Aubrey was working with Jennifer in her office. It had been a week since her debacle in Martha’s Vineyard. But since her time in Massachusetts, Aubrey had made headway on organizing and outlining her book.
Jennifer had made calls while Aubrey was away to follow up on the query letters and locate literary agents who were willing to talk to Aubrey.
One of them, Charlotte Davids, was coming to the office that morning.
Aubrey and Jennifer had taken the week to develop a pitch for the book. She had told Jennifer everything about Ian and what happened in Martha’s Vineyard.
“So now you have an ending to your story,” Jennifer said.
“Yes, and it’s perfect for the book,” Aubrey replied.
They looked at each other, smiling.
“And a title to boot,” said Jennifer. “I can’t believe you’re going to call it ‘Analize Me.’ It’s perfect.”
“Yes,” Aubrey said. “The title ‘Analyze Me’ works on so many different levels. I think it came to me in a dream.”
There was a knock, and the office door opened. It was Charlotte Davids, one of the literary agents in New York, whom Jennifer had reached out to.
“Jennifer?” She was looking between Aubrey and Jennifer in the reception area.
Jennifer stood and offered her hand. “I’m Jennifer, the one who called, and this is Dr. Aubrey Prentice.”
Charlotte Davids took Jennifer’s hand and then stood back to admire Aubrey. “So this is our psychiatrist with a spicy book about the world of psychiatry and the journey of personal growth for herself.”
“Why don’t we all sit down?” Aubrey said. “Unless you would like some coffee, Charlotte?”
“No thanks, but I will have a water.”
Jennifer fetched a bottle of water from the minifridge behind her desk and offered it to Charlotte.
“I love the title of your book,” Charlotte said. “It makes it easier to sell to publishers. Now, why don’t you tell me about your book, in your own words, so that I have a better idea of how to sell it.”
Aubrey began to tell the story. “It started with my failing psychiatry practice. Most people who live around here go into the city for therapy, so the only clients I had were the ones who wanted prescriptions for antidepressants. I was floundering until I met the owner of Henshaw Industries. He wanted a comprehensive mental health program for his mostly male employees. I provided that.”
Charlotte was nodding. “And it had a lot to do with the deviant sexual nature of these men and how it interfered with productivity?”
“It started that way,” Aubrey said. “I was a bystander, an observer. But then, as my life began to mirror my studies, I became part of the story. I had to take a long, hard look at my life to escape the same consequences I was counseling other people to overcome.”
“You’re so brave,” Charlotte said. “I would love to represent you.”
“That’s wonderful,” Aubrey said. She and Jennifer beamed at each other.
“I have a contract for you to sign, naming me as your agent, with permission to represent you, along with my commission structure. Boilerplate stuff. I need a copy of the outline, a chapter-by-chapter summary, and a sample chapter to get started.”
Jennifer had the package ready and gave it to Charlotte. “Here’s what we have so far. We’ll keep you updated on our progress.”
“Sounds good. I’ll write up the contracts, read your materials, and get back to you. We can meet in my office next week. And keep writing, Aubrey. I’ll need to see a rough draft shaping up over the next six months,” Charlotte said. “Jennifer, it was nice to meet you.”
A few moments after Charlotte left the office, Aubrey and Jennifer jumped and yelled for joy.
When the moment was over, Aubrey collapsed onto one of the couches. “I can’t believe this is really happening. I have a whole new life that is entirely my own. My book. My money. My choices. I can do whatever I want without being held accountable to some man.”
Jennifer sat on the couch opposite Aubrey. “And when this is over, I will have money to complete my education and go on to the success of my own.”
“That’s right,” Aubrey said. “And I want to thank you for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I guess we have a lot of work ahead of us now,” Jennifer said.
“We do,” Aubrey said. “And it will be hard, but just think, Jennifer, when all of this is finished, I will have a work product with my name on it that I can be proud of. Honestly, Jennifer, there were days I didn’t think I could make it. So many days when I wanted to give up.”
“But you didn’t. So what’s next on today’s agenda, Dr. Soon-To-Be-Bestselling-Author?”
The nickname made Aubrey smile.
“Chapter restructuring,” she said. “I want to move the Henshaw program earlier in the book. It needs to feel like the inciting incident, not just background.”
“That makes sense,” Jennifer said. “After that is when everything started to get complicated.”
“Exactly.”
Jennifer had been busy over the last few weeks turning the office into a space for creating a book.
Aubrey stood and went to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker. She wrote in large letters:
ACT ONE: THE PRACTICE
Then beneath it:
ACT TWO: THE MEN
And finally:
ACT THREE: THE MIRROR
Jennifer watched quietly.
“That third one,” Jennifer said. “That’s about you.”
Aubrey paused.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s me.”
She added bullet points beneath it: Foster. Hope. Ian. The divorce. Martha’s Vineyard.
Seeing it outlined on a whiteboard made the book real. Aubrey felt queasy.
Jennifer noticed.
“You okay?”
“I’ll be all right,” Aubrey said.
She was facing the reality that this thing was going to happen. Her personal life was going to be exposed to anyone who chose to read it.
“I didn’t expect this to get so personal,” Aubrey said.
“No, because it didn’t start that way. Remember, you were going to publish a white paper or a textbook.”
Aubrey set the marker down.
“It’s strange,” she said. “I never thought it would go this far. It started because I needed the patients, but then I fantasized about them.”
Aubrey looked at Jennifer. “You did too.”
“I know, but my name’s not going in the book. The real question is, do you regret it?”
Aubrey thought back over the past year and her part in this situation. She was responsible for other people’s misery, and now she was going to profit from it.
“No,” she said. “But I’m scared of it.”
Jennifer didn’t pursue the conversation.
Instead, she opened her laptop. “Okay. Let’s map your chapters.”
The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon refining the outline, renaming chapters to match the source material, talking about the tone—everything but talking about the section Aubrey had to write herself. Jennifer left those chapters alone.
By the end of the day, they had something that looked like a real book.
Not just notes.
Not just therapy fragments.
A story.
When Jennifer stood to stretch, Aubrey sank back onto the couch. She was spent. But she had reached a point of catharsis.
And that unsettled her.
Because nothing in her life stayed uncomplicated for long.
Her phone buzzed on the desk.
A text.
She didn’t have to look to know who it was from.
Ian.
She let it sit there.
Jennifer glanced over. “You going to get that?”
“It’s Ian.”
Ian: I want to see you. Public place is okay. No pressure. Hope you’re okay.
Aubrey stared at the screen.
She should not respond.
She knew that.
She set the phone face down.
Then picked it back up.
She typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Finally, she sent something safe.
Aubrey: I’m okay. Busy with work. I hope therapy is going well.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
She turned the phone off.
She had a book deal in motion.
A divorce underway.
And a future Ian Henshaw had been written out of. Literally.
But he still had free rent in her head.
“This is not part of the story,” she whispered to herself.
But she knew better.
It already was.
Later that night, Aubrey stared at the blinking cursor on her blank computer screen.
It had been years since she’d felt intimidated by a blank page. In her professional life, words had always come easily: diagnoses, treatment plans, examples to make damaged people feel understood.
This was different.
This wasn’t about helping someone else survive.
This was about telling the truth as she believed it to be.
She adjusted herself in her chair, opened a fresh document, and typed the title at the top:
Analyze Me
She sat back.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
In her practice, she was the one asking the questions. Now she was the subject. The one who had to spill their guts for other people to analyze and judge.
Millions of people.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She started with something safe.
Something professional.
My psychiatry practice did not fail dramatically. There were no lawsuits, no scandals, no newspaper headlines. It simply withered.
She paused and reread it.
This was true. Objective. A good place to start.
She continued.
I had a small office in a quiet town where most people preferred to commute into the city for serious mental health care. My remaining clients were people who wanted prescriptions, not insight, and women who stayed just long enough to feel better before disappearing.
This sounded like the start of a novel. Aubrey wanted impact. She deleted the paragraph and looked deep inside herself.
Then she wrote: I used to believe I was in control.
Writing about herself, much like the outline on the whiteboard, had Aubrey’s pulse racing.
She wrote on.
I had control over my practice. Control over my marriage. Control over the men who sat across from me and confessed their worst impulses while I nodded thoughtfully and took notes.
Her thoughts were flowing.
She could see Foster’s face. Ian’s. Hope’s.
Calder’s youth and eagerness that she had taken.
She forced herself forward.
I built a career around understanding other people’s damage while quietly ignoring my own.
That sounded like a confession without admitting guilt.
She had to be careful. Paint herself as a victim.
This was not a mea culpa.
Her phone buzzed from the corner of the desk.
She ignored it.
Instead, she stood and poured herself a glass of water, then returned to the keyboard with renewed resolve.
She needed an opening that would pull readers in.
Not the science.
Not the credentials.
The moment everything changed.
She typed:
The first time I realized I was in trouble was not when my husband became distant or when my practice began to collapse. It was when a powerful, emotionally volatile man sat across from me in a leather chair and seduced me.
Ian.
He will be furious. Would he file a lawsuit?
She hesitated, then continued anyway.
When he looked at me, I felt undressed, like he could see right through everything I used to cover up my feelings.
Her fingers moved faster now.
I knew he wanted me.
But I believed that as a psychiatrist, I was immune to his charm.
She stopped.
That was it.
That was the lie she’d been living inside.
For the first time since Martha’s Vineyard, she allowed herself to feel something that wasn’t guilt or longing or professional anxiety.
This was full disclosure.
She had a point to start.
She saved the file.
Then she picked up her phone.
One missed message.
Ian.
She didn’t open it.
Not yet.
Instead, she closed her laptop, stood up, and walked to the window.
The street outside, as usual, was quiet. The whole neighborhood was quiet.
But now, instead of feeling all alone in a big house in an exclusive neighborhood, Aubrey felt at peace.