He set down the pen.
The door to his suite opened without warning. Vigdis didn't knock anymore—she'd earned that privilege twelve years ago when she'd stayed after his father's death, refusing to abandon the Institute even when its future had been uncertain.
"You're watching surveillance," she said. It was a statement, not a question.
Meric didn't close the journal. There was no point. Vigdis had access to every system in the Institute. She knew exactly how many times he'd accessed Session Two's recording.
"I'm refining her Cadence based on her psychological profile," Meric said. "She's demonstrating accelerated integration patterns that require adjusted—"
"You've reviewed Session Two four times," Vigdis interrupted.
"I'm ensuring accuracy in my clinical assessment," Meric replied.
"From my point of view, it seemed you zoomed too closely. You were watching her face."
The observation landed too close to the truth. Meric's jaw tightened. "The Protocol requires session review for safety documentation. I'm following established procedures."
"Are you?" Vigdis leaned forward, her pale blue eyes unrelenting. "Because from here, it looks like you're choosing her over the Institute."
"I'm not choosing anything." His voice remained level, controlled. "Dr. Kaelen is receiving the same professional standard I've maintained with every client for fifteen years. The methodology—"
"The methodology," Vigdis cut him off, "doesn't require you to watch recordings multiple times. And it certainly doesn't require you to design Session Three with this level of... personal investment."
Meric said nothing. Denial would be transparent. Agreement would be admission.
"She's complex," he said finally. "The baseline required more thorough analysis than typical clients."
"She's not more complex." Vigdis sat back, her expression hardening. "You're more compromised."
"That's not—"
"Don't." Her voice sharpened. "Don't lie to me, Meric. I've known you too long."
Vigdis leaned forward, her expression hardening. "I'm not asking you to reassign her. Dr. Kaelen deserves to complete her contract. But I am telling you that if you cross Clause 7.3, you destroy what you've spent twelve years building."
"I know," Meric said quietly.
"Do you?" Vigdis's voice sharpened. "Your father built this Institute to prove that Praxis could transform lives without exploitation. You've spent twelve years honoring that vision, maintaining perfect boundaries with every single client. You've rejected offers to commercialize the methodology, turned away anyone who wanted to weaponize it, protected the work's integrity against everyone who's tried to corrupt it."
Including Seraphina. The unspoken name hung between them.
"If you violate Clause 7.3 with Dr. Kaelen," Vigdis continued, "you prove that you're no different than everyone who sees this work as a tool for personal gratification. You compromise not just yourself, but the methodology itself."
Meric said nothing. The locked box on his desk seemed to grow heavier in his peripheral vision—his father's belongings, the watch he'd been wearing when the sailing accident had claimed him off Svalbard's coast. The official report had concluded: Death by misadventure. No evidence of foul play.
Meric had never believed it.
His father had been the most meticulous researcher he'd ever known—careful, systematic, never reckless. And the timing—just weeks after he'd refused Seraphina's proposal to weaponize the methodology for 'geopolitical applications'—had been too precise to be a coincidence.
"I won't violate the Protocol," Meric said finally. "Session Three will proceed as planned."
Vigdis studied him for a long moment. "You're lying to yourself."
"Perhaps." He closed the journal, placed it in the desk drawer. "And even if I'm lying, that's different than self-deception."
"Not different enough." Vigdis stood, her hand resting briefly on the back of the chair. "Meric. I've watched you for twelve years. I've seen you resist every temptation to compromise this work. But Dr. Kaelen is different. She sees you. Not the Praxist. Not the methodology. You. And that's the most dangerous thing a client can do."
Meric felt his chest tighten—the same physical response he'd experienced during Session Two when Aethelreda had looked directly into his eyes and asked: For me or for you?
"The Institute's security is not at risk," he said.
"I'm not worried about the Institute's security." Vigdis moved toward the door, then paused, her profile sharp against the dark corridor beyond. "I'm worried about yours."
She left without waiting for a response.
Meric sat alone in the lamplight, his journal closed, the locked box untouched beside him. Through the window behind his desk, the fjord remained invisible, but he could hear it—the faint rhythm of water against rock, constant and erosive.
He pulled up Session Three's preliminary design on his tablet. The specifications were precise:
Session Three: ReflectionDate: Day 10, 20:00Location: Subterranean Sessions ChamberTheme: Self-Perception vs. External RealityObjective: Client to observe physical self during surrender; confront body image distortions; integrate visual and somatic experience of pleasure.
Equipment:
Full-length mirrors (three angles)
Platform positioning for optimal visual access
Standard restraint options available
Climate control: 20°C
Progression:
Verbal consent and Surrender Articulation
Mirror positioning and self-observation discussion
Gradual physical escalation: manual stimulation → penetration
Client maintains visual self-observation throughout
Permission protocol for climax Post-session processing: What did you see?
Clinical Rationale: Client's background in CBT suggests high metacognitive awareness but disconnect from somatic experience. Forcing visual observation of her own pleasure will bridge cognitive-somatic divide.
The rationale was sound. Mirrors were an established Praxis technique, used to confront dissociative patterns and integrate fragmented self-perception.
But Meric stared at the specifications and acknowledged the truth Vigdis had already identified.
He was designing Session Three to create distance.
The more extreme the scenario, the more he could hide behind clinical control. Penetration would be a new boundary—more intimate than manual stimulation, more vulnerable for both of them. But if he maintained perfect Praxist detachment, if he treated the act as purely diagnostic, perhaps he could prove to himself that his feelings for Aethelreda were manageable. Contained. Professional.
He was protecting himself, not advancing her Cadence.
Meric closed the tablet and returned his attention to the journal in the drawer. He'd written the truth there, at least. The admission that surveillance couldn't record:
I can't stop watching her face.
The problem wasn't that he'd watched Session Two four times. The problem was that he wanted to watch it again. And the session after that. And every moment she existed within the Institute's walls. He wanted to know what she was thinking when she walked the Outer Circuit alone. Whether she'd slept after Session Two or spent the night as wakeful as he had. If she understood that the tremor in his hand hadn't been accidental but the first visible crack in his control.
He wanted her to understand.
And that desire—the need for her to see his compromise, to recognize that she affected him as deeply as he affected her—was the most dangerous boundary violation of all.
Because Praxists didn't need their clients. Praxists served their clients. The work existed for transformation, not connection.
Except Aethelreda had asked the one question no client had ever asked before: For me or for you?
And he'd lied when he'd answered.
Meric sent the Session Three notification at 00:23:
Session Three scheduled: Day 10, 20:00. Theme: Reflection. Review Section 5.2 of Guidelines before attendance. 72-hour Integration Period continues.
Brief. Professional. The same format he'd used for 218 clients before her.
He stared at the confirmation message on his tablet: Message delivered to Client Suite 3.
Somewhere in the East Wing, Aethelreda would receive the notification. Perhaps she was awake, as unable to sleep as he was. Perhaps she would read "Reflection" and immediately understand what mirrors implied. Perhaps her analytical mind—that sharp, incisive CBT-trained intellect that had drawn him to her from the first conversation—would deduce that he'd designed Session Three as both psychological excavation and personal defense.
Perhaps she would see through him completely.
She sees you. Not the Praxist. Not the methodology. You.
Vigdis's warning echoed in the darkness of his suite.
Meric set down the tablet and closed his eyes. The cold air from the Norwegian winter pressed against the window glass, and somewhere far below, the fjord continued its erosive work against ancient stone. In three days, he would guide Aethelreda through Session Three. He would position her before the mirrors, command her to watch herself surrender, penetrate her while maintaining perfect clinical detachment.
He would attempt to prove that his control remained intact.
But sitting here now, alone in his office with the locked box of his father's belongings beside him and Vigdis's warning still ringing in his ears, Meric allowed himself one single honest thought. One admission that no surveillance system could record, no Protocol could prevent:
He was in love with Aethelreda Kaelen.
And that love was going to destroy everything.