THE REVENGE OF THE RAGDOLL

Sitting in the lobby of my therapist’s office, I stared quietly at a black card. It shimmered faintly in the light, golden embossments gleaming across its surface, proudly displaying the name—Harold Washington. This wasn’t your everyday invitation. It had a luxurious texture, the kind that felt expensive between your fingers—like the business cards my family once used. As far as I could remember, printing cards of this quality cost a fortune.

But this wasn’t a business card. It was something else entirely.

It was an invitation.

Why spend so much money on a single-use card? I wondered, turning it over slowly in my hand. And why give it to me? Who exactly is Harold Washington?

A soft smile tugged at the corners of my lips as memories of the night before began to surface. I could still feel the way he held me, the comfort of his arms, the calm his voice brought. The image of his smile was wedged firmly in my head—like a stubborn piece of gum stuck under a school desk.

Annoying. But for some strange, unreasonable reason—I loved it.

—

~Last Night~

“You asked me to tell you about my past,” I said as Harold and I walked slowly through my front yard. The night air was cool, the silence between us filled with meaning. Our evening was drawing to a close, and we were nearing that moment where words ran out and parting felt inevitable. “Now that you know about me, I want to know about you. What’s Harold’s story?”

I stopped just a few steps from my front door and turned to face him, my expression curious, maybe a little guarded. “Why is Harold looking for love?”

“Firstly,” he said with a crooked smile, “my past isn’t exactly all peaches and rainbows either.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief; the kind that told me he knew I’d already fallen halfway for him. It wasn’t arrogant—just confident. Innocent, even. But there was danger beneath it, the kind of danger you don’t want to resist.

“People look at me and assume I’ve had everything handed to me,” he said, placing a gentle palm on the door behind me and leaning in slightly. “They think I grew up with gold-lined walls and an easy life. But the truth? My story is much darker than it looks.”

I stepped back instinctively, refusing to break eye contact until my back hit the door. I wasn’t ready for this—whatever this was. I hadn’t even fully processed my trauma after four long years, and now…

“Whatever your story is,” I whispered, “I’m willing to hear it. I’ll share your pain, like you’ve shared mine. It’s the least I can do.”

Harold’s smile faded slowly, replaced by something deeper, more serious. He could see the uncertainty in my eyes. And unlike most people, he didn’t flinch from it.

Without a word, he took a step back, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the black card. Under the soft light of the moon, it almost looked metallic. Its golden letters gleamed with a regal kind of elegance. I couldn’t quite make out the text—he moved it too quickly.

“Secondly,” he said, “remember I mentioned someone important from my company just returned?”

“Yes?” I replied, narrowing my eyes.

“In two nights, we’re throwing a welcome party for him. It’ll be huge. My family will be there, his family too. And honestly, so many other powerful families.” He paused. “But the thing is—my mother insists I show up with a date.”

“A date?” I echoed, my lips twitching into a grin. “If you’re asking me… I don’t know. I’ve had more than enough human interaction lately.”

“You don’t have to say yes now.” His voice was calm, careful. “You’ve got two days to decide.”

Without warning, he gently took my right hand and placed the card into it. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.

“I…” I hesitated, looking down at the card again. It was beautiful—shiny, detailed, and clearly handcrafted. “We barely know each other. Are you sure you want this?”

Harold stepped forward again, closing the distance between us. His voice dropped, quiet and tender. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” he said.

My breath caught. My heart picked up speed, and my thoughts tangled into knots. “This is also your chance,” he continued, “to see who I really am.”

I exhaled shakily; cheeks warm. “Fine. I’ll text you when I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow, before the day ends. I won’t leave you waiting.”

“Alright then,” he said softly, though there was the faintest trace of disappointment in his voice. He stepped back, composed himself, and then—like a prince from a fairy tale—placed his hand on his chest and bowed.

“Have a wonderful night, Miss Angel. I hope I get the chance to spend more time with you like this.”

As he rose, I let out a breathy laugh and opened my front door. He chuckled, too. For a long, strange second, we just looked at each other—like we were afraid this moment might be our last.

Then the sharp honk of a taxi broke the silence.

“Go on,” I urged him gently. “He’s waiting for you.”

Harold smiled and turned toward the car.

I stood there for a while, just watching him walk away. There was something in my chest, something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Something wild and terrifying and beautiful.

What is this feeling? I asked myself. Why does it feel like… love?

The last time I felt this way was the day I married Richard. That swelling of the heart, that flutter in the gut, that impossible hope that everything might actually be okay.

I had forgotten how powerful love could be.

Tears welled up in my eyes as the taxi drove off into the night. My heart felt heavy—but not with sadness. No, I was overwhelmed by joy. Real, unfiltered joy.

And that scared me more than anything.

—

Present

“The doctor will see you now, Miss Angel.”

The voice pulled me out of my thoughts. A young woman stood in front of me, clipboard in hand, her tone polite but efficient.

“Oh. Thank you,” I said, snapping back to reality.

I slipped the card back into my bag, rose to my feet, and followed her through the doors into the therapist’s office—my heart still quietly echoing with the memory of last night.