The Cure He Craves

Chapter 13

We left the gala right after that. Marcus apologized that I, his wife, felt faint. The penthouse is silent when Marcus speaks.

He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the city lights, a glass of whiskey in his hand. I’m still in my gown from the gala, the emerald silk feeling like a costume I can’t peel off. My skin still hums from the bathroom, from Adrian’s fingers, from the lie I told my husband just an hour ago.

“We should try for a child,” he says. His voice is flat. An executive decision.

The words don’t land. They float in the sterile air between us. I stare at his back. Try for a child. A baby. His heir. Another possession, another chain. My body goes cold. The memory of Adrian’s heat against me is so vivid it feels like a brand.

“Marcus,” I say. My voice is too quiet. “Now?”

He turns. The city lights halo him, but his face is in shadow. “Is there a better time? You’re young. Healthy. It’s the logical next step.”

Logical. I feel a hysterical laugh bubble in my throat. Logic has nothing to do with the ache between my legs, the phantom pressure of a man on his knees. Logic is the prescription I wrote. Logic is the lie I’m living.

“I’m not… I’m not in the mood,” I say. It’s the weakest, truest thing I could possibly say.

His glass hits the marble side table with a sharp crack. Not shattered. Just a warning. He crosses the room in three strides. His hand comes up, not to hit me, but to grip my chin, forcing my eyes to his. His fingers are cold from the glass.

“Your mood,” he says, each word a chip of ice, “is not a variable I consider. You are my wife. This is your function.”

I don’t flinch. I’ve learned not to. But inside, something hardens. A clinical detachment clicks into place. I am observing a subject. A violent, possessive subject. My husband.

“My function,” I repeat, my voice perfectly even. “Understood.”

He searches my face for defiance, for fear. He finds the polished calm I use like armor. It infuriates him more than tears ever would. His grip tightens, then he shoves my face away with a disgusted sound.

“Fine. Keep your mood.” He snatches his jacket from the back of a chair. “There are other women who understand their function without needing to be in the f*****g mood.”

He doesn’t slam the door. He closes it with a precise, final click. The sound echoes in the vast, empty space.

I stand there for a long time. The ghost of his grip on my chin. The ghost of Adrian’s fingers between my thighs. One a claim of ownership, the other a gift of surrender. Both have left me utterly alone.

I don’t cry. I walk to the bedroom, unzip the emerald dress myself, and let it pool on the floor. I look at my reflection in the dark window. A pale, composed stranger. A wife. A doctor. A woman who commands a king to kneel.

The next day, my office feels like a cage. The leather chair, the neat desk, the diplomas on the wall—all props in a play where I’ve forgotten my lines. I see the space where Adrian knelt. I feel the cold sink against my back.

My intercom buzzes, a harsh electric sound. My receptionist’s voice is tense. “Dr. Voss? A Mr. Vale is here. He doesn’t have an appointment.”

My heart doesn’t race. It stops. Then it resumes with a heavy, deliberate thud. I look at the door. “Send him in.”

He enters as he left the gala: in control. Dark suit, impassive face. But his eyes find mine immediately, and the air in the room changes. It thickens, charged with everything unsaid, everything done in a locked bathroom.

He closes the door. Doesn’t sit. Stands before my desk, a supplicant who is anything but.

“Our session was interrupted,” he says. His voice is low. A statement, not a question.

“It was concluded,” I say, my professional mask seamless. “You are not scheduled for today, Mr. Vale.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. It doesn’t reach his black eyes. “I’m not here as your patient, not today. If I was, it would be with Mr. K.” He takes a single step closer. “This environment is compromised. Your husband. The receptionist. The walls have ears.”

I keep my hands folded on the desk. “This is the only environment in which our… dynamic can exist. It cannot exist elsewhere. I told you. I am a married woman.” The words taste like ash.

“Your marriage,” he says, the word deliberate, “is a separate matter. This,” he gestures between us, “is ours. It requires a different venue. A private one.”

He reaches into his inner suit pocket. My breath catches. But it’s not a weapon. It’s a single, plain white keycard. He places it on the polished wood of my desk. It sits there, a silent accusation, a promise.

“Penthouse 60A. The Orion Tower. It’s secure. Anonymous. No schedules. No interruptions.” He leans forward, just slightly, his palms flat on my desk. “A different placement for our sessions, Doctor. One where you can truly practice.”

I look at the keycard. I look at him. The man who kneels. The king who offers me a kingdom of our own. The transgression is no longer a momentary lapse in a bathroom. It’s a room with a key. It’s a choice.

“This cannot happen again,” I whisper. The same words I used before. They sound hollow now, even to me.

He doesn’t argue. He just watches me. Waiting. The silence stretches, and in it, I hear the click of my front door closing as Marcus left. I hear the wet, desperate sound of my own climax in a public bathroom. I see the keycard, gleaming on the dark wood.

I do not touch it. But I do not tell him to take it back.