36. Marcus

36

Marcus

I’ve spent my entire career pretending to be other people. Now, in rehab, I have to face the scariest role of all.

Being myself.

Jake found me the most private and secluded rehab place possible, where apparently all the staff have such strict NDAs that even the most famous people can pass through without a hint of tabloid scandal.

The center looks like Architectural Digest is having a clandestine romance with the Medical Journal . Every piece of furniture probably costs more than most people’s cars, but the underlying sterility reminds me I’m not actually on vacation.

Of course, for the first few days, I’m far too preoccupied to appreciate my surroundings. It turns out that when you’ve stuffed yourself full of a mix of prescription medications for over a year, detoxing isn’t much fun. It’s like the worst hangover of your life multiplied by a thousand, with a side of existential dread.

On the third day, I have my first therapy session with my assigned psychiatrist.

Dr. Emerson looks like she stepped out of a Pottery Barn catalog—all earth tones and calming energy. But her eyes are sharp, cutting through my bullshit before I even open my mouth.

She invites me in to sit on the beige couch opposite her.

“Before we start, I want you to know that in this room, you’re not Marcus Johnson, the movie star. You’re just Marcus. Think you can handle that?”

I clear my throat before I answer. “Yes, I can definitely handle that.”

“We’re going to be on a journey to discover exactly why you feel the need to rely on artificial substances to numb yourself from the world and work out strategies to help you navigate your emotions in a healthier way.”

“I know exactly why I put chemicals into my bloodstream to blot out reality,” I say.

“Why is that?”

“Because I killed my mother and sister, and it’s made me incapable of love.”

Whatever Dr. Emerson expected out of my mouth, it obviously wasn’t that.

She blinks twice. The corners of her mouth tighten, creating tiny creases that betray her practiced neutrality.

“All right, let’s unpack that statement. That’s quite a heavy burden you’re carrying.”

I lean back, crossing my arms. “Unpacking it won’t change the facts.”

Dr. Emerson leans forward slightly, her pen poised over her notepad. “Facts can be subjective, Marcus. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I pushed my sister, which caused her to fall into a lake when I was nine, and then I didn’t jump in to rescue her until it was too late. She drowned. My mother… She couldn’t handle her death. And when I told her I’d been the one to push Emmy, that tipped my mother over the edge, and she overdosed.”

“That’s a traumatic experience for anyone, let alone a child,” she says softly. “But why do you say you killed them?”

“Because I did.” The words taste bitter. “If I hadn’t pushed Emmy, if I’d jumped in faster, then she’d still be alive. And if I hadn’t told the truth…my mother would still be alive.”

Dr. Emerson shifts in her chair, uncrossing and recrossing her legs like she’s settling in for a long battle. “Did you intend for either of your actions to have those consequences?”

I clench my fists so tight my knuckles turn white, nails digging crescents into my palms. “Of course not. But they did. I’m like a wrecking ball. I can’t help but shatter the lives of everyone around me.”

“It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of guilt,” she observes. “Have you ever considered that a nine-year-old child isn’t equipped to handle that kind of situation?”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Tell that to my father. He knows exactly who’s to blame.”

Dr. Emerson’s pen scratches across her notepad. “And what makes you think your father blames you?”

“Because he couldn’t even look at me after my mother died. She must have told him about how I pushed Emmy. And he just…stopped seeing me. Even when I was right in front of him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

I swallow hard. “He couldn’t even be in the same room as me. He sent me away to boarding school, saying it would be ‘better for everyone.’”

“That must have been incredibly isolating.”

“The worst part is, he never raised his voice or said anything cruel. But I have this internal monologue that fills in the blanks, imagining what he would say to me.”

I curl in on myself, like I can somehow compensate for the ball of hurt inside me.

But the pain comes out in my voice as I continue, “He just…erased me. Like I stopped existing the moment he learned the truth.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Sometimes I think that’s why I like acting so much. At least when people watch you on a screen, they have to see you.”

“And how does your father’s opinion impact your view of yourself?” Dr. Emerson’s voice is carefully neutral.

The question hits me like a sucker punch. I open my mouth, then close it again. “I… I don’t know,” I admit finally.

“We’ll circle back to this again, but I want to move on to what prompted you to come here. Your rock bottom.” She checks your notes. “You were disappointed you’d missed out on a role and were worried you were going to harm yourself, so you called your best friend, who then got in contact with your agent to bring you here.”

“That wasn’t my rock bottom,” I find myself saying.

“What was your rock bottom?”

“When the man who loves you begs you never to contact him again because you’re destroying him.” My voice is shaking. “That’s when you know you’ve hit rock bottom.”

“Who is the man who loves you?”

“His name is Seb.” Even saying his name causes pain to shoot through me. “He’s the younger brother of my best friend. We were together at university, and then we had another relationship for eighteen months. It ended three months ago.”

“Why did it end?”

“Because, like I said at the beginning, I’m incapable of love.”

She fixes her gaze on me. “You say he begged you not to contact him. How did you respond?”

“I promised I wouldn’t contact him again.”

“And have you kept that promise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he deserves to be happy.”

“Have you wanted to talk to him?”

My laugh comes out almost like a sob. “Every day.”

“Yet, you’ve managed to stop yourself.” She tilts her head, studying me. God, her penetrating gaze makes me feel like she’s doing an audit of my soul.

“I don’t think you’re incapable of loving someone properly, Marcus. I think you might be scared of loving properly, of building a future with someone, but you’re not incapable of it.”

“If Seb couldn’t fix me, then no one can.”

She sets her notepad aside, folding her hands in her lap as she regards me. “The right person doesn’t heal you. The right person makes you want to put in the work so you can heal yourself.”

Her words slice through my carefully constructed defenses, leaving me raw and exposed. She fixes me with an intense stare.

“Are you prepared to put in the work?”

I’ve spent so long running from myself, from my past. The idea of standing still, of finally looking in the mirror without the benefit of Hollywood lighting and careful angles, makes my chest constrict.

I’ve gotten so good at pretending that sometimes I forget which version of Marcus is real. Maybe that’s what scares me most about therapy—discovering there’s nothing left beneath all the masks.

But something small is flickering inside me. Fragile as a heartbeat but steady.

It almost feels like hope.

“Yes, I’m prepared to put in the work,” I say.