Behind the masks of love

Once again, I stepped into the bleak room that had witnessed my heartbreak and the wreckage of my hopes.

My eyes drifted across the space, scanning the faces around me with an empty stare.

They were only shells—hollow, soulless.

“Liam Rodham!”

My eyes snapped toward the voice that yanked me back to awareness.

The secretary called my name again.

“Liam.”

I jolted upright, my chair scraping across the wooden floor with an ugly screech.

Across the room, she stood with squared shoulders and a feminine grace that had haunted my mind for two years.

In her hand, she clutched the list of patients’ names.

Her high heels—those damn heels—clicked against the wooden boards in a rhythm that knotted my nerves and gnawed at my brain.

She thrust out a hand, blocking my path before I could march toward the usual office I visited every week.

“Before you enter the doctor’s office, you’ll need to leave all your belongings here. You’ll get them back when you leave.”

I arched an eyebrow.

“Since when is this nonsense a thing? I’ve been coming here every week for two years. Never once—”

“It’s policy now, Mr. Rodham. You don’t go in until you hand everything over.”

I exhaled through my teeth and dumped everything onto the counter.

A large man with muscles like stone stepped forward, his presence filling the narrow clinic hallway in downtown San Francisco.

My body flinched as he loomed closer. I raised my hands, clasping them behind my neck like a fugitive surrendering to the law.

He patted me down, checking my pockets. I didn’t even bother to argue.

When they were finished, my hand closed around the cold metal handle.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

There she was—Dr. Camilla Navarro, sitting in her leather chair, her clinical gaze fixed on me through the foggy light filtering from the window.

Outside, the distant hum of the city mixed with the faint clang of a cable car bell.

I shut the door and crossed to her, swallowing hard to dampen my nerves before I spoke, dry sarcasm lacing my voice as I dropped into the chair opposite her.

“Why the sudden change in rules, Camilla?”

She lifted her eyes from her phone. Her gaze locked with mine, sharp and unwavering, saying nothing.

The tension knotted in my stomach.

She was one of San Francisco’s most respected psychiatrists—and she knew how to weaponize silence.

Finally, she parted her lips, her voice aimed like a scalpel at the man sitting before her.

“Dr. Camilla,” she corrected softly. “I’m not your lover, Liam. And why should I care if one of my patients wants to kill me?”

I exhaled a tired breath and let the jab about my ex slide. Too exhausted to argue.

“Speaking of her… does she still visit you in your dreams?”

A cold shiver rippled through me.

“I see her everywhere,” I whispered. “Not just in my dreams.”

Camilla crossed her arms and pressed a button on the recorder, her eyes on me as she exhaled loudly, almost losing the professionalism she’d guarded for years. Therapy wasn’t working; she knew it.

“We have to accept death, Liam. Painful as it is, it’s a mercy.”

“No.” My voice turned feral. “I want her with me. She’s mine. I won’t let anyone abandon me again—not even death.”

Her next words nearly stole what was left of my breath.

“And what will you do if your mother dies, too? The one person you love most? Accept reality, Liam.”

My voice rose. I stared at her, sparks flashing between my eyes and her cold ones.

“I’ll die with her. Do you hear me? I won’t let her go.”

She jotted a note, then snapped, “Stop shaking your legs. Wipe your tears.”

“Life doesn’t stop because someone leaves. Do you understand?”

Tears streamed from my eyes. She reached into her desk, pulled out an inhaler, and tossed it against my chest before walking to the window, where the heavy Bay Area fog curled against the glass.

“Your mother won’t leave you forever. Your father never abandoned you. Lena isn’t dead. You’ll go home and find her sitting with your mother, sipping cold coffee like always.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, trembling.

But she kept talking.

Until I screamed.

Camilla pressed the intercom button.

“Emily. Go to my other office and bring me a sedative. Now.”

Minutes later, the injection sent darkness sweeping over my body.

And then—nothing.

---

When I woke again, the light had shifted. The sound of rain against the window filled the small therapy room.

Camilla sat behind her desk, calm as if nothing had happened.

“Good. You’re awake. You can leave now. Emily has your things. See you Tuesday.”

I said nothing. Just stood and left.

Outside, San Francisco was soaked in silver mist. The city felt too quiet. Too still.

---

Later that night — San Francisco Police Department

Detective Ethan Hale rubbed his temples in the dim glow of his office. Files piled high on the desk, each stamped with red ink: Unsolved.

A sharp knock echoed.

“Come in.”

A uniformed officer stepped inside. “Detective Hale, there’s been another murder—on Lombard Street.”

Ethan straightened. “Another one?”

“Yes, sir. Same pattern as the previous cases.”

“Call the team,” Ethan said, grabbing his coat. “Let’s move.”

---

The apartment was on the corner of Lombard and Hyde—fog creeping over the street, flashing red and blue lights reflected in the windows.

Inside, a man clutched the lifeless body of a woman in her early fifties. His face was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t leave me too.”

Ethan signaled for the paramedics to take her. The man resisted, screaming.

Two officers restrained him.

Before they could take him away, Ethan caught his arm.

“Who are you?”

The man looked up, tears carving lines down his face.

“I’m her son,” he whispered.

Ethan crouched down, spotting a blood-stained wallet on the floor.

He opened it—and froze.

The ID card stared back at him.

Liam Rodham.

Ethan’s voice dropped, cold and deliberate.

“So tell me, Liam… what happened here?”