Poison me softly

“I want you to kill him.”

The woman, across from me, says.

My eyes snap up to her face.

“Excuse me?” Maybe I’d misheard her. We were just talking about her husband’s uncooperativeness in therapy sessions. How he was unwilling to share any information.

The woman smirks, saying once again.

“I want you to kill my husband.”

There’s a cold look in her eyes. As a therapist, I’ve been trained to pick up emotional cues. 

One look at this woman and I can tell, that this is a command. Not an offer I can turn down.

Or else, I might be the one to get killed.

.................

A mafia boss being my newest client, was probably the biggest shock of my career.

In my five year career as a therapist, I’d had my fair share of unusual cases. Clients who talked to the walls in their room, deeming it as their best friend. 

Clients who cried without making a sound, their tears falling endlessly while their lips remained sealed.

Teenagers who came from broken homes and were forced to get used to their parents’ divorce.

Over time, I’d learnt that people were never as simple as they appeared.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Seated across from me, was a man who I’d never fathomed meeting. 

Jude Martinez sat with one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed, yet there was nothing at ease about him. Even while seated, there was an unmistakable sense that he was tall. Not just in height, but in presence. 

His features were sharp. Defined in a way that made him look sculpted rather than born. His expression remained cold. His lips set in a slight frown that had yet to ease since he walked in.

His eyes were focused on me, with clear displeasure.

Nevertheless I smile and ask. “How have you been feeling this past week?”

His frown deepens, as though the question itself had offended him.

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

I resist the urge to sigh. Instead, I offer a small, encouraging smile I always gave difficult patients. 

“It’s a simple question, Mr Martinez. You can answer however you like.”

He says nothing. The silence stretched for over two minutes. I decide to press on more, leaning forward while maintaining eye contact.

“How have you been feeling?” I repeat. 

His frown, somehow deepens.

He uncrosses his legs, stands up, and straightens his jacket, responding.

“I’m done with this nonsense.”

And just like that, he walks out. The door shuts behind him with a loud bang.

I stare at his empty seat for a few seconds, then exhale slowly. I reach for my phone.

This was my first session with Jude. His wife had registered her him for the therapy. So I call her to give the update she requested for. 

The call rings twice before it’s answered. 

“Good afternoon, ma’am. This is Mrs. Martinez’s office.” Her secretary answers. 

“This is Dr. Cecilia. I need to speak with her.”

There’sa brief pause, followed by a polite response. “One moment, please.”

As I wait, my mind drifts back to how I had even gotten here.

An old college friend told me they had referred me to an influential client. Someone who, according to her, was looking for a therapist who could handle... delicate situations.

That was how I met Brittany Martinez.

She had chosen a quiet café, one that matched her elegance perfectly. She told me about her husband who needed therapy, and how “worried” she was. 

Yet, as she spoke, there had been no worry on her face. Not a sign of distress. Nothing that suggested she cared in the way a wife should.

She had worn the same cold expression I had just seen on her husband.

What a perfect match. Two people equally cold and unapproachable. 

And equally exhausting.

Still, I had accepted.

Because the pay she offered was more than enough to pull me out of my current situation. Enough to leave behind my cramped apartment and start over somewhere better.

I had told myself it was just another case. That no matter how influential he was, he was just another emotionally wounded client.

“Cecilia.”

The sound of Brittany’s voice, pulls me back to the present.

Her voice is every bit as smooth and refined as she is. 

“Good evening ma’am.” I reply. “Your husband left the session.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end. Then she sighs, not sounding frustrated or even surprised. Almost sounds bored. 

“He does that sometimes. He’ll be back.” She says lightly. 

Her voice carries a strange sense of certainty. As though his actions were nothing more than a child’s predictable tantrum.

Before I can respond, the line goes dead.

I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a moment before placing it on the desk. 

I sigh for the hundredth time today, then turn to my laptop.

If I was going to deal with this man, I needed to understand him better.

I opened the file I had saved earlier, titled “Jude Martinez.”

I’d done an in depth research into him, because he was a well known millionaire.

His family history was filled constant fights within themselves, all to inherit wealth. The source of their income was labelled as a line of various businesses, but it was an open secret, that they were a Mafia family. 

I scroll further.

Six months ago, he got married, to Brittany D’Angelo, who was now Brittany Martinez. She too, came from a powerful family. 

From what I had gathered, their union had not been a simple one.

Yet, there were reports suggesting she held a certain level of control over him.

I pause at that, wondering how one could have control over a man like him. It didn’t quite make sense.

Were they in love?

The thought came suddenly, and I dismissed it just as quickly.

It wasn’t my place to wonder about the grounds of their marriage, or how they operated.

Closing the tab, I lean back in my chair, unlocking my phone and scrolling through it absentmindedly. The hours pass slower than usual.

By the time evening comes, I’ve almost convinced that Jude wouldn’t return. And as much as I hated to admit it, that worried me. Not because of him.

But because I needed this job. He was the only client I had, for the past five months, after my license almost got revoked.

When I step outside to look for a taxi, the cool air brushes against my skin, waking me up and out of my head. Even as a therapist, I often got lost there. 

I’ve barely taken a few steps when a sleek black car pulled up in front of me. The tinted window rolls down, and Brittany Martinez, is seated inside

She looked exactly the way she did last week. Composed and untouched by the world around her.

“Get in.” She says, a direct demand.