"What do you mean by that?" I finally whispered, my voice barely steady, my hands trembling slightly where they rested on the table.
Cynthia noticed immediately. She reached across and held my hands, her grip firm, grounding, as if she could anchor me before I completely fell apart.
"Yes, Lys," she said gently but firmly. "He is not a therapist."
My breath caught.
I held my head instantly, fingers pressing against my temples as if I could force my thoughts into place. Nothing made sense anymore. Everything felt twisted, like I had been living inside a carefully constructed lie without even realizing it.
Cynthia continued, her voice slower now, more deliberate.
"The day you fainted at the hospital… he happened to be in New York. Since I couldn't make it, I told him to go and stay with you for a while, just to help me look after you. That was it." She paused, watching my face closely. "So where did he come up with the therapist story… and why?"
