“I’m okay,” she told me.

I wasn’t convinced. The words felt too neat, too practiced.

“Really, Liri. I’m okay.”

I sighed, long and quiet, but I knew she heard it anyway. She always did.

“Did you wrap up the auditions?” she asked, shifting the conversation like she always did when she didn’t want to linger.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just now. I’m in the rental.” I paused, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I wanted to check on you. But it’s done.”

There was a moment of silence at the other end.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked. Calm, but sharp. She could hear it in my voice—the way it dipped, the way I avoided certain words. She always knew when I was holding something back. “Did something happen?”

“The audition today,” I said. “A bitch from the last event. The mansion.” I exhaled through my nose. “Green eyes. Dark hair. I thought she belonged to you.”

Silence stretched between us, heavier this time.

“I—” Phina began, then stopped. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“She said she wasn’t,” I continued. “Said she worked staff. Behind the scenes. Catering, I think.”

“What happened?” she asked.

I hesitated.

“I might’ve taken things a little too far with her,” I admitted. The words didn’t sit well in my mouth. “May have locked her into one of the dog hoods and sent her home like that.” I explained it quickly, flatly—definitely not proud of myself.

“Liri,” Phina said.

It was that tone—the one she used when she knew I was already unraveling. When she understood that what I was describing wasn’t the real wound, that something else had settled deeper and was festering. And in this case, that girl was simply where it found release.

“What are you upset about?” she asked.

I took a long, hard breath, the kind that scraped on the way in.

“Friday,” I said. “I’m upset that you ended up in the hospital on Friday.” The words came heavier once I let them out. “One of our neighbors had to call 911. And I’m fucking here—fucking around with bitches pretending to be Dommes, who have no real clue what it’s actually like.”

There was a pause on the line. Not silence exactly—just her listening.

“You’ll be home late tonight,” she said finally.

“I can get an early flight back,” I told her. She knew I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t want to go. She could probably hear it in the way my voice leaned toward her.

“They’re expecting you,” she said gently. “And he’s paid in advance. I already billed him. Really billed him for this.”

I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath. It caught halfway, snagging in my chest like my body refused to let it go. That was when I knew—I was going to cry.

I’d had to leave the auditions on Friday because the hospital called. Phina had been admitted. Brought in by ambulance. She’d collapsed while working in the garden. One of our neighbors—the one next door, one of the few who actually spoke to us—had found her unconscious and called 911.

There aren’t words for what that feels like. Knowing your sister has been taken to the hospital, unresponsive, while you’re stranded on some fucked-up business trip. Being stuck miles away when she needs you, only because the medical bills are so high you can’t afford not to go. Needing the money just to keep her alive—while the cost of that care is the very thing pulling you away from her in the first place.

So, I wrapped up the call before the tears came—before she could hear them.

“I love you,” I said, fighting the cracking in my voice. “I’ll call you after it’s done. After I return the rental.”

“Okay,” she replied. “I love you, too.”

I pulled into their driveway—long, winding. The kind that gave you time to think, whether you wanted to or not. Big house. Nice neighborhood. Everything manicured and quiet, like nothing bad was ever allowed to happen here.

I took my purse from the passenger seat, set it carefully into the trunk, and closed it with more force than necessary. By the time I reached the front door, I had barely lifted my hand to ring the bell when it opened.

An older gentleman stood there, already waiting.

“Hello,” he said warmly. “I’m Jack. You must be Mistress Liora.” It wasn’t really a question. He already knew. No one dressed the way I was would be ringing his doorbell for any other reason.

I nodded.

“Please,” he said, stepping aside. “Do come in.” It sounded less like a suggestion and more like an invitation he’d been rehearsing.

The house was just as big on the inside—the kind you only ever see in movies. A wide foyer. A sweeping staircase. Not quite the mansion Phina and I rented out, but close enough to feel like its smaller, polished cousin.

“Can I take—” she began, gesturing toward my jacket, but I cut him off.

“No,” I said, then softened it. “No, thank you. I’ll keep it on.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary without comment, and gestured toward a doorway. “I was thinking we could talk first,” he said. “I can answer any questions you might have.”

We stepped into a giant kitchen. Again—straight out of a movie. The kind people imagine rich families have. Everything white. White cabinets. White countertops. White tile. Spotless, like no one ever actually lived there.

He motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table. It was enormous—about the size of our dining room table back home.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

“No,” I said gently. “Thank you.”

He sat down across from me, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

“Thank you,” he began, then paused, searching for the right words. “For coming. For being open to helping.” He caught himself. “Or at least ... trying to.”

I watched him closely, listening not just to what he said, but to what he didn’t.

His words were sincere. And he seemed weathered—not in his face, but in his movements, in the way he spoke. It was the wear of someone deeply tired. Someone living two lives: the one presented carefully to the world, and the quieter one he carried alone, enduring it all internally.

“My sister told me your wife suffers from a severe mood disorder with comorbid dissociative identity traits,” I said. He was just sitting there, and I had the sense he was trying to figure out how to begin, so I did it for him. “And that it includes an alter presenting with hypersexuality and violent tendencies.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s the latest,” he said. “As you can imagine, there have been others over the years. Different doctors. Different opinions. Different diagnoses.”

His voice carried the quiet exhaustion of someone who had heard it all before—and learned that none of it ever really settled anything.

“You understand that for someone like her, none of this is being done on purpose,” I said carefully. “She isn’t choosing it.” I held his gaze. “What she needs is a psychologist. A psychiatrist. Medication. And very likely full-time supervision.”

The words weren’t unkind—but they were firm. Still, I knew I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. I just had to say it. Not out of professional obligation—I wasn’t even practicing yet—but because I needed to say it. Phina and I were always upfront with potential clients. Always.

He nodded. “I know,” he said quietly. “And we’re doing what we can. Even though ... to be honest, we’ve stopped the medication.” He looked at me, searching for understanding. Maybe even approval. “It helped. It calmed her. But it made her ... catatonic, I guess. Not herself. I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“So, we continue to struggle with all of that,” he continued, voice heavy. “But ... I’m exploring alternatives now. Ways to manage her needs better.”

He gave me a weary smile, small and almost apologetic. “That’s why I’m grateful you were willing to come.”

“I’ve been told you keep her in restraints,” I asked carefully. “That she lashes out ... gets violent. And that the violence has even become a police matter?”

He nodded slowly, almost ashamed. “Since December, I think,” he said, pausing as if counting the months in his head. “So ... seven, eight months?”

“And she’s been in them consistently this whole time?” I pressed.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Did something happen in December that put her in them?” I asked. “Was it tied to the police situation? Is that how she ended up in them?”

Another slow nod “Sort of. We were leaving a gala, and ... I was at my wit’s end. Julie had fallen asleep. She was being ... well...” He trailed off, looking at me as if not sure how to say it, or if he should finish the thought out loud.

“I drove to a place I know that sells restraints to law enforcement. I had texted the owner—I’d worked with her and her husband at the museum ... anyway.” He exhaled. “She gave us a set of restraints. The kind they use on prisoners ... inmates. Showed me how to put them on her. And then I drove her home in them.”

There was a weight to his confession, the kind that made the air in the room feel heavier, the kind you couldn’t just dismiss.

He nodded again. “Later I hired someone to teach me proper restraining techniques,” he admitted, voice low and stained with shame. “You know, like what officers learn to handle difficult individuals. How to do it safely ... without hurting the person, like in hospital or institutional settings.”

“Psychiatric patients,” I said.

He nodded. I wasn’t trying to be cruel, but if we were going to discuss this, we had to say it plainly. No sugarcoating. No dancing around it. It had to be named for what it was. That’s how Phina and I worked—we were blunt with clients.

“And they’ve helped?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied hesitantly. “She ... can’t lash out anymore. Can’t throw things. Can’t reach out.” His voice faltered. “Those ... the restraints really helped with those things.”

“That’s what they do,” I said softly, but matter-of-factly.

“And she’s okay with that?” I asked. “She’s okay being restrained that way? Those kinds of restraints ... they’re supposed to be temporary—to move individuals. They’re not meant for full-time use—especially since she can’t use her hands.”

“Julie ... yeah,” he replied.

“She’s fine with it,” he continued, his voice softening. “She was actually the first to tell me she needed to be in them. I think she realized that ... that night. Something just ... clicked for her on the drive home. I don’t know what it was, but she accepted that she needed to be kept in them.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Even when we go out, she’s in them now. At least the handcuffs, the waist chain, the security box. Winter was easier, though—I could hide all of it under her bulky coats or jackets. I got ... really good at it.”

A small, weary shrug. “The handcuffs, anyway. There was no way to hide the leg cuffs, even without the lead chain, even under pants. But she doesn’t always need those. Not for short trips. I just keep them in the car, just in case.”

After a moment, he added, “As long as her hands stay at her waist, that’s enough. That’s what really matters. That she can’t use her hands.”

He sighed.

“Harder to cover them up in the summer,” he said.

“So, we haven’t been out much the past few weeks,” he added. “Usually just short trips ... unless it’s a museum event. One of the galas, or some similar event ... where I work.”

He looked at me, as if measuring how much I understood. “She can wear them openly for those. The leg cuffs. All of it,” he said. When he saw my confusion, he added quickly, “It’s ... a long story.”

I just looked at him and nodded. I didn’t press. He didn’t seem interested in explaining further, and somehow, that silence said more than words ever could.

“She sounds ... complacent about it, at least,” I said carefully. “So why the need to be trained on how to restrain someone? That’s usually necessary when the person is uncooperative ... dangerous.”

He looked at me, and his eyes darkened slightly. “It’s the other side of her,” he said quietly, voice tight with something like fear or exhaustion. Maybe both. “That’s the side that doesn’t like being in them ... that hates them, actually.”

“Most of the time, I can put her in them without any issue. She understands they’re necessary. They go on in the morning, and she stays in them all day.”

He looked at me. “Our neighbor—a close friend of Julie’s—comes by during the day to check on her. Sometimes Julie goes over to her place instead.”

A gesture toward the back of the house. “There’s a gate that connects our yards. The pools are basically right next to each other. Big houses, but zero lot lines,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant, but he got the point across. She could go next door without being seen.

“We eventually had to tell Joan,” he added. “I had to go back to work. I’d taken time off during the holidays and was able to stay home with her—figure out the restraints, hire someone to help me learn how to use them properly. But eventually I had to go back. And I couldn’t just leave her alone like that. But I couldn’t leave her unrestrained either.”

He looked at me then—eyes wide, but worn down. “So, we had to tell Joan.” He sighed. “We were really lucky. She understood. She knew Julie struggled—knew she was on medication, and that it really messed with her. And she was willing to help.”

A small shrug. “So, she just spends time with her. Keeps an eye on her. Makes sure she’s okay.”

He looked at me. Maybe I looked puzzled. But he continued. Like he needed to offer more rationale.

“And Julie’s okay with it. She was hesitant at first—about telling Joan, about her seeing her in the restraints. Maybe she got past the humiliation. I don’t know. But she’s okay with it now. Plus, there’s a lot she can’t do anymore. She can’t drive—obviously—but that’s a good thing. And Joan can help with that. With all the coordination stuff. She understands Julie has to stay restrained.”

He paused. “Anyway, it means there’s a lot more structure now. Even simple things, like going to the bathroom, take planning. Everything’s laid out. There’s a schedule we follow. Procedures.”

I nodded slowly. “You’ve figured out a system,” I said gently. “With support from people you trust. That’s ... that’s good.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It works. Mostly.”

“The other side of her,” I said, repeating his words back to him.

He nodded. “That’s the side that gets violent when she doesn’t get what she wants. Or when she feels threatened,” he said quietly. “That’s the side that will grab whatever’s nearby and throw it without warning. Or just start hitting.”