“You confided in me. I know how you use sex as an escape from your problems.”

Her words instantly make me feel dirty, worthless. I hate that she can make me feel that way.

I grit my teeth and speak, “Used to—past tense, India, and you, above anyone, know this. Having sex with you was because I wanted to…because I want you.”

“No, you think you want me, but you don’t really. You just have a reliance on me.”

“Bullshit!”

“It’s not. It’s the truth. You just can’t see it yet. But with time, you will.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m a fucking child, India! I didn’t come to you for therapy because I was suicidal or not in control of my own mind. I came for your help because I needed to get back in a fucking car.”

“You had—have PTSD. You were drinking and using sex as a way to cope. You were in a bad place.”

“Not as bad as you think.”

“You’re painting a different picture in your mind because of what you think you want.”

I pull at my hair in frustration. “I know exactly how I feel, not because of a patient-therapist attachment. I wanted you from the moment I saw you—before I even knew you. And, yes, you’ve helped me, but you haven’t gotten in my head and twisted things around. I want you because I want you. And for no other reason.” I cup her cheek with my other hand. “I want you,” I repeat softly.

Closing her eyes, she takes a shuddering breath.

For a moment, I think I have her until she opens her eyes, and I see how shut off she is.

“I’m sorry, Leandro. In time, you’ll see that I’m right. Ending this is right.”

I’ve lost her.

The feeling is like a bullet to the chest.

“You’re fucking wrong, and with time, you’ll see that.” I step back away from her, turning away.

“The kart…” she starts, pulling me back.

I stay there but don’t turn around. I can’t look at her. It’ll hurt too much. My chest feels like it’s bleeding out from the hole she just put in it. “Do what you want with it. Sell it, and give the money to charity. I don’t fucking care.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers from behind me.

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” Sarcasm drips from my words.

I yank the door open and then stop. I pull a card from my wallet and toss it on the hall table. “If Jett still wants to get into karting, give this guy a call. He’ll help get Jett started.”

I risk a look at her.

She’s crying. “I’m sor—”

“Yeah, I got it the first time. Have a nice fucking life, Dr. Harris.” And I slam my way out of her house and her life.

I’D LIKE TO SAY I’VE MOVED ON FROM LEANDRO, but the truth is, it’s like I’m still standing in my hallway, watching him leave.

The ending I play through my mind is the version where I chase after him, tell him I’ve changed my mind, that I want him.

The reality is, I’m sitting in my office after my day has ended, alone and missing him.

For days after he left my house, I wanted to speak to him. But each time I picked up my phone to call him, rationality would get the better of me, knowing I could lose everything if I went after what I wanted.

Then, time slipped by, and before I knew it, it had been weeks, bleeding into months, and there was no going back for me.

He’d moved on.

Even though it was hell—not seeing him, not speaking to him—it had to be this way.

But even still, I torture myself with him.

I do my usual ritual where I tell myself not to go online and search today’s news for him. I relent for a few days, thinking how strong I am, and then I crack, just like I’m going to today.

I bring the screen on my MacBook to life. Bringing up the search engine, I type in Leandro Silva. The screen fills with stories of him and the races he won this past year since he returned to Formula 1.

I feel an undeserved sense of pride when I see the pictures of him crossing the finish line and when he’s on the podium, holding the trophy. I might have helped him to a point, but he took himself the rest of the way.

I am happy for him. Happy that he’s racing. That he has his life back the way he wanted it. He has it back in every way it was, if the press is anything to go by.

Leandro’s name has been linked with several women since the racing season started, and there are pictures of him with women.

Each one hurts as much as the next.

He’s moved on. That’s what I knew he would do.

I knew that his attachment to me was purely because of the closeness we’d built during his treatment and what he felt for me was gratitude.

Still, it hurts badly to know I was right, especially when I can’t seem to move past him.

I filter the page to read recent news stories.

Nothing new since the last time I checked a few days ago. Just the same pictures of him arriving back home for the British Grand Prix, which starts next weekend.

Staring at the pictures, I trace my finger over his face, like the Internet stalker I’ve become.

Not that he wasn’t handsome before—because, of course, he was—but in these pictures, he looks amazing. There’s a lightness in his expression, which wasn’t there before. I’m guessing it’s because of his return to racing.

He looks beautiful.

Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes, trying to ease the ache of missing him.

Will this ever stop?

I thought I’d be past it now. Maybe if I stopped torturing myself with news of him, then maybe I’d be able to move on.

Sitting up, I shut down the screen.

My phone lights up with Jett’s name.

“Hey, honey,” I answer.

“You still at work, Mum?”

“Yeah. I’m just finishing up, and then I’m heading home.”

“Well, just letting you know that I’m at the track with Uncle Kit and Carter. We’re gonna grab something to eat here. We won’t be home too late.”

Dinner for one. Takeout and a bottle of wine it is.

“Okay, be safe and have fun.”

“Will do. See you later, Mum.”

“Bye, honey.” I put the phone down on my desk and let my head follow it with a thud.

I’m turning into a total sad case Friday night, I’m childfree, and the best I can do is takeout and a bottle of wine.

I berate myself for this every week, too, yet I still do the same thing.

There’s a knock on my door.

I lift my head from my desk. “Come in.”

It’ll be Sophie, my new assistant. She’s been with me for a month now. Sadie left to go traveling with her boyfriend.

“I’m heading off for the night.” Sophie crosses the room. “Here’s the mail. I forgot to give it to you earlier.”

“Thanks.” I take it from her hand.

“The top letter was hand-delivered.”

“Hand-delivered? What do you mean, hand-delivered?”

“A man came in earlier. He asked me to make sure that you got the letter.”

“What did he look like?” I turn the letter over in my hand. My name is handwritten on the front.

“Black hair. Really good-looking.” She grins.