Prologue

Prologue

Natalie's POV

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I sucked into a deep breath as my eyes drifted to the red-light flickering over the intercom system, signaling a call from my assistant. I pressed my chin over my crossed arms and sighed. What's the worst thing that could happen if I didn't answer?

I'd lose a client.

To hell with him. Ugh. 

A strand of my hair fell over my eyes, I huffed out a breath, pushing it away, too tired to untangle my arms and tuck it away.

My eyes flickered to the clock hanging by the wall. My eyebrows pulled together in annoyance. Who books a therapist's appointment at freaking six pm?

I have been listening to people's shitty problems from freaking eight in the morning and all I want is to go back to my flat, kick off these shoes, wear my pjs, grab a glass of wine and binge my tv series but instead I had to choose damn psychology as my major and open a clinic to deal with spoiled rich brats whose biggest problem is her weight gain paranoia.

I picked up this major so I can be able to make a difference. To help people. People with actual problems. Kids who gets bullied. Women who gets abused. Men with PTSD after military. People with actual psychological problem. I didn't pull out sleepless night before exams just so I can be someone, rich fellas pay to rant to.

Beep.

Goddamn it, Sarah.

I groaned and pressed the answering button. A frustrated sigh rumbled from my throat and I mumbled, "What?"

"The last client just called, he'll be about fifteen minutes late," Sarah answered, and I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed.

"Natalie," She added in her angelic-I-want-something-voice, "I really should go. I need to make dinner for the kids, you know Steve, he can barely boil an egg." She mumbled tiredly and I nodded, "Yeah sure, go ahead, I'll deal with the last client and close up."

"You're the best!" She said, the enthusiasm in her voice alone made me smile. I heard shuffling and mumbled, "Kiss the kids for me."

"Will do!" She said and I removed my hand from over the intercom and pressed my forehead against my crossed arms. I closed my eyes, feeling my energy drain away. Tiredness weakened my brain cells and I felt myself immediately dozing off. I sighed; a ten-minutes nap won't kill anyone.

*******

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I groaned.

Knock.

"Dad, open the door," I mumbled sleepily.

Knock.

"Dad!" I whined again.

Someone cleared his throat.

My head snapped up and my eyes went wide as I noticed the other presence in the room. I gasped.

Wait, why is there a stranger in my room?

Wait, why am I sitting instead of laying down?

Wait...this is not my room.

Oh shit.

I blinked, kicking the haziness away and fixed my hair before my eyes registered the figure standing by my office's door.

My gaze first caught the eyes confusingly staring back at me.

Woah.

His eyes...I blinked, they...they weren't any plain green eyes.

Excuse me, sleepiness made me a little bit poetic but his eyes, they reminded me of a forest. The kind of earthy green that revives the grass after a cruel, unforgiving winter. Interwoven shades hiding the chaotic nature behind. Never have I seen eyes that held such danger and beauty all at once.

If I had to describe him based on his eyes only; I'd say he is like a wildfire: reckless, untamed, yet undeniably captivating.

A few strands of his hair fell over his forehead. Hair so black, like prominent ink. Hair so soft. I should ask him what shampoo he uses.

Perfect eyebrows drew closer, the sharp jaw covered with a light stubble tightened.

I shook myself out of my daze and cleared my throat, "Uh," I cleared my throat again, "Uh, the modeling agency is in upper floor," I mumbled, pointing my finger to the ceiling.

Oh, it's one of the advantages to have my clinic in the same building as the modeling agency. Eye-candies everywhere and this man, well, he looked like he walked out of a magazine.

His eyebrows drew even closer, he blinked and confusingly asked, "Dr. Blake?"

Oh, his voice. Fuck.

I gulped and nodded, "You're here to see me." I said, realizing he's the new client.

"Why always the hot ones are the messed-up ones," I mumbled to myself as I straightened my back.

"Excuse me?" He questioned.

I shook my head and flashed him the fakest smile, "Sorry, I just had a long day." And you had to make your appointment at freaking...seven pm. What the hell?

"You're late!"

Hot but not punctual. Such a turn off.

He licked his lips and I sighed; such a turn on.

"Something came up." He said as he made his way forward and seated himself down.

My brows pulled together, "Well, if we're gonna be seeing each other more often, then we should definitely make your appointment way earlier," I shook my head, "I don't function after five pm."

"But I am not available before five."

My lips pursed out as I thought it through, "We gonna have to figure that out."

Something flashed across his eyes and he shook his head, "You know what, seems like our schedules doesn't fit," He got to his feet, way too excited, "Thanks for your time," He smiled, so fake, still so hot...

He started to walk away, and I stared at his back dumbfounded, "Uh, wait, wait-" I got up and he stopped. A harsh breath left him before he turned around and gave me an impatient questioning look.

The psychologist in me started to wake up, "I said we can figure out a way to arrange our appointment," My eyebrows slightly pulled together, "But you seem way too eager to get this done with."

I remembered how he is not the one who booked the appointment, "You don't wanna be here." I added, in realization. Someone is forcing him.

Hmm...interesting.

He nodded his head, "You caught me," His words were void and empty. He let out another breath before his fingers raked through his black hair, pushing the strands from over his forehead away, "Look, if whoever called you for this, calls again, can you just tell him that I came and everything worked out."

"I really don't wanna do this and believe me," He added, stressing at the words, "You don't want this either."

Well, well, you are making me more curious, buddy.

"Who wants you to have therapy?" I asked. It was a male who called. A father? A friend? A brother, maybe?

He hesitated at first, "My...friend." He answered.

Oh, don't tell me he is gay. Well then, the male species are so damn lucky to have him.

"And why don't you want this?" I asked, "If your...friend thinks you need therapy then maybe you actually do." I added, "This could help you."

He shook his head, "No, it won't." He sounded so sure.

"I am kinda offended." I answered, matching his confidence, "Are you questioning my methods?"

He shook his head again, "It's not you."

"Then what is it?" I asked, intrigued, "I could really help you."

He smiled, it was small, barely noticeable, "It's because I am beyond help."

Oh man, I am pretty sure god has sent this guy specially for me. Going to church every Sunday has finally paid out.

"Lucky for you, I don't believe in that." I shook my head, "No-one is ever beyond help."

His body was facing the door but at my words, he turned around, facing me now. His eyes made full contact with mine, he seemed to be more focused, interested. It signaled that he is actually listening.

"Why don't you just give this a chance," I started, trying to persuade him, "I mean I waited for you long after my usual working hours," My eyebrow raised, "You look like a gentleman who wouldn't make this wait go to waste, right?"

He glanced at the door for a second, as if contemplating his chances of just running away and never having to face me again.

I noticed the bob in his throat, the hard swallow, how his right hand went to the side of his neck, and he scratched it.

That's when I noticed the scar running from under his hair, to the side of his neck and it disappeared right under his shirt.

My heart knocked it up a notch and excitement pumped through my blood. He's a man with a story.

A story worth telling. The kind that I'll have to discover on my own. He doesn't seem to be the straightforward type. I'd just have to patch him up together, piece by piece.

A low sigh parted his lips and he nodded, "I guess you're right."

A satisfactory smile crawled up my lips before I took my notepad into my hands and circled my way around the desk.

I sat down on the chair and pointed toward the couch facing it, "Have a seat first."

I am always known as a very good profiler. It's what made me good at my job. The best in my field, actually.

So, if I have to describe this guy just based on his body language. I'd say troubled. Tortured. In pain. And on the verge of giving up.

On hesitant steps, he walked closer and seated himself across of me.

He raked his fingers through his hair, he is nervous, it's obvious, "So how does this work exactly?"

"Have you been to therapy before?"

He paused for a second, "Kind of."

Vague. His answers, they're so vague.

"How about we start this, step by step?" I asked, the pen tightly held between my fingers, more than ready to write down this man's story.

He nodded so I asked the first most obvious question, "How about we start with your name," I smiled as I checked my schedule and read his last name, "Mr. Viarchi."

He leaned backward a little, I felt him trying to get more comfortable.

His eyes focused on mine, he doesn't seem to be afraid of eye contact at all, his gaze is strong, daring, the total opposite of his body language.

"Nikolas," He answered, "The name is Nikolas."