Revenge In A suit & Tie

Olivia’s Healing: Calling For Therapy. Calling For Redemption

When I first got news that Olivia was in therapy, I refused to believe it.

Not because she wasn’t capable of healing, but really, I doubted it if I ever dared to be honest, for on second thought, for almost all her life, she was a woman who would more often choose to embed her wounds into a weapon rather than truly face them.

Olivia lived for control. She could have been rated as the very best at taking her pain, somehow spiraling it into a dagger to cut me in moments whenever I was at my weakest. The image of her locked in some sterile therapy box, speaking aloud the truth she had blocked for years with layers of manipulations and pride, was... impossible.

And yet here we were.

It was Connor who had told me, with a reserved, protective kind of tone: "She asked for help, Sierra. Voluntarily. For weeks she has been meeting with a therapist."

I stared at him; I was dumbfounded. I exclaimed, "Olivia? Our Olivia? The one who tried to rip me to shreds, piece by piece?"

There was a slight smile that crossed Connor's lips. "Well, people do surprise us. Sometimes for worse, sometimes for better. And maybe, this time, it's for the better."

I wanted to laugh, to scoff, to shake my head and say people like Olivia never change for anything, but that stubborn little flicker of compassion inside me refused to be put out.

"What if it is just another game?" I whispered.

Connor's eyes softened. "What if it isn't?"

The very first time I saw her post-gala humiliation, I nearly did not recognize her.

She was not my Olivia Hale in all-star perfection where, as flawless as her outfits were, sharp were her words, and the make-up was armor for her, while the chin was up in superior disdain.

She looked... human.

Her hair, which would usually be molded into some intricate style, was pulled back with an unstudied nonchalance into a ponytail. Her eyes, barely rimmed by mascara, were revealing tired circles underneath them. And her posture, just this little slouch with those hunched shoulders drawn inward, screamed of the vulnerability I never expected her to really possess at least to this degree.

"Sierra." It sounded like my name was something fragile. Not an insult, not a weapon. Just... my name.

I didn’t answer. I felt my throat tighten up as I felt my instincts telling me to flee, to protect myself. But she went on: "I don’t expect your forgiveness... I just... I need you to know I’m trying." This crushed me worse than anything she had done before, with all her cruelty.

We wound up sitting in a relatively quiet coffee house just off town. Neutral ground. I watched her stirring her drink over and over again, never taking a sip, her fingers trembling on the ceramic cup.

"I've been seeing somebody," she said. "A therapist. Twice a week."

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t trust myself with my own voice.

"I thought I could handle it on my own. The anger. The jealousy. The... emptiness." Her eyes glistened as she glanced up toward me. "But I couldn’t. Every time I tried to fill it, I just made it worse. With lies. With cruelty. With hurting you."

Her words hit me in places I thought were healed. Because they were not lies anymore.

And for the first time, I saw not Olivia, the rival, not Olivia, the torment, but the anguished woman who had been clawing at the wrong things to feel whole.

Still, compassion does not mean trust.

And as she spoke, I realized I had been gripping the edge of the table, caught between two truths:

She was trying.

And she had destroyed me once before.

So I listened and kept my walls intact.

"My therapist told me I've done the same thing my entire life - measured myself against others," Olivia stated as her hands twisted the napkin into knots and subsequently through it down like a primeval wound. "When I lost, I attacked. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, Sierra. Because.. because Damon loved you.

And I thought if I could destroy you, I might feel whole again.”

Her admission made me flinch. The truth was jagged and violent.

“Do you hear yourself?" I asked softly. "You nearly destroyed me because of your insecurities?”

Her eyes pooled with tears she tried unsuccessfully to blink away. "Yes.

And I hate myself for that."

The words lingered like energy between us. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether to believe her or to laugh at the insanity of it.

But when she looked at me and really looked at me, I saw no malice. No trickery.

Just a woman standing on the brink of herself, pleading not to tip over again.

In the following weeks, I found myself reentering her orbit in ways I could not have anticipated. Not friends, not yet, perhaps not ever, as something else. Witness.

Maybe. Observer. Active observer in her act of redemption.

Once, she asked me to observe a session with her therapist. At first, I thought it was a scheme, a measure to elicit sympathy. But curiosity won out, and I complied.

The therapy office was warm and softly lit, consisting of shelves of books and plants, that flourished in large wide windows. Olivia sat across from her therapist, knees somewhat in, like a child.

I sat to the side, slightly, in silence and distraction from the knot in my stomach.

“Why do you think you hurt Sierra?” the therapist inquired softly.

Olivia swallowed, eyes momentarily darting to me, then back down. “Because she had what I wanted. And, instead of confronting why I felt so empty, I blamed her. I told myself if I could just take her down, maybe I’d stand taller."

Her voice broke. “But I just went lower.”

I didn’t know when the tears began to fall on my cheeks, but they did. Not for me but for her too.

Because in that moment, I realized healing is not always about justice. Sometimes healing is simply seeing your abuser speak the truth aloud.

Afterward, we sat in silence in the parking lot. She never tried to apologize again. She never begged for forgiveness. She sat. And that, for some reason, said more than any apology.

But while I watched her take cautious steps toward healing and a new start, I couldn't shake the nagging hope that pestered at me.

Because redemption doesn’t change the past.

And scars don’t vanish overnight, no matter how well they are hidden.

One evening, just as I was leaving the house to meet her for another coffee, Damon stopped me at the threshold.

"You are meeting her again?" There was no confusion in Damon’s words or tone, but his eyes showed concern that perhaps could not be checked.

"Yes," I responded quietly. "She’s... trying, Damon. Trying really hard. And maybe if she finds healing, I can let go too.”

Damon's jaw tightened. "I trust you, Sierra.”

"But I don't trust her. You need to be careful."

I promised I would, but part of me knew Damon was right. It wasn't just suspicion, it was instinct.

Even when people are trying to heal, the broken shards can still cut you.

Then came the night that turned everything upside down.

Olivia called me after one of her therapy sessions, her voice quavering. "Can we meet?"

It was the same coffee shop, the same table. But this time, her hands weren't just trembling; they were shaking.

"I told my therapist something tonight," she said in a whisper, her eyes shifting towards the door as if someone might hear.

"What was it?" I asked cautiously.

Her lips parted but her words came out as a whisper.

"It wasn't just me, Sierra. Zachary... he made me do things, say things. He has secrets. Dangerous ones. And when he goes down he won't go quietly."

I felt the blood draining from my body.

Because just when I thought Zachary was done, his shadow crept back into our lives through the most unlikely messenger of all Olivia.

Olivia’s confession ties her therapy to Zachary’s lingering threat. What exactly did he force her into? What secrets does she still hold? Sierra realizes that redemption or not, Olivia may carry the key to stopping Zachary’s final move and that key could either save or shatter everything.