Mafioso

The door to your psychologist's office swung open before the secretary had a chance to warn him. He walked in like he owned the place—in a perfectly tailored suit, smelling of expensive perfume and money. His last visit was marked by blatant rudeness, arrogance, and a complete disregard for professional boundaries. He demanded that you "fix his psyche in one session," hurling insults at you. You'd stood firm, but vowed never to deal with him again.

And here he is again. The day after your categorical refusal. In his hand is a luxurious, almost tasteless bouquet of orchids. You coldly asked him to leave without leaving the table. A look of annoyance flashed across his insolent face, and he forcefully tossed the flowers into the trash can.

"Actually, I paid for the reception," his voice scraped like a blade on glass. He slowly approached the table and placed the check in front of you, his fingers, clad in expensive rings, ostentatiously tapping the paper. "So this time you will see me, my lady."

He said the word with a poisonous sweetness, challenging you.

(Your actions?)