I came back for some confidential documents and found my 8-month pregnant wife kneeling, crying while washing my mother's feet. "This house belongs to my children, not to you," she said. I held my breath, gathered two suitcases, and showed her bank statements revealing who had been stealing from us for months.

I stared at Dr. Evans' signature on the court document, feeling an icy dagger of betrayal pierce my chest.

I had spent two years sitting on Dr. Evans' expensive leather couch, trusting him with my deepest fears and corporate anxieties.

I grabbed the legal folder, turned around without saying another word to Richard, and marched straight back to the elevator.

I knew Dr. Evans ran a private, late-night practice for high-profile clients just a few blocks away from the law firm.

I kicked the heavy glass door of his psychiatric clinic open, ignoring the startled receptionist who screamed for security.

I stormed down the carpeted hallway and violently burst into Dr. Evans' private consultation room.

Dr. Evans was frantically packing files into a cardboard box, looking like a man desperately preparing to flee the country.

He dropped a stack of papers the moment he saw me standing in the doorway with blood on my shirt.

I locked the office door behind me, grabbed him by the collar of his expensive shirt, and slammed him against the bookshelf.

I demanded to know exactly how much my mother and my dead brother had paid him to ruin my entire life.

Dr. Evans whimpered, his hands shaking wildly as he pleaded with me not to hurt him.

He swore that he never wanted the money, but David had threatened to destroy his career and his marriage.

The therapist confessed that David had obtained extremely compromising photographs of an affair he had with a vulnerable patient.

He told me that David had forced him to sign the incompetence declaration to initiate a hostile takeover of my pharmaceutical company.

I threw him to the floor in disgust, realizing my entire support system was built on a foundation of lies and blackmail.

Dr. Evans crawled over to his desk and pulled a small, untraceable burner phone from his top drawer.

He handed me the phone, stating it was the only way David communicated his threats and instructions.

I snatched the device, quickly bypassing the simple lock screen to read the history of their encrypted text messages.

“Which daughter is yours?” should have been a harmless question

The first wineglass shattered at 8:07 p.m

The moment the mafia boss’s wife called me “an illiterate servant,”

The most recent message from David had been sent exactly three minutes ago, and its contents made my blood run cold.

The text read: "The police are busy looking for Ryan. My men have successfully neutralized the hospital guards outside the maternity ward."

Chapter 6 - The Therapist's Confession