Visitations, Part 5

Andy could have pretended not to hear it. He could have rolled over, pulled a pillow on top of his head, and let the world—this entire freakish, manufactured world—think he'd finally short-circuited. But Andy Cooper, for all his flaws, had never been much good at abandoning a sinking ship. Especially if he was the ship.

The buzzer sounded again, just loud enough to make ignoring it feel like an act of ****. He sighed, braced his palms on the mattress, and **** himself upright. As he crossed the suite, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the ocean-facing windows: shirt rumpled, hair doing a tragic impression of a rooster’s comb, eyes the color of a fresh bruise. He smoothed the worst of it, exhaled, and thumbed the Permit Visitor Access button.

The elevator doors parted with their usual pharaoh’s tomb hiss.

Dr. Holt stood inside, one hand clutching a folder to her chest—Andy irrationally wondered where she found it—and the other smoothing the sleeve of her loose-fitting powder-blue blouse as if about to conduct a high-stakes deposition. Her composure would have been flawless—shoulders square, chin up, hair neatly back—if not for the extraordinary, unmistakable effect of her transformation. Two perfect, sharp points pressed through her blouse, emerging from her already enormous breasts, tenting the fabric and threatening to pierce the air like a pair of tiny icebergs. If she noticed, she gave no sign, though Andy saw a brief wince as she stepped forward, the movement causing a faint shimmer of arousal (or something like it) in her eyes.

“Good evening, Andy,” she said, voice pitched exactly as it had been in their old sessions: even, crisp, unimpeachable. She nodded, almost bow-like, then hovered just inside the threshold, waiting for permission.

“Please, come in,” Andy said, and the words sounded far too intimate, like he was inviting her into a space he couldn’t defend. But it didn’t escape him that she had called him by his first name. He gestured to the living room’s red velvet couch. “Sorry for the disheveled look. I… lost track of whatever time it is.”

Marissa stepped forward, not glancing around but focusing wholly on him, as though any deviation from directness would fracture her control. She walked up to the couch and sat, knees together, hands folded, the folder perched atop her thighs like a shield. Her eyes flicked to the painting above the fireplace, then away—just a blink, but enough to register Katherine’s silent, green-eyed presence and dismiss it as the kind of art one would expect in a place called the Harem Hotel.

He took the opposite end of the couch, folding himself into a slouch that felt at once defensive and entirely appropriate. Marissa’s lips twitched. “I thought I would come check on you. Professional courtesy. It seemed prudent to check on your well-being. I understand today has been… taxing.”

Andy tried for a smile, but it came out lopsided. “You’re the fourth tonight, you know. I’m starting to wonder if this is Arabella’s way of breaking me—**** by social call.”

She gave a soft hum of acknowledgment, then looked at him with the full weight of her professional gaze. It was a weapon, that gaze—years of training compressed into a single, surgical incision. He wondered if she even knew she did it.

“You’re handling this better than I expected,” Marissa said. “Some of the other women seemed to anticipate a more… dramatic response.”

“I’m saving my nervous breakdown for after midnight,” Andy said, and he thought he saw her lips curve at the corners, just barely.

He let a pause stretch, watching her. “Can I ask you something? Something that’s been bugging me since the reveal this morning?”

She arched a perfect brow, the universal sign for Proceed.

He chose his words carefully. “Why are you here, Dr. Holt? I mean, really here. If what Arabella said is true, if every woman in this place has some meaningful connection to me—good, bad, whatever—why you? We only ever had, what, a year or two of therapy? You always kept it strictly professional. I never even saw you outside of those sessions. So what’s the catch?”

For the first time, Marissa looked away, her gaze falling to her lap. The points of her nipples shifted under the fabric as she drew in a slow, steadying breath. When she looked up again, her composure was intact, but the effect was diminished—a crack running through a pane of glass.

“That is an excellent question,” she said, her voice lower, more tentative. “When Arabella explained the rules, I assumed it was an error. Or a test.” She placed the folder beside her, folding her hands on top of it. “But then I considered the rules as outlined by the Host. It became clear that whatever logic underpins this… arrangement, it is not purely about romantic or sexual history. There are other forms of… entanglement.”

Andy resisted the urge to laugh. “So you’re saying I was such a mess in therapy, you got drafted to supervise me in magical hell?”

A fleeting smile ghosted across her face. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

He let the silence hold for a few beats. “But this place is hardly suited to keep ethical boundaries. The moment you’re **** to sleep in bed with me, if not earlier, our relationship changes entirely. And if the rules are gone,” he said, “if we’re not doctor and patient anymore, does that mean I can call you Marissa now? Or is that still weird?”

She met his eyes, and something in her posture relaxed, ever so slightly. “You may. In fact, I would prefer it.”

He nodded, then gestured, almost apologetically, at her chest. “Is it okay if I ask about the, uh, new arrangement? Does it hurt?”

She glanced down, then back up, her cheeks coloring just slightly. “Not pain, exactly. More… persistent awareness. It is a constant distraction. The fabric doesn’t help, but I thought it would be less… conspicuous than not wearing anything.”

Andy nodded, sympathetic. “Arabella really knows how to pick her poisons.”

Marissa folded her arms across her chest, then seemed to think better of it and let them drop to her lap. “I’ve read the psychological literature on objectification. I thought I understood it. Now I realize I only knew the surface of it.”

He tried to lighten the mood. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you pull it off with more class than anyone I’ve seen on the internet.”

She huffed a surprised laugh, and the tension eased by a fraction. “Thank you, Andy. I appreciate the compliment. Even if it does little to dull the sensation.”

He hesitated, then said, “You don’t have to keep being the rational one, you know. It’s not your job anymore.”

Her eyes lingered on him, a study in hesitation. “Old habits die hard,” she said softly. “But you’re right. It is not my responsibility to be your emotional anchor.”

He shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just—after today, it seems like this place doesn’t want us to stay the people we were. Like Arabella’s trying to **** us all to become…” He searched for the word. “Unmade, and then something else.”

Marissa tilted her head. “And what do you suppose she wants you to become?”

Andy laughed, but the sound was hollow. “I’m not sure yet. Probably a monster.”

She shook her head, gentle but firm. “I disagree. Arabella seems deeply invested in your well-being, whether or not you realize it.”

He considered this, then said, “That’s the most optimistic read on a sadist I’ve ever heard. You’re good at your job.”

She smiled, then sobered. “I don’t think she’s a sadist. But then again, I may be wrong. I haven’t had the opportunity to diagnose her.” She paused, studying him. “May I ask you something, Andy?”

He nodded.

“Why are you so sure that you are irreparably broken?”

He braced himself, but there was no malice in her tone—only curiosity, the old therapist’s trick. He looked at his hands, then at the painting over the fireplace, where Katherine watched, eyes alive with interest.

“We talked about this. Because I keep losing people,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “Or pushing them away. Or getting them hurt. I don’t know how to let anyone stay close, not for long.”

Marissa watched him, waiting.

He went on. “Even here. I saw what they did to Erin. And I know, I know none of this is my fault, but I can’t help feeling like the game is to break everyone else first, and then me last. Because I’m the one holding the cards, right? But I can’t play any of them without ruining someone.”

She watched, unmoving. “What if I told you the game isn’t to break you, but to free you?”

He laughed, and this time it was a little ****. “Free me from what?”

She met his eyes, and for once, her gaze was soft, not sharp. “Your own myth.”

He froze, the words digging in. For a second, neither of them moved.

After a long silence, Marissa said, “May I speak frankly?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

She leaned forward, the points of her transformation pressing even more visibly against her blouse. “For the past two years, I maintained a strict professional boundary with you. But I was not immune to the… personal element. I found you attractive, Andy. And not just in the abstract sense. There were times—many times—when I wished we were not constrained by ethics, or by the reality of our positions.” She let the words hang, and he felt the air change in the room.

He swallowed, feeling suddenly much less in control. “So that’s why you are here.”

Marissa looked away, a rare show of vulnerability. “And I want to know if it is possible, outside the rules, to be something more than what I was. To see if you could do the same.” She shook her head, frustrated at her own words. “But now I see it is not so simple. You are not a ‘fixer upper,’ Andy. You are… a prism. You take in every color, every pain, and you fracture it outwards, so no one ever sees the whole of you. Just the part that’s safe to touch.”

He stared at her, words lost.

“And the thing about prisms,” Marissa said, softer now, “is that sometimes the only way to see what’s inside them is to surround them with enough light that they cannot help but shine.”

Something shifted inside him then. It was not the familiar sting of accusation, nor the bitter relief of being known and dismissed. It was something heavier.

They sat together in silence for a moment.

Marissa straightened, smoothing her blouse, then looked at him with a wry smile. “I suppose that was a very long way to say: you are not doomed, Andy. Even if it feels that way. And perhaps the presence of all these women from your past is not a curse. Perhaps it’s a chance to heal.”

He grinned, almost despite himself. “You know, if you’d told me that during an actual session, I’d have probably accused you of overstepping.”

She shrugged, and the movement, so small, made her look almost girlish. “I had a lot more to lose then.”

He let the moment settle, then said, “Can I ask you for advice, one last time?”

She nodded.

“What do I do about Erin?” he said. “She’s—she can’t… you saw what they did to her. If I don’t help her, she won’t survive this. But if I do, am I just… taking advantage?”

Marissa’s gaze went clinical, but only for a moment. “You cannot unmake her transformation. But you can offer her respect, and patience, and honesty. That is all any of us can do. You—and Erin—are not responsible for what Arabella does, but you are responsible for how you respond to it.”

He thought about this, then nodded.

“And,” Marissa added, “be very careful with Dawn. She may not realize it, but she is already too fond of you.”

Andy laughed, the sound nervous. “That’s not really a problem I’m used to having.”

She smiled. “It is now. Be gentle with it.” She stood, collected her folder, and walked to the elevator. Before she reached it, she stopped, turned back, and said, “You are the least monstrous man I have ever met, Andy. I hope you believe that, someday.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded. She smiled once, more with her eyes than her lips, then vanished into the elevator. The doors closed with a sound like a heartbeat, and the room was very quiet.

He slouched back on the couch, and stared up at the ceiling, feeling oddly lighter and heavier at once.

Then he noticed Katherine. The painting was not smirking, not mocking, but watching him with what could only be called approval.

He walked over, arms folded. “You heard all that?”

Katherine nodded, slow and regal.

“Do you agree?” he asked.

She tilted her head, then pointed at him, then at her own heart, then spread her hands. She made a gesture as if unzipping her chest, exposing what was inside. Then she pointed at him, and mimed a big, bursting light from her chest outwards.

He snorted, half-amused. “So I’m a prism, too, huh?”

She grinned, then, with all the care of someone about to touch a skittish animal, pressed her painted palm to the inside of her frame. She looked at him, and for the first time, Andy saw gratitude there—not the kind given to a savior, but the kind given to a friend.

He stepped closer, pressed his palm to the glass opposite hers. The chill was real, but the feeling that passed between them was not.

“Thank you,” he said, voice soft.

Katherine nodded, then motioned toward the bedroom, as if to say: You need rest.

He laughed, bowed, and said, “Good night, Katherine.”

She waved, and for a second, her expression looked almost sad—like she wished she could follow him.

Andy turned off the lights, stripped down to boxers, and collapsed onto the king-sized bed. The mattress, for once, felt like an anchor, not a trap.

He stared at the ceiling, the conversation with Marissa playing over and over in his mind.

He thought of Claire, of the way she’d smiled at him, even with no words left. He thought of Dawn, her hands trembling as she tried to help. He thought of Sam, braver than anyone, and Erin, broken and lashing out. He thought of Katherine, alone for fourteen years, still able to be grateful. He thought of Arabella, and wondered if maybe she was not the villain after all.

He felt sleep coming for him, gentle and inevitable. He pulled Laura’s friendship bracelet off his wrist and tucked it under his pillow, a promise to himself that he would not run. Not anymore.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, slept without dreaming of loss.