And it even has a spa, dickheads.
In her head, she had all sorts of sassy one-liners for the scary-ass armed men who’d broken into her place.
But there was one problem: the current owner of the Trump Tower condo couldn’t close on the sale until late August. She’d been about to walk away from the deal—she needed to get out of her townhome ASAP before she made some sloppy mistake at work in her sleep-deprived state—but then her friend had saved the day. Rachel knew a real estate agent who was trying to rent her client’s condo for the summer, and the place was available to move into immediately. Victoria signed the three-month lease the moment the agent faxed it over, Will found a company that would send in a team to pack up all of her stuff (she didn’t even want to ask how much that cost her), and thus tonight would be her last night in the town house she’d proudly purchased as her first home.
Yes, she was pissed. She’d been chased out of her own place by the Burglar Dickheads, essentially, and that didn’t sit well with her. On top of that, she’d just bought the townhome ten months ago, so she probably would have to sell it at a loss. But she needed to be practical here—she was a busy woman, the head of her firm, and she needed to be at the top of her game when it came to work.
And oh my God, she couldn’t wait to finally get some darn sleep.
* * *
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON, Victoria waved at Will as she passed by his desk on her way out of the office.
On the phone, he covered the receiver with his hand and whispered, “Good luck.”
She felt a twinge of guilt, because this was the first time in the five years she and Will had been working together that she’d lied to him. She’d told him she would be unreachable for the next hour because she had a dentist appointment, when in truth she had something else to take care of.
Not a big deal. Just this . . . teeny, tiny problem she’d been having ever since the break-in.
Her research into these types of teeny, tiny problems had led her to Dr. Aaron Metzel, supposedly one of the top cognitive-behavioral psychologists in the city. His office was located in the Gold Coast neighborhood, a quick cab ride from downtown.
Victoria adjusted the lapel of her jacket as she rode the elevator up to Dr. Metzel’s floor. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect from this appointment—it had been over twenty years since she’d last seen a psychologist—but she’d deliberately worn her favorite gray tailored suit and snakeskin heels. It was a suit that made her feel particularly put-together and confident.
There was a small, private waiting room adjacent to Dr. Metzel’s office, with a sign on the interior door that said “Please make yourself comfortable.” Thinking that “comfortable” was a bit ambitious—she was here only out of necessity—she took a seat in one of the empty chairs and distracted herself by checking e-mail on her phone.
A few moments after she sat down, the interior door opened. A balding, fortysomething man dressed in a blazer, khakis, and button-down shirt smiled at her.
“Victoria?” He held out his hand as she approached. “Aaron Metzel. Nice to meet you.” He gestured to the adjacent room. “Come on in. Have a seat wherever you like.”
“Thanks.” She looked around curiously as she entered his office. The blinds were pulled down, but angled open, allowing a good amount of natural light to come in. It wasn’t a massive office, but enough to accommodate a desk and bookshelf in front of the windows, a couch along one wall, and two leather armchairs in the center of the room. She chose the armchair closest to the door and took seat. Not sure where to put her purse, she set it on the floor.
She watched as Dr. Metzel—or was she supposed to call him Aaron?—grabbed a notepad and pen from his desk. They made brief small talk—Yes, she’d found the office just fine; No, thanks, she didn’t need anything to drink—before getting down to brass tacks.
Seated across from her, Dr. Metzel crossed one leg, settling into his chair. “Let’s talk about what brings you here. I know from our telephone conversation that you’re having some issues with panic attacks.”
Whoa, whoa. It sounded like somebody was getting a little ahead of himself here. “Actually, there’s been just the one panic attack, the night my home was broken into.” She felt it was important to emphasize this.
He clicked his pen open. “Tell me about that experience.”
“Well, I remember suddenly feeling very light-headed, and hot, and then I guess I just fainted.”
“Has that ever happened to you before? A loss of consciousness?”
“No.”
“What happened when you came to?” he asked.
“There were two police officers hovering over me, asking if I had a medical condition. And it took me a moment to answer them, because at first I didn’t know who or where I was.” She took a deep breath. “But then, after a few seconds, everything came back to me.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable, thinking back to that experience?”
“Of course,” Victoria said, thinking this would be self-evident.
“In what way?” he asked.
“For starters, it was embarrassing, lying there on the floor like that. And scary. Like I said, I’ve never blacked out before. But I understand why it happened. My heart rate was escalated, I had a decreased oxygen intake, and I was under intense emotional stress.”
Dr. Metzel’s lips curved. “Somebody’s been doing some research.”
Heck, yes, she’d done her research. And she’d also quickly learned that looking up symptoms on the Internet was the quickest way to convince herself that she had every medical condition in existence. “Logically, I understand that I fainted during the break-in because of the extreme circumstances.”
He waited. “But . . . ?”
“But ever since that incident, occasionally I’ll find myself in some sort of situation—a normal situation—and I’ll start to worry about having another panic attack.”
Dr. Metzel wrote something on his notepad and then looked up. “Can you give me an example?”
She nodded. “So the first time it happened, I was riding the subway, heading home from work. The subway was packed, and it was warm and stuffy. You know how it gets. And the stuffy air reminded me of that night in my closet when I fainted, and, thinking back to that, I suddenly began to feel . . . off.”