“Rough relationship,” she corrected. “My boyfriend is driving me crazy.”
I kept quiet. Clients often used massages as therapy sessions—sometimes they rambled, sometimes they cried. It was part of the job.
“He’s still going through a divorce,” she continued. “It’s ridiculous how slow it’s moving. His wife is such a dead weight. All she does is take care of the kids and work some boring little job. No wonder he’s leaving her.”
I paused—just for a moment—before forcing my hands to keep moving.
She had no idea she was describing my life.
“Oh, they have kids?” I asked gently.
“They’re not my problem,” she said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “If they end up with his wife, great. I am not raising someone else’s children.”
Her words hit something deep inside me, but I swallowed it.
Then her phone buzzed.
It was lying on the small table beside the bed. A picture lit up the screen—Lydia, smiling brightly… and next to her, holding her waist, was Gavin.
My husband.
My heart plummeted so hard I felt dizzy.
“Oh, I’ll get back to him later,” Lydia said casually, reaching to silence the phone.
“Go ahead,” I said softly—too softly.
She froze. “What?”
I stepped back, arms folding across my chest with a calm I didn’t actually feel. “That’s my husband calling you. Your boyfriend. The man you think is leaving his boring wife.”
Silence crashed down around us.
Then Lydia inhaled sharply. “What… what did you do? I CAN’T MOVE!”
Her panic echoed against the room’s warm walls as she tried to push herself up, but her limbs trembled uselessly. For a split second, fear shot through me—had I seriously injured her? But then training took over.
It was temporary nerve compression. I’d seen it before. A few minutes and she’d be fine.
“You’ll get sensation back,” I said calmly. “Right now, we’re going to talk.”
“You paralyzed me on purpose!” she hissed.
“Temporary numbness,” I corrected. “You walked in here talking about me like I was a piece of dirt stuck to Gavin’s shoe. So yes—I’m taking a moment.”
Her breathing quickened. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m also the woman your boyfriend swore to love, and the mother of the children you called brats.”
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