If she was going to be sick, she might as well do it properly. The waiting room was packed, as always. This country didn't offer free healthcare. Then again, "Canadian Burdine" didn't quite have the same ring to it.
A strange, eerie melody filtered through the room, interrupted now and then by coughs and restless shuffling. Children sat stiffly on plastic chairs, their parents either glued to their phones or staring into the distance. Everything had changed since COVID—new protocols, longer waits, and, of all things, this ridiculous background music.
Names echoed from the speakers one by one. Too slowly. It was taking forever.
She let her mind wander, grasping for anything to distract herself. The last time she was here, it had been for Kaycee—or was it Kirstee? One of them had some issue with their nose. That visit had been quicker and quieter. And, mercifully, without the absurd music.
Wait. Was this a Christmas song? Already? Halloween hadn't even passed. Ridiculous.
Her thoughts drifted further back, to the time she'd briefly taught fashion to the Bratz. That gig had come courtesy of her old high school friend, Portia, who was off traveling at the time. It had been a refreshing change—less paperwork, more creativity. She'd actually enjoyed it, in a way. But the memory felt distant, tangled up with too many other things.
Why had she taken that job again? Oh, right. Burnice. Pretending to be her sister had been a necessity back then, but it always left her feeling like a stranger in her own skin.
The intercom crackled to life, snapping her out of her spiral.
"Burdine Maxwell, room 7."
She stood and made her way to the office. Another male doctor. Great. She forced a weak smile as she took her seat.
"Miss Maxwell, welcome back. How are the antidepressants working?"
"Let's not play dumb, doc. They're not working," she said, leaning forward. Her voice dropped a notch, bitter and biting. "I mean, I had cocaine in my system not long ago. For heaven's sake."
"Miss Maxwell, please." The doctor adjusted his glasses, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "Mind your language. I'm here to help."
"Well, they're useless," she snapped, crossing her arms tightly.
"Any other... incidents?" he probed, his pen poised over the clipboard.
Her jaw tightened. "Why are we even doing this?" she asked, her voice low, edged with frustration.
"We've been through this," he replied, his tone measured. "Your sister brought you in after—"
"After I tried to throw myself off a roof. Yes, I remember," she cut in sharply, waving a hand.
"That's concerning," he said, frowning.
"No kidding," she muttered under her breath. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the floor. "I just don't see the point. Let me go. I'll suffer either way, and you'll still get your nice fat paycheck."
"That's not my job, Miss Maxwell," he said calmly, though the firmness in his voice was unmistakable.
"Oh, so your job isn't to do what the client wants?" She shot him a withering look. "Because I'd know. I run a magazine." She stood abruptly, her voice rising with every word.
"Miss Maxwell, please sit down," he said, a note of authority creeping in.
Her own outburst startled her. She hesitated, then sank back into the chair, shame flickering across her face.
"You've been diagnosed with PTSD," the doctor said gently, his tone softening. "You remember why, don't you?"
"I don't need reminding," she said tightly, her words clipped. "I've already been humiliated on live television, lost a ridiculous amount of money, and received death threats and hate mail. All because of them. Those insufferable Bratz."
"Now, Miss Maxwell, let's not place blame," he said carefully, watching her. "They're just young women, aren't they?"
"Fine," she snapped, sitting up straighter. Her eyes were sharp, angry. "Then it's Byron Powell who ruined me. He orchestrated the whole thing."
The doctor leaned forward slightly, meeting her gaze. "We need to work on that. I'm going to refer you to a therapist."
"Doc, don't do this," she said, her voice dropping. A hint of desperation bled through her tone.
"It's necessary," he replied firmly. "We agreed—if the medication wasn't effective, therapy was the next step."
Burdine left the office feeling betrayed. Therapy? What a joke. She didn't need some stranger poking around in her mind. She could handle herself. The doctor had no idea what he was talking about.
As she walked down the pathway outside, she froze in her tracks.
There he was. Byron. Powell.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she jaywalked across the street, her heels clicking furiously against the pavement. It felt like a scene straight out of a horror film.
"You ruined me!" she shouted, her voice ringing out with raw fury.
Heads turned.
Byron looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, do I—"
"Don't you dare play innocent!" she barked, her hands trembling at her sides. "You ruined me. On live television. Billions of people saw it. I lost everything because of you."
"I think there's been a misunderstanding—" he started, raising his hands defensively.
"Shut up!" she interrupted, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "You know exactly who I am."
"Burdine!" His face lit up in recognition. "Hey! I'd recognize that voice anywhere—"
"Don't," she hissed, pointing a finger at him. "Just don't. I want payback. You destroyed my career. I spent four years in therapy and five years in court with your boss, Mr. Steel. And all the while, you were cozying up to those Bratz girls without so much as an apology!"
"Now, wait a second—" he said, his tone growing defensive.
"Enough!" Her voice cracked as the words spilled out. Her rage was uncontainable. "I want an apology. Right here. Right now."
A voice interrupted from the side. "Mr. Powell, we need to go. The new season of America Rocks is about to start."
Before she could say another word, Byron climbed into a sleek black van.
"Son of a bitch," she muttered as the van pulled away, leaving her standing there, trembling with rage.
