quinn and I sought out many experts over the years. I did it mostly for him while preparing for the obvious outcome. I struggled for a long time between wanting to live but not caring if I died. Is my answer satisfying enough? Can you work with my admission?”
Is this his grand master plan, to make me unleash everything I kept so hard buried? My eyes sting with tears threatening to burst.
“I’ve never been suicidal, just aware of my condition and desperate to control something, anything. I wanted to live, but I didn’t want to feel. Ironically, I had to feel first in order to have the courage to live. So, I prepared for death instead of life, because I was sure the former would come sooner.” A pause stretches, and he dips his chin in acknowledgment.
“How did everything start?”
My glance flies to the ceiling. A headache throbs behind my eyelids. I don’t feel prepared. Maybe I’ll never be able to open about something that sliced me so deep. I could smell the blood from my wounded heart and spirit if I sniffle hard enough. I cover my face behind my hands, and whimper, “It hurts, and I’m afraid.”
“What hurts exactly, and what are you afraid of? Allow everything you kept inside you for so long out.”
“Of everything. It hurts me to think my life could’ve been very different. Here I’m broken minded and with the scars on my chest to prove what I’ve gone through. This is what I am, a mess of scars, some visible and some buried, but the ones you can’t see are the ones that hide more pain behind them.”
My shoulders sag, and my head drops as I stare at my feet. “I’ll tell you about him, and our love. That hurts the most.” I drag my head in his direction, my vision blurring with unshed tears. “Such a silly young girl who believed she was lucky enough to find what millions dream of every day. But I had it, I had it all, until someone stole it from me. Even now, after everything I know and have gone through, I can’t let go, not completely.” My hands lift and crash on my lap, and desperation laces my words. “What should I do with me as the only thing I see in the mirror is an irreparable and damaged fool who loved until it killed her. Let me add almost literally.”
“Tell me about him. What happened?” His questions thunder in the pausing silence, and my heart twitches in my chest at the mention of him.
“My very first memory was of steel-blue eyes. His eyes. My mother said I took my first steps in his direction. My first word was ‘Dami’ as I couldn’t remember his full name at that age.” A small smile tugs at my lips, and I trace a heart shape with my finger on my leg. “Everything I ever saw and felt has revolved around him. With every year, my feelings for him increased. I’ve loved him for so long, and he’s always been a part of my soul. If I erased him, I would erase myself. Even after everything that has happened, he remains a permanent reminder of everything I lost and will never have again. He’s had my every first. Damien has always been there, the image of my happiest times and the image of the nothingness I faced and endured after him.”
I pause, pour myself a glass of water, the cold liquid alleviating my dried throat and go on. I tell him how he caught me in bed with someone else, how I lost the baby, how I developed a life altering heart condition, how I stopped laughing, living, socializing, how I distanced myself from my family and how I thought I deserved everything.
My nails scratch at the cushioned fabric, and I follow a petal gliding down the table, while I confide I would have given up the fight long ago if it wasn’t for Quinn and Alex, how I prepared myself for three long years, studied and worked until exhaustion to be seen as someone else rather than being capable of destruction.
“With every passing year the clock of my life ticked louder. There have been rare strikes of light through my numbness. In those moments I acknowledged that I am still alive, but not for long. I hated those moments because I missed Damien and wanted to see my family.” I shut my eyes because I can’t believe I am saying this all aloud.
“To witness hate in the eyes of the one who loved me once with an absolute adoration shoved me into an even darker place. But he made me feel too and in those fleeting episodes we met I was just a woman who felt . . . alive and not dying.” I lay my elbow on the armrest, cradle my face in my palm, and breathe.
“Seven long years I ruminated what happened that night in that hotel room to my mind and body. I found out this year at my birthday party. Someone drugged and played me. My cousin set me up, so she could be with Damien. She’s now his fiancée.” I shake my head. Bitter laughter escapes my quivering lips as my nails claw at the armrests.
My therapist frowns, and my glance darts toward the window. What are you doing right now, Damien? Because here I am bleeding for a shattered love.
“You talk about your death as it was a given. Did that change?”
I tilt my head to him, chew down my lower lip, and shrug.
“Neither of the two surgeries repaired my heart completely, the heart attacks I had caused severe damage. Dying on a hospital surgery bed was not the way I wanted to go.”
“But you could have survived too. What held you back?” he questions. I sigh.
“I weighed the risks. I didn’
t want my family to lose me like this, but think it was an accident. I kept them in the dark for so long about my worsening condition. I even constructed a new life in which I appeared stable. One year ago, I had a heart attack, and my doctor gave me a few months to live if I didn’t accept the surgery. I denied it.”
“Can you explain to me why? What happened on that day?”
“He said he will try his best, like all the other specialists before him over the years, but the survival chances are low. By then it exhausted me to pretend, to lie, to exist. I was tired all the time. My darkness conquered every day, every piece of me. My heart wasn’t getting better either.”
“On my twenty-fourth birthday, when Damien arrived with my cousin, Monica at his side, something switched in me. I turned blind to life.” I let the memory roll from me and shut my eyes. “I saw that day the image of the most hideous nightmare playing on my life’s screen.
“There was this raging battle inside me ripping me apart. I was so emotionally unbalanced that day, no wonder he succeeded to push me to the abyss with his words that night as my shields scattered on the floor. I had no protection.”
“What happened?”
“He put me back together only to rip me apart afterward with his accusations, his pain. But the worst was how his caresses made my flesh burn, and his kisses awakened not only desire in me but also a longing. In his arms, I felt reconnected and alive, but his words had the opposite effect. I can’t even comprehend what happened afterward. I only remember that Alex gathered me in his arms and sped us to the nearest hospital. Every force that pushed me vanished leaving my core an empty vessel. Neither Alex’s many attempts, nor Quinn’s unconditional love, could reach me in the depths of agony I locked myself in.” I close my eyes and breathe in and out, and my body relaxes.
“Do you blame him?”
“No.” His thick eyebrows shoot up. “I knew what I was getting myself into, but he didn’t. I didn’t stop him. I could have.”
Healing Love: A Billionaire Romance (Forever Us Book 2) Page 4