The shape she wanted

This story contains explicit sexual content, emotional manipulation, and themes involving deception within intimate relationships. Reader discretion is advised.

The therapist’s office looked more like a boutique hotel lounge than a place for emotional excavation. Too curated. As if someone designed it to make you feel safe while prying open your chest.

Ernest sat on the edge of the velvet couch, the plush cushions doing nothing to ease the sharp knot forming in his spine. He glanced sideways at Emma. Perfect posture. Soft blouse, pale pink. The colour of innocence, she knew exactly what she was doing.

She always did.

“This is good for us,” she whispered, just loud enough for Lily to hear. “I want you to be able to express yourself. Without shutting down this time.”

There it was. The dig. Casual. Coated in care.

He looked down at his hands. He’d memorized this pattern: she’d act supportive, gentle, all heart. But her control came dressed in lace. Even now, her hand rested on his thigh, light enough to seem loving, firm enough to say don’t fuck this up.

Lily sat across from them, legs crossed slowly like she wanted you to watch. Her blouse, unbuttoned just one button lower than necessary, revealed the slight rise of a collarbone. She wasn’t what he expected.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this.

But he did. Instantly. Uncomfortably.

Lily didn’t touch her notepad. Just studied him, chin resting on her hand, as if she’d already read his file and marked him as the problem.

“I like to begin sessions in silence,” she said, voice like warm whiskey. “People reveal more when they’re not being prompted.”

A slow smile followed. Not professional. Not clinical. Something else.

Ernest’s mouth went dry.

Emma smiled too, leaning in with that same rehearsed softness she used when asking for “small” favours that always cost too much.

“Could you just handle this for me?”

“I didn’t ask you to cancel your weekend, you just did.”

“I’m not controlling, I’m just clear on what I need.”

Six years of clarity. Of being nudged, guilted, and reshaped. She was the master sculptor of subtle warfare.

“I guess… things have been tense,” Ernest offered, voice awkward in the stillness. “Work’s been crazy, and we’ve been… off. Lately.”

Lily tilted her head. “Emma mentioned that. She said you’ve been emotionally unavailable. Would you agree with that?”

Her choice of words stung. She didn’t say, ‘Have you felt emotionally unavailable?’ or even, ‘Has Emma been feeling unheard?

Just, Emma said it. So, it’s true.

Ernest blinked. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been distracted, sure, but—”

“But distraction can be a form of avoidance,” Lily interrupted gently. “Especially when someone’s asking for connection.”

Emma’s hand gave the lightest squeeze.

He felt like there was a script here. One he hadn’t written.

He turned back to her, trying to look anywhere but her mouth. Jesus, she was beautiful. Not in the way Emma was, all pristine elegance, but raw. Lips slightly smudged. A mole above her lip that drew the eye. Eyes that didn’t blink when she made you uncomfortable.

He felt heat, sharp and unwanted, curl low in his gut.

Don’t go there.

This is therapy.

She’s on Emma’s side.

But something in him twisted. Not in resistance. In want.

Lily leaned forward slightly, her blouse opening just enough to betray its intent. “Ernest, do you feel like you still desire your partner? Or are you just… fulfilling a role?”

That word. Desire. She said it differently. Tasted it.

Emma smiled, like this was all going exactly as she’d planned.

And Ernest, already lost, wasn’t sure which of them was more dangerous.

Emma was humming.

She always hummed after she thought she’d won.

In the kitchen, the soft sound floated above the clink of wine glasses, something French, probably, from one of those moody playlists she liked to put on when she wanted things to feel curated. The whole flat smelled like vanilla and smugness.

Ernest stood by the sink, arms crossed, pretending to check emails.

All he could see was Lily. The way she looked directly at him when she spoke, like she already knew. As if she had questions she hadn’t asked yet.

And worse, the part that made him clench his jaw was how much he wanted her to ask.

“Wine?” Emma held up the bottle like a peace offering.

He nodded. “Sure.”

She poured him a glass, walked it over with a smile that belonged in a staged photo, titled as Woman Who Cares Deeply For Her Man. But her eyes were scanning him, measuring the tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw ticked.

“Rough session?” she asked, too lightly.

“Not really. Just… wasn’t what I expected.”

Emma perched on the edge of the dining chair, legs crossed, glass in hand like a trophy. “Lily’s very intuitive. It’s her gift.”

“She didn’t write anything down.”

“That’s her style. She listens. Feels things.”

He took a sip. “She didn’t feel neutral.”

Emma tilted her head. “You mean she didn’t side with you.”

There it was. The turn.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Her smile was kind. So kind. “Baby, you’re not used to being in a space where your feelings don’t automatically get top billing. That’s okay. It’s new.”

Ernest exhaled slowly through his nose.

“I’m not threatened by therapy,” he muttered.

Emma reached across the table, touched his hand gently, like she was soothing a child, not touching her lover.

“I’m proud of you for showing up. Even if you felt uncomfortable. Growth never feels like comfort. That’s why so many men avoid it.”

And just like that, he was backed into a corner. If he pushed back, he was fragile. Defensive. The problem.

God, she was good at this.

She always had been. Conversations weren’t exchanges. They were chess matches. Every compliment had a hook. Every concern wore silk gloves. He used to love how articulate she was. Now it just felt like being out-argued in his own head.

“I just think she came in hot. That’s all,” he said.

Emma’s gaze sharpened. “Is that what this is about?”

“What?”

“Lily.” She said the name like it meant something. “She’s beautiful, right? Too beautiful to be a therapist. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

He froze.

“No.”

She smirked. Took a slow sip.

“You stared. It’s fine. Men get distracted. But maybe that’s why she went hard on you. Maybe she felt that shift. And maybe that was the discomfort.”

His stomach twisted. “You’re insane.”

Emma stood up slowly, walked around the table until she was behind him. Her hands slid across his shoulders, warm, familiar, impossible to mistrust.

“I’m not mad,” she whispered near his ear. “I just want you to be honest with yourself. With us. This is why we need help.”

He stayed still. Let her fingers dig in a little.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said, softer now. “If Lily rattled something in you… That’s part of the work. Maybe she saw a version of you you’ve been hiding.”

She kissed the top of his head. Pulled away.

And just like that, she left him in the kitchen with the wine, the hum of French music, and the dizzying sense that he’d lost a fight he never even agreed to enter.

The next session was just him.

Emma insisted on it. Said it would “give Lily a better chance to understand him without my presence influencing things.”

He almost said no.

But here he was, sitting across from the woman who had already gotten under his skin like a splinter. She wore black this time, a silk blouse, high-waisted trousers, hair up, neck bare. Still no notebook.

Still watching him too closely.

“You look tense,” she said, legs crossed, one boot dangling.

He shrugged. “It’s a therapy session. Isn’t that the point?”

She smiled. “Only if you’re here to be honest.”

He hated how her voice curled around that word.

She waited. Comfortable in the silence.

He sighed. “I guess I don’t know what Emma wants from me anymore. Or maybe I do and I just… don’t want to give it.”

Lily’s brows lifted, intrigued. “And what would that be?”

“She wants me to be more emotional. More… expressive. She says I’ve closed off. I say I’m just tired. She hears that as rejection.”

“And is she wrong?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I work long hours. I’m trying to show up, but everything I do seems to be the wrong version of showing up.”

Lily leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Do you ever feel like you’re being managed instead of loved?”

That hit.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

She watched his silence. Drank it in.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to defend her here. She’s not in the room.”

That was the dangerous part. The relief he felt.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Emma’s not bad. She’s just… strategic. Everything means something. Every silence. Every compliment. It’s exhausting. She’s always one move ahead.”

Lily’s gaze didn’t waver. “And you’re tired of playing catch-up.”

He nodded, slowly. “I’m not a bad partner. But it’s like, if I don’t respond a certain way, I’m emotionally unavailable. If I say the wrong thing, I’m defensive. If I pull back, I’m cruel.”

Lily stood, walked over to the window, and looked out.

“She says she’s doing this for both of you,” she murmured.

Something in her tone was off. Knowing. Distant.

Ernest swallowed. “You don’t believe that?”

Lily turned slowly, arms crossed.

“I think Emma wants what she wants. And she’s used to getting it. She’s not interested in a partner. She’s interested in a performance.”

That should’ve made him defensive. It didn’t.

It made his heart beat harder.

He looked at her, really looked. The bare neck. The soft rise and fall of her breath. The way her words had claws wrapped in silk.

“You’re not what I expected from a therapist,” he said before he could stop himself.

She smiled. “What were you expecting?”

“Someone older. Neutral. Less…”

“Less what?” she pressed.

His mouth was dry.

“Distracting.”

A pause.

Then she crossed the room. Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just decisively. She sat again, closer this time. Her knee brushed his. Deliberate.

“You’re not the first man who’s come in here wanting to be understood but afraid of being seen.”

Her voice dropped, not in volume, but in intention.

“And you’re definitely not the first who’s gotten hard in this chair.”

Heat flushed his chest and his neck. His cock throbbed, helpless and furious in equal measure.

“Lily—”

“I’m not breaking any rules,” she said, eyes locked on his. “I’m observing.”

A long beat.

Then her voice softened again, almost kind.

“Next week, we can talk about why you crave discipline when what you actually want is permission.”

She stood.

Session over.

Lily watched the door click shut and didn’t move for a full minute. The room still smelled like him—sweat, guilt, and something that made her stomach clench.

She wasn’t supposed to feel anything. That was the rule. Observe, guide, manipulate if needed—but never feel.

And yet, here she was. Shaking. Wanting.

Her hand is still warm. She can feel the heat where his knee brushed hers, feel the hum of him in the chair like the air hasn’t settled yet. She stands there, letting it linger.

You’re definitely not the first who’s gotten hard in this chair.

She shouldn’t have said it. She knows that. But fuck, the way his jaw clenched, the way his shame bloomed just beneath the surface, it made something throb in her. Something old. Something she hadn’t tasted since that affair in Lisbon, or maybe the night she let that woman handcuff her and finger-fuck her in the therapist’s coat closet. Power, yes. But also… curiosity.

Ernest wasn’t supposed to be interesting. He was a blueprint. A man-shaped shadow of Emma’s frustration. A vessel for projection and reform. But now?

He’s vibrating with the one thing Lily can’t resist: potential.

She lights a cigarette and opens the window just enough to lean out. Emma hates the smell. That’s part of the reason she lights it.

The call comes right on time.

Lily doesn’t answer with a hello.

“He talked,” she says. “Like really talked.”

Emma’s voice comes through flat and pleased. “Good. That means the wall’s cracking.”

“He’s more aware than you give him credit for.”

Emma laughs. “No, he’s just tired. Tired people become obedient when you make them feel seen.”

Lily watches the smoke curl from her fingers. “He said you’re always ten moves ahead.”

Emma doesn’t answer immediately.

“Did you validate it?”

“No. I said nothing.”

“Good girl,” Emma murmurs.

Lily bites the inside of her cheek. A pulse behind her ribcage flickers.

Don’t let her catch it.

“I did say one thing,” Lily admits, tone casual.

Emma perks up. “Mmm?”

“That maybe… he wants discipline because what he actually needs is permission.”

Silence.

Then, “Was that your idea or mine?”

Lily exhales smoke out the window. “Not sure anymore.”

Another pause. Sharper now.

“I’m going to lie to him about being pregnant.”

Lily turns from the window. “You’re what?”

Emma’s voice stays calm. “Next session. I know we just started this, but I am feeling him too distant. So I’ll pretend to be pregnant.”

“You’re not seriously—”

Emma cuts in, crisp. “You think he’s going to walk out on a pregnant woman? Please. He will marry me. He’ll do the right thing. Because Ernest believes he’s a good man. And I’m giving him the perfect stage to prove it.”

Lily’s heart knocks sideways. “That’s…Emma, that’s too far.”

Emma laughs. “Too far? I’ve spent six years investing in a man who’s barely conscious of his own emotional body. I’m not losing all that effort because he got hard for someone more interesting in therapy.”

Lily flinches, so she noticed it too…

“I’m not lying to him forever,” Emma adds, as if that softens it. “Just long enough to lock it in. Marriage. A lease. A sense of duty.”

Lily turns. Walks back toward the still-warm couch. Touches the armrest like she’s remembering a body pressed there. “He deserves to choose. Even if you lose him.”

Emma’s tone flattens. “You’re confusing this with a love story.”

“I’ll schedule the next session,” Lily says.

And ends the call without saying goodbye.

Ernest was ten minutes early. Emma arrived exactly on time.

Lily noticed that immediately. He was already seated, hands in his lap, collar undone like he’d dressed too quickly. Emma walked in calm, put-together, her perfume trailing like a warning.

Tonight, I’m the one in control.

Lily didn’t move from her chair. She just smiled, polite, her legs crossed away from both of them.

“Glad we could all make it again,” she said.

Emma gave a soft laugh. “Of course. This is important to us.”

Ernest didn’t speak. Just nodded once, eyes low.

Lily marked it silently.

He was still ashamed.

Still hooked.

She didn’t say much at first. Let the silence settle. Let them stew in it. It was a tactic, but tonight it was also a shield.

“Last week,” Lily began, “you both mentioned a disconnect. Emma feeling unseen. Ernest feeling—”

“Exhausted,” Emma cut in.

Lily looked at her. “Would you like to speak first?”

Emma leaned back in the chair, graceful, relaxed. Dangerous.

“I just think it’s interesting,” she said, “that whenever I say I need something emotionally, it becomes about his fatigue. Like his weariness matters more than my loneliness.”

Ernest flinched. “That’s not what I said.”

Emma turned to him, voice silk over blades. “It’s what you imply. Every time. ‘I’m tired.’ ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate.’ Never ‘you’re right, I’ve been distant.’”

“I said I’d try,” he muttered.

Emma shook her head, disappointed. “You said you’d try harder after I begged for your attention. That’s not the same as wanting me.”

Lily saw it happen in real time—the shame bloom, the defensiveness coil, the flicker of want he tried to bury when his gaze touched hers.

She didn’t let her expression change.

“Ernest,” she said, voice even, “do you want Emma?”

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s a direct question. Not sexually. Not practically. Do you want her? As a partner. As a person.”

Emma crossed her arms, watching him like a teacher grading a test she knew he’d fail.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

The room froze.

Emma’s eyes widened. Then her face crumpled, artfully.

“I’m pregnant.”

Ernest blinked. “What?”

Emma’s hand trembled as she touched her stomach. “I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but… I didn’t know how else to hold this together.”

Tears welled. Spill-over. Convincing.

Lily didn’t speak.

Because she couldn’t.

Because if she did, the lie would splatter blood across the room.

“I just wanted us to work,” Emma whispered, voice cracking. “And now there’s a baby. And I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Ernest stood outside Lily’s door, convincing himself he was just there to apologise. To thank her. To end it. But when she opened the door—barefoot, eyes dark—rationality dissolved. Their mouths met before words could. She pulled him to the desk, his belt undone, her thighs around him. The sex was rough, urgent, honest. The first time he didn’t feel observed. Just wanted.

After, tangled on the rug, his voice cracked.

“What kind of father does this?”

Lily sat up. “You’re not. Emma’s not pregnant. She lied.”

He stared.

“She told me last week. Said it was the only way to keep you.”

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”

He whispered, “Isn’t sharing a client’s secret illegal?”

“I’m not a real therapist.”

She tried to reach for him. He flinched.

“What you two did…” He stood. “That’s a fucking crime.”

Then he left her, naked and shaking, in the quiet she’d helped create.