Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The car drops you at the edge of the property line. The gates rise before you—high, black, and curling inward at the tips like iron thorns. The Wassermann estate doesn’t announce itself with warmth. It looms. A white monolith in the distance, its windows so polished you see sky instead of glass.

You pause a moment, adjusting the collar of your blazer, fingers lingering at the lapel. The wind is quiet out here. Your reflection in the metal gate looks paler than it should.

“Therapist, right?”
A security staffer, clean-shaven and grim-faced, scans your ID. You nod.
He doesn't look at you again.

Inside, the home is air-conditioned to clinical perfection. White floors. White walls. Large glass panes and sharp furniture with edges you could cut a fingertip on. There's a faint smell of eucalyptus—too sterile to be inviting.

You're led to a sitting room, where she’s already waiting.

Mona Wassermann.

She wears cream. Not white— cream . Deliberate. Understated. Her blouse is silk, her pants tailored. A minimalist gold chain rests along her collarbone. Her hair, slicked back and severe, it shows a sharp widow’s peak. She doesn’t rise when you enter. She studies you from her lounge chair like she’s observing a painting she hasn’t decided if she’s going to hang or burn yet.

“You’re younger than I expected.”

“Not that young,” you answer, smiling politely. “You’re Mona Wassermann.”

A beat. She tilts her head—just slightly.

“How old are you, exactly?”

You don’t flinch.

“Old enough not to answer that kind of question at the start of a professional session.”

Her mouth lifts at one corner. Not quite a smile. Almost amused.
You settle into the seat across from her—low, deep, too soft for your posture. A control trick. You know it immediately. You don’t adjust.

“Do you always walk into rooms like you’ve already been insulted?” she asks, delicately crossing one leg over the other.

“Only when the rooms come with preloaded expectations.”

Now she smiles. Full. Sharp.

You open your folder. Professional. Calm.

“Shall we begin?”

“If we must.” Her voice is smooth as satin, but cool. “Let’s pretend I’m not being forced into this.”

“It’s a voluntary referral.”

“Of course it is.” She smiles again. “And you think that makes it more honest?”

You pause—not because she’s wrong, but because the way she says it makes the room colder.

“Would you prefer we talk about something else?”

“Yes.” Her gaze doesn't leave yours. “I want to talk about you.”

You blink. Not caught off guard, but… surprised by the speed of it.

“I’m not the subject of this session.”

“Aren’t you?” Her voice lowers. “You’ve been looking at me like you’re trying to read the fine print on a contract you already signed. That’s not analysis. That’s doubt .”

“I look at every new patient the same way. Without assumptions.”

“ Liar .” She smiles. “But you’re well-trained. I’ll give you that.”

You lean forward, folding your hands over your notebook.

“You don’t intimidate me.”

“But you wish I did.”

She leans in too, now. The space between you feels like a wire, pulled taut. Her eyes—those pale, intelligent eyes—trace the line of your mouth before they return to your gaze. The temperature drops another invisible degree.

“Don’t you ever get tired of pretending you’re the one in control?” she asks, voice low, slow, smooth as a scalpel sliding out of velvet.

You match her tone, heartbeat steady.

“You paid for this hour, Mona. But I own it.”

A pause. Her expression shifts—just for a moment. The slightest dilation of her pupils. Then she sits back, folds her arms, and exhales a slow, amused breath.

“This might be fun after all.”

You leave that first session standing a little straighter. But as you walk toward the gate, you feel something… watching.

No cameras. No eyes.

Just her .

The next morning, a note arrives at your office.
No envelope. No sender.
Just a single card, typed cleanly in black serif font:

“Same time next week. Let’s make this one personal.”

Chapter Text

You return the next week in lighter clothes.

You tell yourself it’s just professional— cremes and grays instead of blues, something neutral. But you notice the way Mona’s eyes scan you as you enter. Noting the change. Appraising. Approving, maybe. You don’t ask.

Today, she waits for you in a different room.

Less glass, more wood. Deep mahogany walls and low golden lighting. A fireplace burns softly, despite the heat outside. The room smells of faint sandalwood and something older. Leather. Dust. Memory.

She’s already seated, legs crossed, a glass of red wine in her hand.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” you ask, half-smiling.

“If you’re going to psychoanalyze my drinking habits,” she says, sipping slowly, “at least wait until I’ve finished the glass.”

You sit across from her—another low, soft chair that forces you to angle upward just slightly to meet her gaze. Again, intentional.

But you’re ready this time.

You don’t look up.

You look at her.

“You changed the room.”

“I like variety,” she says. “Monotony is for people with dull thoughts.”

“And what about patterns?”

“Patterns,” she murmurs, “are for children. ”

The session begins.

You ask about her week. She answers vaguely. She talks about acquisitions and meetings, but never names names. Her voice moves like a needle, threading around details, circling implications, testing your attention.

“I’m supposed to tell you how I feel,” she says, stretching the word feel like it tastes bitter.
“But I don’t think in feelings. I think in strategy.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you say, calmly. “Even computers crash.”

“Are you comparing me to a machine?”

“You’d be the one who designed it.”

That gets a smile—real this time. Small. Brief. Her hand brushes the rim of the wineglass.

“Tell me something personal,” she says suddenly.

You blink.

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then humor me. I told you last time—I want this to be therapeutic . And you’re far more interesting than I expected.”

“Mona—”

“You’re careful. Deliberate. Polite. But I can see the way you think. Every time I speak, you try to file it into the correct drawer in your head. Label me. ”

She leans forward now, glass forgotten, voice silk-wrapped steel.

“But what drawer do you belong in?”

You pause, exhale, and hold her gaze.

“I don’t come with a label. And I don’t come with a price tag.”

“Everyone does.” Her voice drops. “The difference is whether they admit it. ”

You push back—this time sharper, firmer.

“You don’t intimidate me.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you interest me. That’s worse.”

For a second, her gaze flickers. There’s something there—behind the mask. Not vulnerability exactly. But maybe a hint of hunger. Loneliness carved into control. Then it’s gone.

She straightens. Smooths her blouse.

“I think that’s enough honesty for today.”

“I disagree.”

You both smile.

As you leave, she watches from the doorway—not saying goodbye. Just watching. The hallway seems longer on the way out. Or maybe you’re walking slower.

That night, you find an envelope slid under your apartment door.

Inside: a single card.

“I don’t sleep easily. Do you?”

Chapter Text

This time, you’re not ushered through the front door.

You’re led around the side, through a garden walled in by towering hedges and marble statues whose faces have long since been weathered blank. You follow a stone path to a glass conservatory, humid and fragrant, vines curling around columns like fingers.

Mona is waiting inside, seated on a low chaise in an outfit too soft for her usual severity: an off-white knit sweater that falls slightly off one shoulder, her hair loose around her jaw, barefoot.

She looks disarmed. On purpose, obviously.

But something about it still catches you.

“You changed the venue again,” you say.

“Do you hate it?”

“No.”

“Good.” She reaches for the teapot beside her. “You don’t belong in sterile spaces.”

“And you do?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she says, pouring. “But I’ve found that you bloom in warmth. So I’m adjusting.”

A beat.

You sit across from her, legs crossed, notebook unopened.

You don’t speak for a while.

You drink the tea she poured. It’s hot, floral, unfamiliar.

She watches you over the rim of her cup, her lashes casting long shadows under her eyes. You can feel something coiling in the air. Not menace. Not flirtation, at least not exactly. Attention . Undivided.

“You came,” she says quietly. “After the last session, I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I push.”

“So do I.”

That makes her smile. Small. Pleased.

“Would you play a game with me?”

You raise a brow. “What kind of game?”

“A fair one,” she says, setting her teacup down.
“You tell me something real. I tell you something real. Not a polished truth. A sharp one. A thing you don’t say out loud.”

You hesitate. She tilts her head.

“If it helps,” she says softly, “I’ll go first.”

She shifts, drawing her knees up on the chaise. Suddenly smaller. Not performative now. Her voice lowers—not dramatically, not broken—but like she’s letting something loose she’s held too long.

“I had a son. Beau.”

You say nothing. You know the name, of course. But now it’s not in articles or paperwork. Now it’s in her mouth.

“He was afraid of everything. Shadows, germs, leaving rooms. Me. ”

A pause.

“And I made him that way.”

There’s no tremble in her voice. No apology.

Just… the weight of it.

“I thought I was keeping him safe,” she says. “But in the end, I built the world I was trying to protect him from.”

The silence feels soft. Dense.

“He’s dead.”

A beat. You speak before you’ve thought it through.

“Do you blame yourself?”

Her gaze meets yours, sharp and still.

“Every minute. And not at all.”

You nod. It’s enough.

“Now you,” she says. “Your turn.”

You look down at your tea. Swirl it once. Set it aside.

You speak slowly. Plainly.

“I came out to my family when I was seventeen.”

Mona doesn’t move.

“They said they still loved me. Then they asked me not to bring it up again. And then they stopped calling.”

You glance up. Her face is unreadable—but not unfeeling. She’s listening.

“I still check their social media sometimes. Just to see if I still exist to them.”

A long pause. Neither of you speaks.

“You win,” she says eventually, voice quieter. “That was sharper than mine.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Everything is.”

You smile, a little bitterly. She smiles back.

“Does that mean the session’s over?” you ask.

“No,” she says.
“It means the real one just started.”

Chapter Text

It’s just past midnight when your phone rings.

Private number.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen. Something in your chest tugs tight—intuition or dread or both. You answer.

“Hello?”

“Are you awake?”

It’s her.

Mona.

Her voice is lower than usual—quiet, a little slurred at the edges, as if silk has begun to fray.

“I am now.”

“Good.” A pause. “I didn’t want to leave a voicemail.”

You hear the soft clink of glass on glass.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Very astute.” She sounds faintly amused. “Only a bottle.”

You lean back against your pillow, hand over your eyes. The room is dark except for the faint blue glow of your phone.

“Is this an emergency?”

“If it were,” she murmurs, “you’d already be here.”

Silence. You don’t rise to it. But your stomach does something low and hot and uncomfortable.

“Why did you call me, Mona?”

You hear her breathe in. Hold it.

“I had a dream,” she says, almost whispering. “About Beau.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He was still a child. Six, maybe seven. We were on the beach—this gray, endless place I used to take him when I thought he needed… balance. The kind of air that tastes like salt and disappointment.”

She lets out a soft laugh—half a breath, more sigh than sound.

“In the dream, he ran ahead. Into the waves. And I stood there. Watching. Not moving.”

“Why didn’t you go after him?”

“Because I knew I’d taught him not to be afraid of everything—including me. ”

You close your eyes.

“Do you feel guilty, Mona?”

“No,” she says immediately. Then, after a moment:
“Only when I remember that I loved him.”

Another pause. Longer. Heavier.

Then her voice changes.

Softens.

“You stayed,” she says. “When you could’ve run.”

“I don’t run.”

“No.” A beat. “You walk toward the fire.”

“If I do, it’s because I want to understand it.”

“Even if it burns you?”

“Especially then.”

You’re not sure who’s breathing harder now—her or you.

“You know,” she says, quieter now, “sometimes I picture you in this house at night. Wandering. Barefoot. Curious. Looking for locked doors.”

“Would you stop me?”

“Only if I thought you were going to open the wrong one.”

“And what’s the right one?”

You hear the pause. The silence between breaths.

“Mine.”

There it is.

Hung between you like the echo of a lit match.

You feel the heat bloom under your skin—part warning, part want.

“Mona.”

“I’m not asking for anything,” she says. “I’m just… tired. Of pretending I don’t need anyone to see me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I see you.”

She’s quiet for a long time.

Then:

“Will you come early tomorrow?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to wait until the session to feel like a person again.”

You answer before you can weigh it.

“Yes.”

After she hangs up, you lie there in the dark, heart racing.

You don’t sleep.

Not easily.

Chapter Text

It’s just past 6 a.m. when you arrive.

The sky is still pink with sleep. Fog clings to the hedges like silk sheets, and the garden gate is already open.

You half-expect one of the staff to meet you at the path, to ask what you’re doing here at such an hour—but no one does. The house is still. Still, but not empty.

You find her barefoot on the back terrace, wrapped in a slate-gray robe that hangs open just enough to suggest she forgot— or didn’t care —about modesty. Her hair is mussed. Not styled. Her face bare. She's beautiful in the way marble is beautiful, cold, carved, but this morning... softened at the edges.

She looks up when she hears you.

“You came,” she says.

“You called.”

She gestures to the chair beside her. You sit without hesitation.

No tea this time. Just the morning and the sound of birds returning to the world.

“I don’t usually drink that much,” she says quietly. “I don’t usually call people.”

“I know.”

She glances sideways at you. Her robe slips slightly lower on her collarbone. You don’t look away, but you don’t linger either. She notices. She always does.

“Did I embarrass myself?” she asks, voice light, teasing at the corners.

“No,” you say. “You scared me a little.”

“Good.” A small smile. “That means I told the truth.”

She’s silent for a moment. Watching the light shift through the trees. Then:

“I lied to you last session.”

You turn to face her.

“About what?”

“I said I only remember I loved him when I feel guilty.”
A pause.
“But sometimes I don’t know if I ever really did. Or if I just thought I did because it was expected of me.”

The air cools slightly.

You let the moment stretch. Then:

“Love isn’t always gentle. Or obvious.”

“No,” she says. “But it should be something . Shouldn’t it?”

“You grieve him.”

“I grieve the version of him I was told I’d have.” She turns to you now. “And I grieve the version of me that was supposed to be his mother.”

Her voice cracks—just barely. You don’t acknowledge it. That would be cruel.

Instead, you say:

“Can I tell you something?”

She nods, slowly.

“When I left home, I thought I’d feel free. Like I’d stepped into the life I was meant to live.”
“But I didn’t. I just felt… unsupervised. Like someone was going to come find me, and drag me back into the version of myself they could love.”

Mona’s gaze is steady, and softer than you’ve ever seen it.

“Do you still feel that way?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. “But lately... I feel more like myself in this house than I do in my own.”

You didn’t mean to say that. Not exactly.

She inhales—slow, quiet, eyes narrowing just slightly.

Then:

“Come inside.”

“The session doesn’t start for another hour.”

“I’m not asking as your client.”

That holds. You meet her gaze. The silence between you grows thick, like something trying to bloom.

“And if I come inside?” you ask, voice low.

“Then we stop pretending,” she says. “That this is just therapy.”

Your heart thuds, hard and deliberate.

“Mona—”

“No lines crossed,” she says, but her voice is almost too smooth. “Just honesty. Just... this. Whatever this is.”

You hesitate.

And then…

You stand.

And follow her through the open doors, into the quiet, golden-dark of her home.

Chapter Text

The house is dim as you step inside.

No lights. Just soft dawn spilling through long windows and glinting off polished floors. Your footsteps echo, quiet but deliberate. Mona walks ahead of you, barefoot, her robe brushing the back of her calves like liquid smoke.

She doesn’t lead you to her office.

She leads you to a sunroom, half-living space, half curated museum of warmth. Long velvet sofas. Books. A bottle of wine— open already —from last night on a marble tray.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” she says, not looking at you.
“But I did.”

She turns then. Her gaze meets yours, and something about it makes your pulse stutter. Her robe is loose now, not enough to expose—but enough to hint. To draw the eye. To invite thought.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

“You said you don’t run from the fire,” she murmurs. “But do you know when to stop walking toward it?”

“Do you?”

“No,” she says, stepping closer, “but I’m excellent at pretending.”

There’s barely a breath of space between you now. You can smell her skin—wine and sandalwood and something warmer, deeper. Her fingers trail up your forearm, featherlight. Not quite touch. Promise.

“Tell me,” she whispers, “why you haven’t kissed me.”

Your throat tightens.

“Because I want to,” you say, voice low, “and I don’t trust what happens after.”

That makes her smile— truly smile —in a way that feels both triumphant and exposed.

“Good,” she says, leaning in. Her lips are inches from your jaw. “Because if you trusted me, I’d be worried you weren’t paying attention.”

Your hand finds her wrist. Not hard. But firm.

She doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to manipulate a room, Mona.”

“I know,” she breathes. “That’s why I let you in.”

She brushes her lips just shy of yours— not quite a kiss. You could close the space. You could break the spell.

But you don’t.

Neither does she.

“Say it,” she says, so soft it barely registers. “Say you want me to stop.”

You hold her gaze.

“I don’t.”

Silence. Thick. Hot.

But still—no kiss.

Just breath. Closeness. Tension so thick it feels like it hums.

Then she exhales—shaky, this time. Like even she wasn’t ready for how much you’re holding back.

“The session starts in twenty minutes,” she says, pulling away, smoothing her robe.

“Then I guess we should both remember who we are.”

“We’re past that, darling.”

She doesn’t turn around as she leaves the room.

You stand there for a long moment, heart pounding, jaw clenched, body burning.

And then, you follow.

Chapter Text

You don’t know when exactly it breaks.

It isn’t a kiss. Not at first.

Not when she offers you coffee the next day in that silk blouse the color of dried blood, with the top two buttons left casually undone. Not when she leans over your shoulder during a session to scan a file she doesn’t care about, her perfume curling into your throat. Not even when her fingers graze yours and stay there just a moment too long as she passes you a glass.

It’s not the obvious moments.

It’s the ones that feel too quiet to matter.
Until they do.

It happens one evening, just after dusk.

You weren’t meant to be there that late.

The session went long. Tension simmering, then simmering again. You tried to redirect. She didn’t let you. And you didn’t push. You stayed. Like always.

The house is low-lit and warm with shadows. You’re both standing near the long hallway that leads to the back of the estate—somewhere between a sitting room and nothing at all.

You say something—tired, dry, a half-joke about her being impossible.
She doesn’t laugh.

She just looks at you.

The kind of look that strips everything else away.
The room. The silence. The weeks of hesitation.

“Why do you keep coming back?” she asks.

You don’t lie.

“Because you undo me.”

Her lips part slightly, and she steps in.

“Then let me.”

Her hand comes up slowly—slow enough for you to say no, to step back, to preserve the last inch of professionalism either of you still pretends to care about.

You don’t move.

Her fingers trail along your jaw. Gentle. Testing. Her touch is fire with the volume turned down—soft, not safe.

“You shouldn’t,” you whisper.

“No,” she says. “But I want to.”

And then—

Her mouth meets yours.

Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just devastating.

A slow slide of lips over lips, controlled—until it’s not. Until the restraint gives way, cracks, and her hand tangles in your hair, her body pressing into yours, her mouth parting with a breathy sound that sounds like finally.

You kiss her back like it’s a confession. A surrender. A fight you already lost.

Her lips are warm and wine-stained, her breath soft as her robe brushes your front. You feel the silk between you and her skin—bare, hot—and it’s too much. Not enough.

She pulls back first.

Eyes darker now. Wide.

“I crossed the line,” she breathes.

“So did I.”

A moment.

Then she does something strange.

She laughs. Quiet. Almost broken.

“I wanted to ruin you a little,” she says. “But now all I can think about is how much I want to be ruined by you.”

You stare at her, pulse a drumbeat in your throat.

“You don’t ruin me, Mona,” you say, voice low.
“You make me honest.”

She exhales shakily—her forehead resting gently against yours.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“For how long?”

“Until you can’t stand me. Or until I finally tell you everything.”

“That might take a while.”

“Then stay longer.”

She kisses you again—deeper, this time. No audience. No defense.

And when she pulls you toward the back of the house—past doors you’ve never been through, past versions of her you’ve only imagined—you go willingly.

Not because you’re weak.

But because, in that moment, she’s not pretending anymore.

And neither are you.