Page 91 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

I’m following in my father’s footsteps—minus the wife.

And this time, I’ll just have to hope we have different endings. That I won’t ruin every good thing.

“If you’re not going to say it, show me,” she says.

I smile. Her hands are already on the button of my pants.

“That, I can do.”

23

Margo

Dr. Sayer is… not quite how I pictured her.

Long black hair in beautiful, intricate braids, dark eyes and skin. She wears a long flowing dress that isn’t weather appropriate, but it’s warm in her office. There’s even a fireplace behind her.

The whole office has a cozy vibe. Dark wood walls and furniture, a cream-colored rug on the tiled floor. One whole wall filled with books and baubles. Some related to psychology and talk therapy, plus a healthy mix of classics.

I spend the first fifteen minutes of our session standing by those books, running my fingers along the titles.

“To Kill a Mockingbird?” I ask, the first thing I’ve said besides our introduction.

“Do you not like that one?”

I shrug. She’s at her therapist chair, which faces a couch and a chair. I guess I could’ve got my pick of the two, but instead… here I stand, silently counting down the minutes.

“I found myself drawn to Scout’s attitude,” she says quietly. “There’s a lot we can learn from a girl like her.”

My finger travels next to The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. “Envy is dangerous.”

“Are you envious?”

I sigh. “Isn’t everyone?”

“Probably,” she agrees. “It’s why the book is so widely regarded. But it strikes each person differently.”

“I’ve always been labeled the foster kid. And before that, the poor scholarship kid.” I pull the book out and flip through it. There’s writing on a few of the pages, tight cursive that I don’t bother trying to interpret. “Isn’t that… well, obviously it’s not racism. But being followed around shops just because I don’t really fit in, that’s not fun.”

Dr. Sayer stays silent.

“That’s not why I’m here, though,” I say. “I’m here because I was kidnapped.”

I put the book back on the shelf.

“We can discuss whatever you’d like.”

I exhale. “How many foster kids do you talk to in a week? Six? Ten? Thirty?”

She just watches me.

“I’m just the same as them.”

“I’m sure you share some qualities, but that doesn’t mean you’re the same. Isn’t that kind of like erasing your own identity?”

I finally sit. “I don’t think I really have my own identity.”

“Is that your own standpoint or one you might’ve had put on you?”