Therapist Sugggestion
I laughed softly, despite myself. “Not beat per se,” I said, leaning back on the couch. “It’s just… without his memories, he seems different. Like the man I always imagined he could be, not the one he was.”
The therapist raised an eyebrow, pen poised over her notepad. “Different how?”
I bit my lip, a faint blush creeping up my cheeks. “He’s… kind. Thoughtful, even. It’s disarming.” I hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. “When I first met him, I actually had a crush on him.”
She tilted her head, intrigued. “A crush? Interesting. What was it about him that caught your attention?”
I laughed again, nervously this time. “I mean, have you seen Rowan? He’s like the cold, brooding boss every girl in the office secretly fantasized about. He’d walk in, all tall and sharp in his suits, barely acknowledging anyone, and yet… everyone watched. Everyone wanted his attention.”
The therapist smiled knowingly. “Including you.”
I nodded, my face heating. “Including me. But it wasn’t just that. There were moments, rare ones, where he’d do something unexpectedly decent—like standing up for an employee when a client was out of line. It made you think, maybe there’s more to him. And, well… he’s charming when he wants to be.”
Her pen scratched across the page. “And yet, you didn’t want to marry him.”
The smile faded from my face. “No, I didn’t.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I wasn’t some naive girl thinking a crush meant we were meant to be. Rowan Vaughn was untouchable, and he made that clear. He had walls so high no one could climb them, and his arrogance… God, his arrogance was unbearable.”
The therapist leaned forward slightly. “Tell me about the arrangement. Why did your aunt insist on the marriage?”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “Because she’s manipulative and selfish. She didn’t care about my feelings or what I wanted. To her, it was all about Jules—about saving him. And Rowan’s family owed us, apparently. Something about my father saving theirs during an accident years ago. She saw an opportunity and took it, regardless of what it would cost me.”
“So you felt cornered,” the therapist said gently.
“Cornered?” I repeated, my voice rising. “I felt betrayed. Used. Like a pawn in her sick little game. And Rowan didn’t make it any easier. He was cold from the start, barely looked at me during our wedding, and made it painfully clear he thought I was some gold-digging nobody. I hated him for it. I hated her for it.”
The therapist nodded, her gaze steady. “But you went through with it.”
“For Jules,” I said quietly. “Always for Jules. I couldn’t let him suffer just because I was too proud or too scared.”
She let the silence stretch for a moment, giving me space to collect myself. Then, she asked, “Why do you think Rowan might be treating you differently now?”
I frowned, considering her question. “Maybe it’s the amnesia. He doesn’t remember… everything. The fights, the insults, the affairs. All the reasons I hated him.”
“Or,” she interjected, “perhaps he’s showing you a version of himself he’s always had but kept hidden.”
I blinked at her, caught off guard. “Hidden? Why would he do that?”
The therapist leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not uncommon for people to build walls to protect themselves, especially those who feel vulnerable in some way. You described Rowan as cold, brooding, and untouchable—but you also mentioned moments where he was unexpectedly decent. Those glimpses suggest he’s capable of kindness, but he’s chosen to bury that part of himself. The question is, why?”
I swallowed hard, my heart beating faster. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want to get hurt.”
“Exactly,” she said with a small nod. “Rowan may have experienced something in his past—loss, betrayal, or even trauma—that made him believe he couldn’t afford to let people in. Instead, he put on this facade, the ‘cold boss’ you mentioned. But with his memory gone, those defenses might be down. What you’re seeing now could be the real Rowan, the man underneath all that armor.”
I stared at her, my thoughts racing. Could it be true? Could the kind, attentive Rowan I’d been seeing lately be the man he was all along? Or was this just another facade, born out of convenience or necessity?
“But what if it’s temporary?” I asked, my voice trembling. “What if he gets his memories back and goes right back to being the man who… who destroyed me?”
The therapist’s expression softened. “That’s a valid fear, Remi. And it’s something you’ll need to prepare yourself for. But let me ask you this—do you think Rowan, the man you see now, is capable of loving you?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. Did I? Could I?
\---
I shifted uncomfortably, trying to redirect the conversation. “Even if he could, I don’t think I can ever trust him again. Not after everything he’s done.”
“That’s fair,” she said, her voice gentle. “Trust takes time to rebuild, and sometimes, it’s never fully restored. But you’re not just dealing with Rowan’s actions, Remi. You’re also wrestling with your own feelings—your fear, your anger, and maybe even your lingering hope that things could be different.”
“Hope?” I scoffed. “I gave up on hope a long time ago.”
“Did you?” she asked, her eyes piercing. “Or is that why you’re here now, talking to me? Because some part of you still wants to believe there’s a chance for something better—for you, for your child, and maybe even for Rowan.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Was she right? Was there still a part of me that hoped, despite everything?
\---
The session ended not long after, but her words stayed with me as I left the office. I walked through the city, my mind a whirlwind of emotions.
By the time I got home, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. I opened the door to find the apartment quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge. I dropped my bag on the couch and sat down, staring at the wall.
The therapist’s question echoed in my mind: Do you think Rowan, the man you see now
, is capable of loving you?
I didn’t have an answer. And that terrified me.
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