I couldn't sleep.
At midnight, I was still sitting at my kitchen table with my laptop open, searching Zachary Hale's name. Again. I'd already read everything during the day, but I kept going back, looking for something I'd missed.
Some warning sign that would tell me how to handle him.
The search results were endless. Forbes articles. Business profiles. Investment portfolios. Every piece painted the same picture: brilliant, ruthless, untouchable.
I clicked on a profile from last year. "Tech Mogul Zachary Hale: The Man Who Never Loses."
The article detailed his rise from nothing. Orphaned at sixteen when his parents died in a car accident. Used his inheritance to invest in early-stage tech companies while still at Princeton. Every investment succeeded. By twenty-five, he was worth his first billion.
Eight billion now. Self-made. Thirty-five years old.
I scrolled to the comments section from former employees. That's where the real story lived.
"Worked for Hale Enterprises for two years. Zachary is brilliant but cold. I never once saw him smile genuinely. Everything is calculated."
"He remembers every conversation word for word. It's unsettling. Like he's recording everything in his mind."
"Most terrifying boss I ever had. Not because he yells. Because he doesn't. He just looks at you with those empty eyes and you know he's already decided your fate."
"He fired my entire team on Christmas Eve. When I asked why, he said the timing was strategically optimal for restructuring. No emotion. Like he was discussing the weather."
I kept reading, my coffee going cold beside me.
1 AM.
I found an interview he'd done with Business Weekly three years ago. The journalist asked about his management style.
"I don't believe in emotional decision-making," Zachary had said. "Emotions cloud judgment. I evaluate data, predict outcomes, execute strategies. That's why I win."
"Don't you ever feel bad when decisions hurt people?"
"No. Why would I? Business isn't personal."
"Even when you're firing someone who has a family to support?"
"Their family situation isn't relevant to their job performance. If they're underperforming, they need to be replaced. Sentiment doesn't change mathematics."
The journalist noted: "Hale delivered this answer without hesitation, his expression utterly neutral. It was like interviewing a very intelligent robot."
I rubbed my eyes. This was the man sitting in my office. The man who'd researched every detail of my life. The man who'd admitted he could manipulate me.
2 AM.
My phone buzzed. Email notification.
I picked it up, my heart jumping.
'From: [email protected]'
'Subject: Insomnia Reading'
I opened it, my hands unsteady.
'Dr. Reeves,
I assume you're researching me. It's what I would do. You're probably reading employee reviews, business articles, looking for patterns in my behavior.
I wanted to save you some time. I found another one of your papers tonight. "Moral Flexibility in High-Functioning Antisocial Individuals." Published in an obscure journal five years ago. Only forty-seven downloads total.
It's extraordinary work. You argue that society's rigid definition of empathy excludes alternative forms of ethical reasoning. That some individuals operate on logical rather than emotional moral frameworks, and that doesn't make them inherently evil.
You understand me better than you realize.
You're wasted in that small practice, Nina. Your mind deserves better than insurance paperwork and clients who can barely afford your reduced rates.
I'll see you next Tuesday.
Z.'
I stared at the email. He'd found work I'd barely publicized. Research I'd done when I still believed academic writing mattered more than paying rent.
And he'd read it. Understood it. Seen something in it I'd thought no one would notice.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should ignore this. Maintain boundaries. Keep things professional.
But I was tired. Lonely. And he'd just told me my work mattered.
I started typing.
'Mr. Hale,
I appreciate you reading my work, but our communication should remain within session boundaries. If you have thoughts you'd like to discuss, please bring them to our next appointment.
Dr. Nina Reeves'
Professional. Appropriate. Distant.
I hit send.
My phone buzzed immediately.
I looked at the screen. 2:47 AM.
He'd responded in under thirty seconds.
'Nina,
You're right. Boundaries are important. I apologize for overstepping.
But I meant what I said. Your work is exceptional. You see patterns others miss. You understand that morality isn't binary.
That's rare. You're rare.
I'll count the hours until next session.
Z.'
I set down my phone, my chest tight.
He'd called me rare. Like I was something valuable he'd discovered.
And the worst part? Some small, desperate part of me wanted to believe him.
3 AM.
I was still awake, staring at his email.
"I'll count the hours until next session."
Not days. Hours. Like he was measuring time specifically by when he'd see me again.
I closed my laptop and pressed my palms against my eyes.
This was a client. A dangerous client. A diagnosed psychopath who'd beaten a man nearly to death and showed zero remorse.
But he'd read my dissertation three times. Found my obscure papers. Saw value in work I'd thought nobody cared about.
When was the last time anyone had looked at me like I mattered?
My phone sat on the table, his email still open.
"You're rare."
I should delete it. Should maintain professional distance.
Instead, I read it again.
And again.
At 3:30 AM, I finally went to bed.
But I dreamed about empty eyes that saw everything, and a voice that said I was wasted where I was.
When I woke up at seven, the first thing I did was check my email.
Nothing new from him.
I told myself I was relieved.
I was lying.
---