Dr. Harry Buono was one of the best psychotherapists in the world. While giving a lecture abroad, he met a patient unlike any other: Zoe, a woman suffering from emotional alexithymia, the inability to perceive or express emotion. The case fascinated Harry. He brought her back to the States, keeping her close for intensive therapy. As his wife, I felt a small, sharp knot of jealousy. Harry, ever perceptive, noticed my unease. He’d wrap an arm around me, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "She's just a patient, Chelsea. I promise. The moment she's better, she's on a plane back home." I chose to believe him. And so I watched, day by day, as he devoted himself to Zoe. He cared for her, worried over her, celebrated her smallest breakthroughs. And with every passing day, I told myself it would be over soon, that Harry would come back to me. Until the day I discovered I had depression. 1 The first time it happened was at a college reunion. Everyone was catching up, sharing stories of their lives, when someone inevitably brought up Harry. “Harry’s practically a celebrity now! We were all hoping to see him tonight. Why didn’t he come with you, Chelsea?” My smile felt brittle, stretched too thin across my face. “He’s swamped with work. Next time, I’ll drag him along.” They took the hint and changed the subject. Beneath the table, my fingers twisted the fabric of my dress, a familiar ache blooming in my chest. Why wasn’t Harry here? Because he was with Zoe. When he’d called me that afternoon, his voice was electric with excitement. “Chelsea, you won’t believe it! Zoe hugged me today! The therapy—it’s working!” So, naturally, he couldn’t leave her side for a single moment. And all I could do was force a smile into my voice and congratulate him, even as the image of another woman embracing my husband sent a shard of ice through my heart. It was an agony I couldn’t name. Harry and I had been everything to each other since childhood. When my parents died, he was the only one who held me, the only one who could quiet the storm inside me. He was my anchor in this world. After the party, I drove home to a house filled with an aching emptiness. The man who used to wait up for me, no matter how late, was now at another woman’s side. A strange, hollow feeling washed over me. The loss was so sudden, so profound, that it felt as if a switch had been flipped inside me. My strength evaporated, my legs buckled, and I crumpled to the floor. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable. Every sensation, every emotion, was amplified to an unbearable degree. A deep, aching pain that started in my chest radiated outwards, a cold fire spreading through my veins. I clutched my head, trying to fight the suffocating pressure, but it was useless. “Woof!” A sharp bark pierced through the fog, pulling me back to the surface. It was Waffles, the golden retriever my parents had left me, the last living piece of them I had. He bounded into my arms, tail wagging, and began to lick the salty tears from my cheeks. I buried my face in his soft fur, my sobs slowly quieting. After years of being married to Harry, I’d absorbed enough by osmosis to recognize the textbook symptoms of a major depressive episode. The realization sent a jolt of fear through me. I fumbled for my phone and dialed Harry. It rang for a long time before he picked up. “Chelsea? You’re home?” I opened my mouth to tell him what had just happened, but another voice cut through the line, faint but clear. “Harry, how long does the pasta need to boil? I’ve never made your spicy tomato pasta before; I don’t want to mess it up.” The words caught in my throat. Spicy tomato pasta. Our dish. We used to spend hours in the kitchen making it together. He’d knead the fresh dough while I perfected the sauce. Those were the moments I felt happiest, the moments I felt most loved. And now, he was teaching her how to make it. “Chelsea? Are you there?” My grip on the phone tightened. I couldn’t speak. “You must be tired,” he said, completely oblivious. “Look, I’m in the middle of something here. If you need anything, just call Miles, okay?” He hung up before I could answer. 2 I stood frozen, the phone still pressed to my ear, the dial tone a shrill, mocking sound. A thousand tiny needles pricked at my heart. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I forced myself to move. I had to know what was happening to me. I drove to the clinic. Miles, Harry’s protégé and our friend, ran a few simple diagnostic tests. When he looked up, his face was grim. “Chelsea… you have clinical depression, and it’s not a mild case.” My heart sank. I had expected it, but hearing the words out loud was terrifying. “How… how did this happen?” Miles looked just as baffled. “I don’t understand. Harry is a leading expert in this field. It’s his specialty. How could he not have seen the signs?” I looked down, a lump forming in my throat. I still found myself making excuses for him. “This was the first… episode. It’s normal that he wouldn’t notice.” His mind is entirely on Zoe, I thought. He has no time to notice me. Miles opened his mouth to say something else, but seeing the look on my face, he thought better of it. “Chelsea, you have to tell him. You know as well as I do that this can be life-threatening.” I nodded, my mind a fog of uncertainty. Tell him? Would he even have the time to listen? “Miles, can you… can you please not say anything to Harry just yet? I don’t want my… condition… to interfere with his work.” He looked at me, his eyes a mixture of pity and concern, and finally nodded. “Okay. But please, take care of yourself. Try to avoid any major emotional stress.” I mumbled my thanks and left the clinic, the diagnosis report feeling like a lead weight in my hand. Sitting in my car, Miles’s words echoed in my head. “How could he not have seen the signs?” He was right. Harry used to boast that he could diagnose a patient’s deepest issues from a single gesture. Yet here I was, his wife, and he hadn't noticed a thing. A wave of grief and anger washed over me. I couldn’t take it anymore. On pure impulse, I started the car and drove to the private villa where Harry was treating Zoe. But as I pulled up to the gate, I hesitated. Harry had been explicit: no visits. He’d said any interruption could compromise Zoe’s treatment. The rational part of me knew I should turn back. I trusted Harry. I never, not for a second, believed he would be unfaithful. My love for him was absolute. I was just angry. Angry that he was choosing a patient over his wife. I wrestled with myself for what felt like an eternity. I decided to leave. But the ache to see him, just for a moment, was too strong. I crept to the large bay window, peering inside. The scene before me froze the blood in my veins. Zoe’s arms were wrapped around Harry’s neck, her lips pressed against his. For a split second, Harry froze. Then… he responded, his hand moving to the small of her back, deepening the kiss. They were lost in each other, right there in front of me. Time stopped. The world went silent, save for the frantic, deafening roar of my own heartbeat. A voice, raw and broken, tore from my throat before I could think. “What are you doing?” Harry’s eyes flew open. He pushed Zoe away, his face a mask of panic as he stared at me through the glass. “Chelsea? What are you doing here? I told you not to come!” His first reaction was to blame me. He didn't answer my question. Instead, he turned to Zoe, his voice gentle. “It’s okay. She’s just a friend.” A friend. Then, he put his arm around Zoe and led her upstairs, leaving me standing alone in the garden like a ghost. As they disappeared from view, I noticed something else. The decor, the furniture, even the way the light fell through the windows—it was an exact replica of our own home. I thought I was hallucinating. Why would Harry do this? 3 A few minutes later, Harry came back downstairs. He took my hand, his eyes shining not with guilt, but with a disturbing, clinical excitement. “Chelsea, you saw that, didn’t you? She initiated it! She kissed me! This is a massive breakthrough. The therapy is working!” I snatched my hand away, staring at him in disbelief. “Is kissing part of your ‘therapy’ now, Harry? And this house… why did you make this house look exactly like ours?” He didn’t seem to register my fury. “It’s a therapeutic technique!” he explained, as if speaking to a child. “Emotional alexithymia is rooted in an inability to feel or receive love. The only way to break through is to make her fall in love with me. She agreed to it.” He paused, his expression softening into one of placation. “Don’t worry. You know you’re the only one for me. That has never changed. I decorated this place like our home because… you’re the only person I’ve ever truly loved. I don’t know how to love anyone else. So, I’m using the way I love you as a model to treat her.” I understood every word, but the sentence they formed was pure insanity. His treatment method was to make his patient fall in love with him? And they had both agreed to this grotesque arrangement? He was a madman. He was using our love, our life, our home, as a tool. And in doing so, where did that leave me? “I don’t agree!” The words came out as a shout. “Harry, I don’t agree to this! You stop this right now! You come home with me!” The smile vanished from his face. “I can’t. We’re at a critical stage. Her recovery is imminent. I can’t leave now.” I stared at him, the pain in my chest becoming a physical, crushing weight. “I’m saying this one last time, Harry.” My voice trembled. “Come. Home. Now.” He didn’t speak. He just slowly lowered his head. His silence was the only answer I needed. Between me and Zoe, he had chosen her. I looked at him, at the man I had known my whole life, and it was like seeing a stranger. A loud ringing started in my ears. The suffocating feeling from before was back, stronger this time. Another attack was coming. Harry saw I wasn’t leaving but ignored me, heading back upstairs. The moment he was gone, I collapsed. The pain in my chest was unbearable, a heart attack of the soul. The depression was consuming me. I couldn’t process it. The Harry I knew wouldn't do this. The Harry who loved me was gone. A cold sweat broke out across my body. My husband was upstairs, tending to another woman, while I lay dying on his floor. I curled into a ball, fighting the agony, fighting the urge to shatter into a million pieces. I don’t know how long I lay there, but eventually, the suffocating grip began to loosen. I had survived. I pushed myself up, cast one last, desolate look up the stairs, and walked away. A light rain had started to fall, mingling with the tears on my cheeks. I drove home in a stupor. The moment I opened the door, Waffles was there, whining and nudging my leg with his head. I sank to the floor and pulled him into my arms. The storm inside me calmed, just a little. He was my only comfort now. The day’s events had left me utterly drained. I had no energy left to think, to feel. I just hugged Waffles and carried him upstairs to bed. I woke the next morning feeling physically better, but the hole in my heart remained. The image of Harry and Zoe kissing replayed in my mind, a fresh wave of nausea with each viewing. He had used our love story as a prescription for another woman. I went downstairs. Harry was waiting for me on the sofa. He saw me and rushed over, pulling me into an embrace. 4 “I’m sorry about last night,” he murmured into my hair. “You were right to be upset.” He pulled back, his eyes bright with that same clinical fervor. “But Chelsea, Zoe’s progress is incredible. We are so close to a full recovery!” He looked at me, his expression softening into one of deep affection. “I know this has been hard on you. How about a trip? Anywhere you want. The Caribbean? Switzerland? I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll go, just the two of us.” I don’t know if it was the depression, or the lingering rage from the night before, but his words brought me no comfort. He chattered on, planning our getaway, while I just watched him, silent. For the first time, I was truly examining the foundation of our relationship, and seeing the cracks. The memory of that kiss was a splinter in my soul. I knew that every time Harry tried to kiss me from now on, I would see her face. He finally noticed my silence. “Chelsea, I know you’re hurt,” he said, taking my hands. “But I promise you, once the treatment is over, I will never see her again.” He looked directly into my eyes, and the love I saw there, the love I had known my whole life, didn’t seem fake. My resolve wavered. All those years, all that history… you can’t just erase it. Looking into his eyes, I finally gave a small nod. I would forgive him. This one last time. A brilliant smile lit up his face. He kissed my forehead and hurried upstairs to pack. With the decision made, some of the anxiety in my chest eased. I went to the kitchen to get Waffles his breakfast. I called his name. Once, twice. No response. A cold knot of dread began to form in my stomach. Harry came downstairs, pulling a suitcase. “Oh, I sent Waffles over to Zoe’s,” he said casually. “Animal companionship is great for emotional regulation. With him there to keep her stable, I can be here with you.” The dread intensified. “You sent him to her? Without asking me?” He shrugged, completely unconcerned. “It’s fine. Zoe seemed to really like him.” “No!” The word ripped out of me, raw and panicked. My emotions spiraled out of control. “Take me to him. Now! We have to go now!” Harry held up his hands placatingly. “Chelsea, calm down. What are you so worried about? She’s a patient, not a monster. What could possibly happen to Waffles?” The ringing in my ears was back, louder than ever. The edges of my vision started to go dark. It was happening again. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, my eyes locked on his. “Harry,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “If you don’t take me to get my dog right now, we are getting a divorce.” The threat finally seemed to register. He frowned, his professional gaze assessing me, a flicker of concern in his eyes. Just then, the doorbell rang. He turned to get it. My heart hammered against my ribs, a primal, terrified rhythm. He opened the door. It was Zoe. She was covered in blood. My gaze drifted down to the black plastic bag in her hand. It was dripping. Harry stared at her, horrified. “Zoe? What happened? Why are you covered in blood?” She didn’t answer. She just opened the bag. It was Waffles.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "387982", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel