Chapter 3

It was a glass sunroom filled with plants I couldn't even begin to name.

Sunlight filtered through the diamond-paned glass, dappling the green leaves as tiny dust motes danced in the air.

Lucas stood with his back to me before a blue flower, watering can in hand, his movements as gentle as caressing an infant.

"Seen enough?" He didn't turn around.

"Is this a peony?" I asked.

I stepped closer to the blue flower and muttered, "No... The vein patterns don't match..."

"Blue Jacaranda, a Boguian variety."

Lucas set down the watering can before adding, "It takes twenty years to bloom."

I noticed each plant had a handwritten label, its ink long faded.

Beside the succulent plant in the farthest corner lay a photograph.

In it, a little boy crouched in the garden, his smile radiant.

"Is that you as a child?"

Lucas suddenly spun around, nearly colliding with me.

We were so close I could count his eyelashes. At that moment, those usually icy eyes were flickering with dangerous flames.

"Dr. Cook," Lucas said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "Curiosity kills."

I replied, "But it saves patients."

I pointed to the photo. "You smiled back then."

Lucas snatched the photo frame and shoved it into a drawer. "Get out," he snapped.

That afternoon, Lucas bombarded my inbox as payback for crossing the line.

My inbox was flooded with seventeen financial reports, fifteen M&A analyses, and three neuroscience papers on pheromone control. There was also a note that read: [Write a detailed analysis on each. Due by tomorrow morning.]

"That's a classic emotional flashback," I murmured.

I chewed on my pen cap and shot off a voice message to my best friend, Yvonne Lane. "Textbook case of childhood trauma triggering workaholism as a coping mechan—"

"Dr. Cook." Jenny's voice rang out.

She was at the doorway when she said, "Mr. Shaw wants to know why you haven't submitted the analyses for the first three reports yet."

I held up my tablet and snapped a selfie. "Tell Mr. Shaw that I'm currently using facial micro-expressions to analyze the psychological mechanisms behind his behavior."

The photo had barely been sent when the intercom rang.

"Your face only has two expressions." Lucas' voice crackled with static. "Dumb and dumber."

"Wow! Mr. Shaw, you're actually cracking jokes."

I then pretended to jot down a note on my tablet, typing: [Therapy progress: +1.]

A beat of silence passed.

"Two analyses by seven." Lucas hung up abruptly.

I allowed myself a small, triumphant smile.

According to cognitive-behavioral theory, when patients began to express anger non-violently, it was the first positive sign that therapy was taking effect.

I was buried in the financial reports when a polite knock sounded at my office door.

Looking up, I saw a young man standing in the doorway, holding a coffee tray.

He said gently, "Hope I'm not interrupting. You must be Dr. Cook, right?"

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm Michael Shaw, Lucas' younger brother."

I immediately noticed the stark contrast between Lucas and Michael.

Though equally tall as Lucas, Michael seemed gentle and completely harmless.

He set down the coffee, and there was a note beneath the cup. It read: [Beware of my brother's rut.]

Michael asked, "How's Lucas been sleeping lately?"

Feigning casualness, he added, "Our father's been quite concerned."

My professional instincts perked up, and I replied, "Didn't Mr. Shaw tell you? Doctor-patient confidentiality agreement."

"Of course," Michael replied, his smile unwavering.

He then continued, "It's just that during his last rut, he trashed the conference room. If you ever need a prescription for sedatives..."

"Thanks, but I won't be needing that."

I took a sip of the coffee and immediately frowned.

It was so sweet that I couldn't bring myself to swallow it.

Before leaving, Michael gave the glass sunroom a knowing look.

As soon as Michael was out of earshot, I discreetly discarded the sickly sweet coffee and documented the note with my phone.

My training as a psychologist kicked in.

Whenever someone went out of their way to emphasize something, it was usually just a distraction.

At 8 in the evening, I finally sent the reports to Lucas.

Ten minutes later, Lucas appeared at my office door, two takeout meals in hand.

He pushed the takeout box toward me and uttered, "Eat.

"After that, explain why childhood attachment was mentioned in your Q3 cash flow analysis."

I was way too hungry to hold back, so I just blurted out, "Corporate decision-making patterns often mirror a leader's early experiences. Your obsession with controlling cash flow might come from—"

"Bullshit."

Lucas cut me off and pulled up a chair. "My father never allowed me near the accounts."

"Until when?" I asked.

"Until I proved I was stronger than everyone else," Lucas replied.

He tugged at his tie, his Adam's apple casting a faint shadow in the lamplight. "Same as you're doing."

Our eyes locked.

That was when I realized the danger.