The Enemy’s Embrace

Chapter 3: Suffocated

ASHER

“I am done!” I snap as the door slams shut behind me with a resounding bang, and I don’t care that it makes the walls tremble. “Duck this therapy s**t,” I mutter as I head over to the window, pressing my head against the cool glass, trying to calm down.

My office is supposed to be my sanctuary, but even here, I can’t escape the chaos clawing at my mind. I march across the room, loosening the tie that suddenly feels like a noose around my neck.

Greg, my PA, is right on my heels, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. “Sir, if you would just—”

“I’m not going back,” I growl, cutting him off. My voice bounces off the high ceilings, harsh and unrelenting. “Forget it.”

“Mr. Kingston,” he starts again, his tone patient like he is talking to a child throwing a tantrum. “We agreed- ”

“I agreed to nothing,” I snap, rounding on him. “You and Victor forced me into this. And for what? So I can sit there and let that… that woman dissect my mind like I am some sort of experiment?”

Hw stops in his tracks, his expression calm but firm. “Sir, you decided to go because of what happened last month. Do you remember?”

I glare at him, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Of course, I remember.

The two days I disappeared.

It has never happened like that before.

One moment, I was at the office, preparing for a presentation that would have solidified a multimillion-dollar deal for the company. The next, I was standing in the middle of a secluded road, staring at the gates of the estate.

That f*****g estate.

It was the middle of the night, the air cold enough to make my breath fog and I had no idea how I got there, no recollection of what had happened in the hours before.

My phone has been buzzing incessantly in my pocket, dozens of missed calls and texts lighting up the screen.

And when I picked the call, it was Victor's voice booming through the line. “Where the hell are you?!”

I couldn’t answer him. What could I say? That I was back at that estate? That I couldn’t explain why my feet had carried me back to that cursed place?

When I returned to the office the next morning, the deal was gone. The clients had walked out, and the board was livid. That was the final straw for Victor.

Therapy wasn’t a suggestion anymore; it was an order.

“You have been losing time for years,” Greg says, pulling me back to the present. “But that? Disappearing for two whole days with no memory of where you went? That scared everyone. Including you.”

I sink into the chair behind my desk, the weight of his words pressing down on me.

He is not wrong.

I hate admitting it, but he’s not wrong.

“I went because I had no choice,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “But that doesn’t mean I have to keep going. She doesn’t know anything, Greg. She is just guessing, throwing out theories like they are facts.”

“If that was so, you wouldn't be this angry,” he says as he takes a seat in one of the armchairs across from me, leaning forward with his hands clasped. “Maybe she is. Or maybe she is right, and you are just too stubborn to admit it.”

I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t back down. He never does.

It is why I insist on keeping him around.

He is the only one who tells me the truth whether I like it or not.

“What exactly did she say that set you off?” Greg asks.

I hesitate, the memory of her piercing gaze flashing in my mind. “She said my blackouts could be tied to… guilt. Trauma.”

Greg raises an eyebrow. “And you think she is wrong?”

I don’t answer. Instead, my mind drifts back to the house, to the night everything changed.

I remember the sound of footsteps -mine- crunching against the gravel driveway. The faint glow of the moon illuminated the house, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts.

There was shouting inside, muffled but unmistakable. A man’s voice, deep and angry. A woman’s scream followed, sharp and terrified.

The door was ajar when I reached it. My hand trembled as I pushed it open.

Then… nothing.

Everything after that is a blur. Disjointed images. Blood. The lifeless eyes of a woman staring up at me. The metallic tang of fear coating my tongue.

I woke up hours later, miles away in my bedroom, with no memory of how I got there.

“Sir?” Greg’s voice pulls me back to reality.

Again

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. “She thinks she can help me ‘process’ what happened. But there is nothing to process, Greg. I don’t remember anything.”

“Then maybe that is the problem,” he counters. “Maybe remembering is the only way to fix this.”

I let out a harsh laugh, leaning back in my chair. “You sound just like her.”

He shrugs. “Maybe that is because she has a point. Therapy isn’t supposed to be easy, sir. It is messy and uncomfortable. But you have to face it. Otherwise, you will keep losing time. And if that happens again…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. We both know what is at stake.

Before I can respond, there is a knock at the door and my secretary steps inside, her posture stiff but professional. “Mr. Kingston, there is a Dr. Whitman here to see you.”

The air in the room shifts, heavy with tension as Greg and I exchange a look, his eyebrows raising in silent surprise.

“Let her in,” I say after a beat, my voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside me.

The door swings open, and Maeve Whitman steps inside, her movements graceful and purposeful. She is dressed the same as I had seen her in her office, her sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on me.

“Mr. Kingston,” she says, her tone polite but firm. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “What do you want?”