Chapter 3 | Closed Doors
1099 Words
Leona’s POV
I showed up at Dr. Volkov’s office a few minutes early, my hands still faintly scented with bitter coffee despite scrubbing them down in the café bathroom. The same receptionist glanced up briefly, recognition flickering behind her eyes before she dived back into her screen.
“Leona Winters for Dr. Volkov,” I said quietly, barely above the soft hum of classical music floating through the waiting room.
“He’s with a patient. Take a seat, he’ll see you soon.”
I sank back into the exact chair where I’d sat the first time the one that felt like a permanent part of the room now. Across from me, a woman stared like I was a new exhibit in a museum. I avoided her gaze and instead found the loose thread on my sleeve, pulling at it like it might untangle this nervous energy knotting my chest.
This time, though, the flutter wasn’t just anxiety.
The door to the office cracked open, and a woman in her forties stepped out, blotting her eyes with a tissue. I quickly looked away there’s something sacred about watching someone’s pain unguarded. Then his voice thick with that Russian accent I’d come to know all too well cut through my spiraling thoughts.
“Leona. Please, come in.”
I rose, keeping my eyes glued to the threadbare blue carpet until the door shut behind me. Only then did I dare to look up.
He was closer than I’d expected. Close enough to catch a subtle, rich scent something woody, expensive. He looked like he belonged to a world of quiet power, owning this swanky private clinic in the city, clients coming and going like clockwork.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked, motioning toward the chairs we’d occupied before.
“Fine,” I replied on autopilot, easing into the armchair. The leather was still warm, a ghost of the last patient’s presence.
He gave a small, knowing smile and settled across from me. “Fine. Funny word. It means everything and nothing all at once.”
Today he wore a charcoal suit and a deep blue tie that made his amber eyes practically glow. The gold ring on his right hand caught the light as he leaned in, elbows on knees, like he was trying to read me through the air between us.
I caught myself wondering What’s his marriage like? Is his wife stunning? Were they teenage sweethearts? Kids? Happy?
No. Shut up, Leona. He’s your therapist, not your romantic daydream.
“Let’s try again,” he said, voice patient but firm. “How are you today?”
I swallowed, unused to being pushed like this. “Tired. On edge.”
“Better,” he nodded. “What’s got you on edge?”
“Work was hectic,” I said, half-true. “And… stuff at home is rough.”
His brow rose. “Home, your apartment? I think you wrote about living with a roommate?”
“Zoe,” I said, almost surprised I kept talking. “She told me this morning some guy she brought home last night is crashing with us ‘for a few days’ without even asking.”
His face stayed calm, but something flickered behind his eyes. “That bothers you.”
“It’s her place too, so she has a say”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” His tone stayed gentle but unyielding. “Does it upset you when she makes decisions that affect your space without your input?”
Put like that, the answer was obvious. “Yeah.”
“Did you tell her how you felt?”
I looked down at my hands, remembering Zoe’s words: You never stand up for yourself.
“Not really. I just… left for work.”
“Why?”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with expectation.
“It’s easier,” I said finally. “Confrontation makes my anxiety spike. And Zoe can get… intense when she doesn’t get her way.”
“Intense how?”
I shifted, uncomfortable. “Yelling. Slamming doors. Once she threw my books into the hallway because I asked her to turn down her music before my early shift.”
He straightened, shoulders tensing, eyes narrowing slightly. “Has it ever gone beyond that? Beyond property damage?”
Heat crept up my neck shame, but I wasn’t sure why it was mine to carry.
“A few times,” I admitted softly. “When she’s drunk. She shoved me into a wall once. Slapped me another time because I accidentally used her expensive shampoo.”
His jaw clenched, muscles working beneath the skin. “This is abuse, Leona.”
“It’s not that bad. I had it worse in foster care,” I blurted out. “She apologizes afterward, which not many people do. And I can’t afford to move right now.”
“Not that bad,” he echoed, his accent thickening slightly. “Tell me if a friend said her roommate was hitting her, what would you say?”
I looked away. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because…” The words stuck in my throat. “Because Zoe’s right. I let people walk over me. I don’t speak up when I should. I avoid conflict like it’ll break me. Maybe it would. I’m tired of pretending I’m strong when I’m not. I’m weak… and I hate that.”
He leaned forward, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “And you think that justifies her hurting you?”
Hearing it said out loud made it sound ridiculous.
“No one deserves to be hurt, Leona. Not for any reason.” There was something raw beneath his calm controlled anger that didn’t fit his usual professional mask. “You said confrontation triggers your anxiety. How long have you lived with Zoe?”
“Five months,” I answered. “My last roommate left suddenly, and I couldn’t afford the place alone. Zoe answered my ad. She seemed normal.”
“How often does the physical stuff happen?”
I thought back. “Once or twice a month. Usually when she’s drunk or fighting with some guy.”
“That’s once or twice too often.” He jotted something down the first time I’d seen him write during our sessions. “You said you can’t move out. What about other options? Friends you could crash with?”
Marion’s face popped into my head her kind eyes, her offer of her spare room. “My boss at the café offered once, but I didn’t want to impose.”
- Writer
