Chapter 3: You Actually Smiled

Isabella's POV

I straightened up from the doorframe, my amusement fading into something more serious. The familiar dance of our rivalry felt different today. Lighter somehow.

"Cut the shit, Alex. I'm not here for that." I stepped into his office, closing the door behind me. "I need you to examine me."

Alexander's hand flew to his left cheek, and I caught that involuntary flinch. "Oh Christ, what's wrong with you now? Look, I know you came here a few weeks ago to beat the hell out of me, but please don't hit too hard this time."

I rolled my eyes. "Would you just listen? I'm not here to fight. I'm actually sick. Emotional detachment disorder."

His green eyes went wide, coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. "What?"

The word hung in the air between us. For a moment, I just stood there, watching his expression shift from wariness to something that looked like genuine concern.

This man had been my rival since day one at Stanford. No, that wasn't quite right. He'd been my defeated rival. Whether it was academic performance, internship evaluations, or dissertation defenses, I'd always stayed one step ahead.

After graduation, he'd leveraged his family's medical empire to poach my patients. I obviously couldn't tolerate that. That's why I'd made regular visits here to give him a few kicks. My taekwondo and boxing training from college had served me well. It's probably why he looked terrified every time he saw me.

But there had been other moments too. Memories I'd buried under layers of professional rivalry and personal distance.

"Isabella, go out with me," he'd said during our final semester, that cocky grin on his face. "You're smart, I'm rich. We're perfect for each other."

I'd looked at the string of sorority girls hanging around him and shaken my head. "Don't you think you're being a little too casual about this?"

Now, standing in his office, I could see him studying my face with professional interest rather than his usual defensive posture.

"Jesus, no wonder I've never seen you smile or cry since day one," he said slowly. "So it really was emotional detachment disorder. But now you're what, cured?"

Something in his tone made me drop my guard slightly. "I don't dare diagnose myself. I'm afraid I won't be able to accept the results. You know how it is. Doctors make the worst patients. So I need you to take a look."

The teasing left his expression completely. He pulled open his desk drawer and retrieved a stack of standard psychological assessment forms, his movements suddenly precise and professional.

"Sit down," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

The office fell quiet except for the scratch of pen on paper and the low hum of the air conditioning. I answered each question methodically, feeling an unexpected sense of peace settle over me.

For the first time in years, maybe decades, I wasn't analyzing my own responses or trying to control the outcome. I was just answering honestly.

Alexander made notes in his careful handwriting, occasionally glancing up at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. There was something different about seeing him in full professional mode. Less of the playboy heir, more of the skilled psychologist who'd earned his doctorate at the same institution I had.

Twenty-five minutes later, he set down his pen and reviewed the completed assessment. I watched his face as he calculated scores and cross-referenced criteria, feeling oddly vulnerable under his clinical scrutiny.

"Well," he said finally, looking up from the papers. "Apart from some physical fatigue, you're completely within normal parameters. No significant difference from the average person."

The words hit me like a physical force. Normal. After twenty-two years of emotional numbness, I was normal.

"It's probably due to the years of emotional barriers," Alexander continued, his voice gentle. "You might experience some delayed reactions to certain feelings, or overly intense responses to others. That's completely normal for someone recovering from long-term detachment."

I nodded, a strange lightness filling my chest. I was really okay. Twenty-two years of emotional imprisonment were finally over.

"So I'm really normal now?" The words came out softer than I'd intended.

"More normal than most people, actually." He smiled, and for once it wasn't the cocky grin I remembered. "Congratulations, Dr. Claire."

The relief was overwhelming. All those years of wondering if I was fundamentally broken, if I'd inherited my mother's inability to feel deeply enough to fight for what mattered. But I wasn't broken. I was just healing.

Without thinking, without analyzing, without controlling it, my lips curved upward. Not the polite, professional smile I'd perfected for patients and colleagues. This was real. Genuine. It started small and grew, warming my entire face in a way I'd forgotten was possible.

The pen in Alexander's hand clattered to the desk. His green eyes went wide as saucers, staring at me like I'd just performed a magic trick.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Am I seeing things? You actually smiled."

The curse word hanging in the air between us made me realize what had just happened. I quickly smoothed my expression back into its familiar neutral mask, feeling heat rise in my cheeks.

"Thank you," I said, standing up with as much dignity as I could muster.

But Alexander was still staring, apparently frozen in place by what he'd witnessed. I headed toward the door, eager to escape his intense scrutiny and process what had just happened in private.

"Wait," his voice stopped me at the threshold. "What the hell happened? How did you just get better overnight?"

I paused, my hand on the door handle. For twenty-two years, I'd never really confided in anyone about my inner world. Even in therapy training, I'd kept my personal struggles locked away behind professional barriers.

But today, facing this man who'd known me since graduate school, I felt an unexpected urge to share.

I turned around and walked back to the chair, settling down across from him again.

"I'm getting divorced."

The silence that followed was deafening. Alexander sat perfectly still, his mouth slightly open, as if my words had short-circuited his brain. The office felt suspended in time, dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunlight streaming through his windows.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached for his phone and dialed.

"Cancel everything I have scheduled for the rest of the morning," he said without taking his eyes off me. "Push it all to this afternoon. Don't ask why."

He hung up and pulled open his desk drawer again, this time retrieving a bag of chips. He placed it ceremoniously in the center of his desk between us.

"Okay," he said, settling back in his chair like he was preparing for a long story. "Start talking."