Bound by Affection: The Calm Before the Nightmare (Chapter 1)
Is this just a nightmare, or is the calm hiding something more dangerous?
Welcome to Bound by Affection!
In this opening chapter, we meet Dr. Emily Carson, a therapist who has built a quiet life for herself. It is the calm before the storm. Her world begins to unravel when she meets Elias Sterling, a wealthy and enigmatic man who becomes her patient. Elias’s past is as dark as his intentions, and their sessions soon blur the lines between professionalism and something far more dangerous.
Thank you for joining me on this journey! The first few chapters are free to read, with future chapters featuring voiceovers for an even more immersive experience. Stay tuned and subscribe to ensure you don’t miss a single moment!
Emily
The Boston afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the room. I sit at my desk, scanning my notes and running a hand through my short brown hair. My workspace is tidy, with case files neatly stacked beside a half-empty mug and a potted plant that’s seen better days. My framed degrees on the wall add the only personal touch, reminding me of the long hours and dedication it took to get here. Each page I flip through adds to the stack’s weight, pressing down on me with a silent demand. Too many patients. Each one demanding attention. The late nights and early mornings blur together, a relentless cycle I can’t break.
Still, one file stands out, pulling my attention despite the chaos around me. My hazel eyes linger on the details, torn between professional detachment and a growing sense of intrigue. Why does this one feel different? It’s as if it’s waiting for me to open it and uncover its secrets.
I exhale, deciding to satisfy my curiosity. I open the file and scan the pages quickly, noting there isn’t much to it. On paper, Elias Sterling is unremarkable—thirty-five, with no history of mental illness or past trauma to suggest deeper struggles. But something about this case calls to me, unsettling in a way I can’t explain.
Then I see it, he is a former patient of Dr. Phillips, my mentor during my doctorate. I had shadowed him through many sessions, observing his skill in handling the most challenging cases. Why would Dr. Phillips refer this ordinary patient to me? There must be something beneath the surface, a hidden complexity that could turn this file into a labyrinth of secrets.
I feel a weight on my shoulders because he handed me a puzzle he couldn’t solve. My instinct tells me to stay detached, to maintain the professional barrier, yet curiosity tugs at me, urging me to uncover the mystery of Elias Sterling. What am I missing here?
The door opens, pulling me from my thoughts. As he steps toward me, the quiet click of his polished shoes echoes in the space. I look up and realize Elias Sterling is anything but ordinary. At six foot two, he has an athletic build. His dark brown hair frames his jawline, and his piercing blue eyes hold a mix of charm and danger.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Carson,” he says, stepping inside with a predatory self-assuredness.
Why does it feel like he’s sizing me up? As he steps closer, he towers over my five-foot-two frame. His gaze lingers on my face—not just looking, but studying me.
“Of course. Please, have a seat.”
“Elias Sterling. Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice smooth and confident as he extends his hand. There’s a calculated ease in his movements, as if every gesture is deliberate. Is this the man beneath the polished exterior or just another mask he wears?
I hesitate before taking his hand. His grip is firm yet gentle, but there’s a lingering touch. His thumb brushes my skin, and heat rushes to my cheeks, betraying my composure. Why does this simple gesture feel so loaded?
I pull my hand back, the sudden loss of his touch making my fingers tingle as I drop my notebook. The thud jolts me back, and I force myself to breathe deeply. Get it together, Emily.
“Dr. Emily Carson, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk hinting at amusement as he takes in my reaction. The flush on my cheeks deepens, and I’m hyperaware of every shift in his expression. He knows I’m affected. Don’t give him more power than he already has.
“Of course, doctor. I heard you were the best at everything.”
I hold a composed smile, suppressing the flutter in my chest as I sidestep his challenge. Keep this professional. Don’t let him unravel you.
He walks past me, his citrus and cedar cologne leaves a subtle, enticing trail. He doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he scans the room, and I scrutinize him, trying to understand what he’s thinking. First, he examines my framed degrees. Then, he looks at the blue abstract painting that adds a pop of color to the otherwise neutral space. Finally, he walks over to the books. His fingers brush against the spines of the leather-bound volumes, feeling their texture. He seems to size up both me and the room, which I find fascinating. Is he trying to read me as much as I’m trying to read him?
He sits back in the leather chair, creaking it with his weight, arms crossed and radiating confidence. His navy blazer, a perfect fit, drapes over a crisp white shirt, the top button left undone, drawing attention to his lean physique as he shifts.
“Why don’t we begin by getting to know each other a little better?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the space between us feeling charged, a subtle current pulling me closer. “I’m sure you have plenty to share.”
He tilts his head, and his eyes linger for a moment on my lips before meeting mine again, making my pulse quicken. A playful smile forms on his lips, but there’s an edge to it. He knows how to wield silence, letting the weight of his words hang over me like an unspoken dare. Why is my heart racing like this?
“Is this where you want me to open up, doctor?” His tone is teasing, but there’s more behind it.
A small thrill runs through me. He’s holding back, revealing just enough to intrigue, but not enough to understand. The more he withholds, the more I want to dig deeper, peel back the layers of his facade.
I maintain a professional smile, sidestepping his challenge. “We’ll get to that,” I say, hoping to keep control of the situation. Just another patient. Another case. Or so I tell myself.
“Let’s start simple. Tell me about yourself. Your work, your daily routine…”
Elias reclines in his chair, leaning back as though deciding how much to reveal.
“I work in investment banking. High stakes, long hours. You can imagine the stress,” he says, as if the stress doesn’t touch him. Investment banking—predictable yet intense. But why does it feel like there’s more beneath the surface?
“Does the stress get to you?”
He gives a faint smile. “Not work stress.” There it is—the hint of something deeper.
I scribble a note, but my focus is on the way he says it, the subtle shift in his voice that gives away nothing.
“So, what does get to you?” I press him, hoping to uncover what he’s hiding.
The tension rises as Elias leans closer. I lean in, drawn to his words, attempting to stay objective. He’s baiting me, and I’m taking it.
“I’ve been having dreams.”
“Dreams?” It’s not uncommon for patients to share their dreams with me; many of them do, but his feel different, more pressing.
He pauses, his eyes getting colder as he continues. “Although ‘nightmare’ might be a better word for them.”
“Nightmares are often a reflection of unresolved issues. Care to describe them?”
He leans back with a humorless smile. “They’re more like memories.”
I suppress a flicker of disappointment at the idea of another case of trauma. No mystery there. Despite feeling uneasy, I keep a neutral expression. “Memories?”
He nods, gazing at me. “Things I’ve done and gotten away with.”
Memories? The word feels heavier than a simple recollection. What kind of memories would make him react this way?
The admission hits harder than it should. Why do I feel like he’s testing me? I’ve had patients describe numbness before, but this is different. It’s not indifference—it’s an abyss, and he’s standing at the edge, staring back at me.
“Gotten away with?” My voice trembles despite my effort to control it.
His gaze drops to my neck, as if picturing something left unspoken. Does he know how unsettling that look is?
“Let’s start from the beginning,” I suggest, steering my patient back to safer ground. “Tell me about these memories.”
Elias shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other while holding my gaze. “I don’t think you’re ready for what I have to say. Some things… are better left buried.”
An uncomfortable silence fills the room, but I hold his gaze, forcing myself to maintain a professional demeanor. I’m the one in control here—or am I?
“I’m here to help you, Elias. Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.”
For the first time, I’m not sure if I’m ready because he’s steering this session. I can feel the power slipping.
Finally, he nods. “Alright, Doctor. But remember—you asked for it.”
He leans in, his voice dropping to a quieter, intimate tone. My pulse quickens—whether from his words or the proximity, I can’t quite tell.
“The nightmares—they always start the same. I’m standing in a rainy, dark alley, and there’s this feeling of inevitability. I know what’s about to happen, but I can’t stop it.”
I jot the details down, but my mind is already processing. He speaks with a detached tone, as if he’s narrating a story.
“There’s a woman in front of me, always with her back turned. I can’t see her face, but I know who she is.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s someone I dealt with. Someone who needed to disappear.”
I pause. “Dealt with?”
This woman is dead. But how did she die? A brief flicker in his eyes reveals something more than he wants to share, a glimpse of a secret he’s carefully guarding.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s gone,” he says, offering no further explanation.
“Go on,” I say calmly. I’m determined not to give him the reaction he wants, but the room feels smaller, almost suffocating.
He shrugs, a casual movement that betrays nothing of the storm brewing inside him. “I step forward, and the ground is slick with water, but when I look down, it’s blood.”
I glance at my notepad, noting his dreams might stem from trauma. But this doesn’t feel like a typical nightmare.
“The woman starts to turn, but before she can face me, I… I reach out.” He flexes his hand, mimicking the motion. “I grab her throat, and I squeeze.”
My grip tightens on the pen, but I force myself to remain composed despite the fear. “And what happens then?”
“She makes awful sounds like a trapped animal. But I keep squeezing until she stops moving.”
The calmness in his voice makes his words even more disturbing, but he keeps his gaze fixed on me, searching for any hint of my reaction.
He’s not describing a nightmare; it’s a story he’s told many times. Whether it’s real or not is the mystery. So I want to dive deeper.
“And what do you feel at that moment?”
His tone stays detached, eyes locked with mine. “Nothing. No guilt, no regret. Just… emptiness.”
I stare at him, trying to hide my discomfort, but my heart pounds in my chest. Did he have anything to do with it, or was he just a witness?
Even though I know everyone reacts to trauma differently, he feels nothing at all. Now it’s clear why Dr. Phillips referred Elias to me for a second opinion. His unclear diagnosis points to psychopathy, though one session isn’t enough to confirm that.
“And what happens when you wake up?”
He leans in, and the space between us feels suffocating. “I feel the same.” His gaze never leaves mine, and there’s no feeling there, just blank.
“It stays with me—the feeling that I’ve done something, that I’ve taken something away.”
I want to ask more—probe deeper—but I can sense the danger in doing so. Dr. Phillips’s note, “Handle with care,” echoes in my mind. Did Elias unnerve him the way he’s getting under my skin?
Trying to regain control of the session, I say, “These dreams—these memories—are they based on anything real?”
Elias’s smile returns, but it’s cold, detached. The opposite of the charming one from earlier.
“Does it matter? The effect is what matters most. It’s the loss but also the power.”
“I’m here to help you make sense of these dreams—but I need you to trust me because it’s the only way we can work through this together.”
For a long moment, his expression remains unreadable as he watches me. Then he leans in. “Trust is earned, not given. So let’s see if you can earn mine, and it’s hard to do it,” he whispers.
What does he mean by that? I’m his doctor; I am bound by law to keep everything confidential.
Suddenly he stands, his tall frame looming over me. “That’s enough for today, don’t you think, Dr. Carson?”
My hands tremble as I stand, trying to regain my composure. Why does he seem so much taller now? “We’ve just started. There’s more we need to cover.”
“Another time.” His tone is firm, his eyes assessing me with an intensity that leaves no doubt—he’s aware of the effect he has.
He moves past me to leave, but pauses and turns toward me. His voice drops to a soft, unsettling whisper. “Doctor, I almost forgot. But be careful on your way to your car. It’s getting dark out, and you never know who’s out there watching.”
I freeze, unable to respond before he leaves, and the door shuts behind him. The silence in the office is overwhelming as I rush to lock it. I sit down, letting out a sigh, trying to shake off the words. But it doesn’t work because my body is tense, not from stress but from fear, and it doesn’t fade.
When I step outside, the sun has already dipped below the horizon, leaving the parking lot shrouded in twilight. The wind stirs the leaves, and each sound feels sharp and amplified. With my keys clutched in my hand, I move quickly, glancing back at the shifting darkness. A faint floral scent lingers in the air—unfamiliar and out of place.
Moments later, a low rumble of thunder rolls in the distance, even though the sky remains clear. I quicken my pace, each noise more pronounced—the rustling leaves, the creak of a gate in the distance. My keys slip from my hand, clattering against the pavement and making me jump. I bend to pick them up quickly because every second feels like an eternity.
Before I can steady myself, a soft noise—like a footstep—comes from behind. I stop, my ears straining to catch any follow-up sound, but there’s only the wind whispering through the trees. My fingers tighten around my keys until my knuckles ache, and I hurry to the car.
Once inside, I lock the doors with shaking hands and press my back into the seat. Then, I feel my skin prickle, as though someone’s eyes are on me. The silence grows heavy, and time feels suspended. I glance at the rearview mirror, trying to steady the nervous flutter in my stomach.
Then, I see it: a single daisy placed neatly on the passenger seat, where there had been nothing before.
Next, my phone vibrates in my lap, startling me; I nearly drop it. I glance down, the sensation of dread pooling in my chest. He’s closer than I thought. Too close. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe I left the door open. Maybe it just… flew in. The thought gnaws at me, but before I can rationalize it, there’s a sudden tap on the window.
My muscles lock up in fear, but I force myself to turn my head. A shadowy figure stands just beyond the glass, their silhouette blurred by the dim, flickering streetlight. My heart slams in my chest as the figure raises their hand, holding another daisy. My breath catches.
The figure leans closer, their lips curling into a faint smile. Then, barely audible through the glass, they whisper, “I hear you like daisies.”
I don’t respond. Instead, my instincts kick in, and I shift into flight mode, slamming my foot on the gas and speeding away. Was this all in my head? No, it wasn’t. Did his words affect me so much that I’m already losing it? Or worse—was that him? Every nerve in my body screams that this isn’t over—that it’s only just begun.
What do you think Elias is hiding, and what are his true motives? Share your theories in the comments. I’d love to hear your thoughts!
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© 2024 Scarlett Witherspoon. All rights reserved. This story is protected under copyright law.