Henry Whitlock had given up on knocking.
With the assured gait of a man who had had enough, he strode into the Hudson estate. Wearing a fitted navy suit and carrying a briefcase sloppily under his arm, he strode past the butler's courteous objections and into the spacious living room where Michael sat, half-drunk, unshaven, and sipping a bottle of scotch.
Michael didn't flinch at all.
Henry said bluntly, "You have to leave," and tossed his briefcase on the coffee table. "You look terrible."
Michael didn't raise his head. "Go."
"No." With one leg crossed over the other, Henry sat opposite him. "You've abandoned half the city, your board, and your employees. Mike, I've given you some room. However, enough is enough.
Michael raised his head slowly. "So what? Are you here to get me back to society? Plan an intervention? Throw a pity party?
Henry said, unconcerned, "No." "I called someone, which is why I'm here."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "A physician?"
"A counselor."
Michael sank farther into the couch and scoffed. "Definitely not."
"It's too late," Henry remarked. "She is already on her way. Charles can drag you to the foyer, or you can open the door.
"Henry, I'm not suicidal."
"I understand," Henry said. However, you are also not living. You have made your grief your home and constructed a fortress around it.
Michael remained silent. There was a long, strained silence between them.
After a moment, Henry continued, "She's not like the others." "Lorna Jenkins." is Young, intelligent, and unforgiving. worked with well-known clients in the past, some of whom made a concerted effort to push her away. She didn't recoil.
Michael scowled. "You think this can be fixed by a stranger?"
"No," Henry replied. "But perhaps she can help you quit acting like you're invincible."
The sound of heels clicking down the hall interrupted Michael's argument. Clearing his throat, Charles emerged in the doorway.
"Sir, she's here."
Slowly, Michael turned and felt something stir for the first time in weeks.
Entering the room, Lorna Jenkins was dignified, calm, and had sharp eyes behind fragile spectacles. She carried a leather satchel and wore a soft blouse under a beige blazer. She didn't have a critical or overly sympathetic expression. It was polished. steady.
Michael looked at her. The sight of him—the crumpled shirt, the bloodshot eyes, the whiskey bottle—did not make her cringe. Actually, she provided something surprising:
A modest, respectful smile.
Gentlely, she said, "Mr. Hudson." "My name is Lorna. I have nothing planned. I'm merely here to talk.
Henry's eyebrows shot up as Michael glanced past her, challenging him to ignore her.
A long moment later, Michael rubbed his face with a sigh.
"Just one session," he whispered.
Lorna grinned once more, serene and unreadable. "One is a good starting point."