Chapter 2

When did the insomnia start?

About a year ago.

That was when a wave of posts appeared online, each headline more vicious than the last:

"Ivy Harper throws diva tantrums on set—entire crew forced into overtime"

"Insider reveals: the Best Actress is a nightmare behind closed doors, has gone through over a dozen assistants"

At first I didn't care. Who hasn't been dragged online? I had my agent, Margaret, send a cease-and-desist letter, and I assumed that would be the end of it.

But the posts kept sprouting like weeds—torn down, grown back, each iteration more detailed than the last.

The comments grew crueler.

One night at three in the morning, I lay staring at the ceiling, my heart hammering as if someone were pounding a drum inside my chest.

I realized I couldn't sleep.

Julian noticed.

"Your sleep quality has been terrible lately." He sat on the edge of the bed, those eyes as gentle as ever. "If anxiety goes unaddressed, it can develop into chronic insomnia disorder. Let me handle it, okay?"

He was a psychiatrist. He was my husband.

What reason did I have not to trust him?

And so hypnotherapy became part of our routine.

Three times a week, Julian would have me lie back in the recliner in our bedroom and guide me into relaxation with that low, steady voice of his. After each session, he'd hand me a glass of warm water and a pill.

"A sleep aid. Very mild," he'd say.

I took it. Every time.

And the truth was, those pills did make me sleep.

Deeply. Utterly without awareness.

…

The next morning, I woke early.

I pulled on a robe and came down the stairs.

The hum of a blow dryer drifted from the living room.

Serena stood in front of the sofa, blow dryer in hand, damp hair clinging to her shoulders.

She was wearing a men's dress shirt—pale blue, sleeves rolled twice, the hem barely reaching the tops of her thighs.

Nothing else underneath.

That shirt was the one I'd given Julian.

Last year for his birthday, I'd gone to three different stores to track down that limited-edition piece. The photo of him wearing it to the annual psychology forum was still saved on my phone.

And now it hung, loose and careless, on another woman's body.

Serena spotted me and paused mid-motion. "Good morning, Ivy. You're up so early today. Don't you usually sleep in?"

I stared at the shirt.

"Take it off."

She blinked. "What?"

"I said take it off."

Serena's smile froze. She took half a step back. "I just… I got out of the shower and realized I hadn't brought any clothes. I grabbed it from the bathroom…"

I stepped closer. "That is my husband's shirt. You're wearing it with nothing underneath, standing in my house. Do you think that's appropriate?"

Her lips began to tremble. "You're misunderstanding… I really didn't mean to—"

I looked at that tear-streaked face—the picture of fragile, dewy innocence—and almost laughed.

"Serena," I said coolly, "your acting is about as impressive as your career. No wonder you've been in this industry for years and still can't book a lead."

Her crying stopped dead.

"Enough!"

Julian's voice came from the direction of the staircase.

He strode into the living room, brow furrowed. He went straight to Serena and draped his own jacket over her shoulders.

"Are you all right?"

Serena shook her head, and the tears fell harder. "It's my fault. I shouldn't be staying here… I'm causing you problems…"

Julian turned to me, his eyes full of reproach.

"Ivy, she's only staying here temporarily. She needs a little help. Do you really have to be this aggressive?"

"Aggressive?" I let out a dry laugh. "That shirt was a birthday gift from me to you. Don't you understand what it means?"

"She just borrowed a shirt!" Julian's voice rose a notch before he closed his eyes, visibly forcing himself to calm down.

"Ivy, you're doing it again." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Can't you feel it? Your reaction right now is beyond the normal range. This is textbook anxiety-driven aggression."

I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came.

Because for the past year, this was exactly how he'd defined me, over and over again.

Every time I got angry, questioned something, or felt uneasy, he would use that clinical tone to tell me: You're just anxious. You need treatment. Your judgment is being hijacked by your emotions.

After hearing it enough, even I had started to wonder if I really was too emotional.

"Come on, let's go back to the bedroom." He took hold of my wrist. "I'll do a hypnotic relaxation session for you. You'll feel better."

He led me up the stairs. Behind us, Serena's sobs faded into silence.

…

The hypnotherapy session proceeded as usual.

"Relax… you are safe… let go of all those difficult emotions…"

My eyelids grew heavier and heavier. In the last second before I lost consciousness, I felt his fingers brush across my forehead.

"Good girl. Sleep now."

Then a glass of water. A pill.

…

When I opened my eyes again, the sky was completely dark.

I fumbled for my phone. The numbers on the screen made my stomach drop—10:21 p.m.

Twenty-three missed calls. All from Margaret.

I scrambled to call her back.

"Ivy Harper! The production meeting this morning at nine! Investors, the director, the screenwriter—everyone was there! Everyone except you! Where the hell were you?!"

"I… I overslept." I raked my fingers through my hair.

"You call that oversleeping? You slept through an entire day!" Margaret's tone shifted to something weary. "Ivy, what is going on with you? This isn't the first time. Something is seriously wrong lately."

I hung up and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was terrifyingly quiet.

I had set three alarms. I remembered that clearly.

Why couldn't I wake up?

A chill crawled up my spine.

I turned to look at the nightstand. A neat row of pill bottles sat there.

The labels were written in Julian's precise hand: Sleep aid / Anti-anxiety / Take as directed.

For the past year, I had taken these pills every single day.

And for the past year, I had become increasingly drowsy, my memory increasingly hazy.

For the first time, I felt genuine fear toward the man who shared my bed.

I needed to find out what exactly I had been taking for the past year.