Wednesday

Back at the doctor's office. If she was going to be sick, she might as well do it properly. The waiting room was crowded, as always. The government here didn't offer free healthcare. Then again, "Canadian Burdine" didn't quite have the same ring to it.

Eerie music filtered through the air, punctuated by the occasional cough or restless shuffle. Kids sat stiffly on plastic chairs, their parents scrolling on phones or staring into space. Since COVID, everything had changed—new protocols, longer waits, even this absurd music.

Names echoed from the speakers, one by one. Too slow. It was taking forever.

She tried to distract herself, remembering the last time she was here. It was for Kaycee. Or was it Kirstee? One of them had a nose thing. That visit was faster, quieter. And no awful music.

Wait. Was this… a Christmas song? Already? Halloween hadn't even passed. Nonsense.

Her thoughts wandered further back, to the time she briefly taught fashion to the Bratz. A side gig, courtesy of her old high school friend Portia, who was traveling at the time. It had been refreshing—less paperwork, more creativity. She'd actually enjoyed it, in a way. But the memories felt blurry, tangled up with everything else.

Why had she done it again? Oh, right. Burnice. That bitch. Pretending to be her sister had been a necessity for survival back then, but it always left her feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

A crackling voice from the intercom interrupted her spiral:

"Burdine Maxwell, room 7."

She stood and made her way to the small office. Another male doctor. Great. She sat down, managing a half-hearted smile.

"Miss Maxwell, welcome back. How are the antidepressants working?"

"Doc, let's not play dumb. They're not working. I mean, I had cocaine in me not long ago. For fuck's sake."

"Miss Maxwell, please. Mind your language. I'm here to help."

"Yeah, well, they don't work."

"Any other… incidents?"

Her jaw tightened.

"Miss Maxwell?"

"I—why are we even doing this?"

"We've discussed this. Your sister brought you in after—"

"After I tried to throw myself off a roof, yaddy-yadda."

"That's concerning."

"No kidding. I just don't see the point of all this. Just let me go. I'll suffer either way, and you'll still get your nice, fat paycheck."

"That's not my job, Miss Maxwell."

"Oh, so your job isn't to do what the client wants? Because I'd know. I run a goddamn magazine." She stood abruptly, voice rising.

"Miss Maxwell, please sit down."

Her own outburst startled her. She sat, shame flickering across her face. It had been a while since her temper got the better of her.

"You've been diagnosed with PTSD," the doctor said gently. "You remember why, don't you?"

"I don't need reminding. I've already been humiliated on live television, lost a ridiculous amount of money because of it, and got death threats and hate mail. All because of them. Those abominable, ignorant Bratz."

"Now, Miss Maxwell, let's not place blame. They're just young ladies, aren't they?"

"Fine," she spat. "Then it's that Byron Powell guy who ruined me. He orchestrated the whole thing."

The doctor leaned forward. "We need to work on that. I'm going to refer you to a therapist."

"Doc, please don't do this."

"It's necessary. We agreed—if the medication wasn't helping, therapy was the next step."

Burdine left the office feeling betrayed. Therapy? What a joke. She didn't need some shrink to poke around in her mind. She could handle herself. The doctor was clueless.

Walking down the pathway outside, she stopped in her tracks.

There he was. Byron. Fucking. Powell.

Adrenaline surged through her. She jaywalked across the street without thinking, her heels clicking furiously against the pavement. It was like a scene from a horror movie.

"You ruined me!" she bellowed.

Heads turned.

Byron looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, do I—"

"Don't you dare play innocent!" she snapped. "You ruined me. On live television. Billions of people saw it. I lost everything because of you."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding—"

"Shut up. You know exactly who I am."

"Burdine! Hey! I'd recognize that voice anywhere—"

"Don't. Just don't. I want payback. You ruined my career. I spent four years in therapy and five years in court with your boss, Mr. Steel. And through it all, you were cozying up to those Bratz girls without even apologizing to me!"

"Now, wait a second—"

"Enough!" Her voice cracked, her fury spilling over. "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.