h Eat

"Your... your fiancé?" Her eyes, wi

ped, his voice dry and hollow. He didn't deny it, but he definitely didn't

ips. "Complicated?" I echoed, the s

n, I think your trauma, combined with an obvious emotional dependency, is clouding your judgment. Dr. Nichols has been tirelessly wo

rd was a hammer blow. "Is it theatrics when a psychiatrist, a man sworn to help, uses his patient's deepest fears, her most confidential confessions, to craft a sensatio

arved them wider, and then let you pour salt into them for public consumption! He leaked my medical privacy! He manipulated my story! He bet

cared, Erik? Are you finally scared?" My voice was a ragged whisper, yet it cut through th

n't meet my gaze. He looked down at his shoes, his shoulders slumped. The audience

. I thought it would help you. Exposure th

caped me, sounding more like a sob. "By painting me as a liar? By making my kidnappers out

at me. "Look at me, Erik! Look me in the eye and tell me, truly, was this for my

t it? Your college sweetheart. The one you never truly got over. You sacrificed me,