Her Stubbornness

The fight seemed to drain out of her for a second, replaced by a wall of ice. “Nothing happened. Believe what everyone believes, don’t bother me.”

*Click.* The file closed again. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, bringing himself closer to her space. The dim yellow light softened the angles of his face, made his dark eyes look deeper, less like a doctor’s and more like a man’s. “I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice dropping. “If nothing really happened, you wouldn’t be sitting here tied up right now. I’m not going to stop bothering you— I’ll be back tomorrow, same time.”

A frustrated, wordless sound ripped from her throat. “Ugh!”

He stood slowly, tucking the file under his arm. He walked to the cell door, his steps measured. But he paused with his hand on the handle, looking back at her. Her head was turned away, her body a rigid line of tension. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I’ll bring you the black coffee you like tomorrow— I saw it in your file.”

That got a reaction. Her head whipped back toward him, her eyes flashing. “File? If you read that much, then you would know that I don’t take anything from men’s hands.”

He huffed a soft laugh, his hand still on the cool metal. He tilted his head, a dark lock of hair falling across his brow. He looked at her with a faint, unexpected amusement. “Then I’ll just leave it by the door. It’s your choice whether you drink it or not— I’m not forcing you.”

She turned her face away sharply, severing the connection. The dismissal was absolute.

He didn’t push. He just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, turned the handle, and locked the door from the outside. His voice filtered back through the small, barred window, faint but clear. “See you tomorrow, Selina. Sleep well.”

Sleep well. The words were a mockery that echoed in the sudden silence after he left. Sleep well? Her wrists were raw from the cuffs, her shoulders screaming from the strain of being held up all day and night. The chains ran up to the ceiling, allowing no respite, no chance to lie down. This was her punishment. This was her parents’ solution for the daughter who had become an inconvenience, a secret they couldn’t bear. *That night.* The memory was a shard of glass in her gut, a truth so terrible she had to bury it under layers of rage just to survive each moment. The anger was a shield, the only thing between her and the crushing weight of betrayal. As the deep night hours crawled by, the chill of the concrete seeping into her bones, exhaustion finally pulled her under, dragging her into a fitful sleep while still suspended, a butterfly pinned to a board.

The next day, the door opened before the usual time. Wuhan stood there, a paper cup steaming in his hand. The rich, bitter scent of black coffee cut through the cell’s stale air. He stopped just inside the threshold, his dark eyes taking in her position, identical to the night before. A flicker of something—not pity, but a sharp, clinical displeasure—crossed his features before his professional mask settled back into place.

“They tied you like this all night?” he asked, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of something hard. “No one changed your restraints like they were supposed to?”

Her gaze was venomous. “Don’t show pity.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. The emotion in his eyes banked, replaced by neutral focus. He placed the coffee carefully on the floor by the door, well within her line of sight but out of her reach. Then he approached her, his movements slow and deliberate. The key jangled softly as he unclipped it from his belt. “Alright, no pity. I’m just following the facility rules— patients should be able to rest properly. Let me loosen them a little.”

“As if you’re doing a great honor to me,” she sneered, her body tensing as he came closer.

He didn’t rise to the bait. He simply reached up, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of the clasp near her wrist. The click of the lock opening was soft. He loosened the chain, just enough slack for her arms to drop a few inches, for the strain on her shoulders to ease marginally. His fingers, warm and surprisingly gentle, accidentally grazed the bruised skin of her wrist.

A jolt, like a static shock, went through her. She yanked her hand back as far as the new slack would allow. “Don’t touch me.”

He withdrew his hand instantly, his expression unchanging. He tucked the key back into the pocket of his white coat and took two measured steps back, re-establishing a professional distance. “Got it, I won’t touch you without your permission next time. The coffee’s still warm—go drink it if you want.”

“I don’t want it.”

He nodded, a simple dip of his chin that showed neither disappointment nor pressure. He pulled out the chair and sat, the file rustling as he opened it. His dark eyes found hers again, calm and expectant. “That’s fine. It’ll still be there if you change your mind later. Now— shall we start today’s session?”

“I don’t need any.”

He closed the file again, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t push. He didn’t cajole. He just watched her, his gaze steady, a faint, unreadable curiosity in the depths of his eyes. “Like I said yesterday, I’ll sit here until the time is up. You can do whatever you want, I won’t bother you.”

And he didn’t. For the next fifty minutes, the only sounds were the faint whisper of turning pages and their shared, silent breathing. He read through her file with a focus that was absolute, occasionally making a small note. She remained stubbornly silent, staring at a crack in the opposite wall, every muscle in her body coiled tight. When he finally closed the folder and checked his watch, the silence felt like a physical thing that had grown between them.

“Session time’s up,” he said, standing. “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow, same time.”

And so it began. A pattern. A strange, silent dance that stretched over a month. He came. Sometimes with coffee, which she never touched. He sat. He didn’t force conversation. Some days he read the file; other days he just sat in silence, his presence a constant, unwavering fact in her confined world. She never spoke to him during the session hours, her stubbornness a fortress wall. She would give him nothing about *that night*, the secret festering inside her, fed by her anger.

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