"You look terrible," Sarah Chen said, sliding into the booth across from me.
We met for lunch every Wednesday at the same diner halfway between our offices. Sarah was the only person from grad school I still talked to regularly. She'd built a successful practice in Manhattan while I struggled to keep mine afloat.
"Thanks." I picked at my salad. "Didn't sleep well."
"New case?" She sipped her water, studying me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you're overthinking something." She set down her glass. "Talk to me."
I hesitated. Client confidentiality meant I couldn't share details, but Sarah knew me too well. She'd already sensed something was wrong.
"I took a court-mandated case. High-profile client. It's complicated."
"How high-profile?"
"Very."
Sarah's expression shifted. "Nina. How high-profile?"
I looked down. "Zachary Hale."
She went completely still. "Tell me you're joking."
"Four fifty per session. Twelve months minimum. I needed the money."
"Jesus Christ." Sarah leaned back, her face pale. "Do you have any idea what you just walked into?"
"He's a diagnosed psychopath, yes. I read the file."
"It's not about the diagnosis." She lowered her voice, glancing around the diner. "Rich sociopaths see therapy as a game, Nina. You're not treating him. You're a piece he's positioning on the board."
My stomach tightened. "You don't know him."
"I know his type." Sarah's voice was urgent. "I had a client like him three years ago. Brilliant, charming, completely empty inside. He spent six months learning everything about me. My fears, my weaknesses, my relationships. Then he used every single detail to manipulate me into compromising situations."
"What happened?"
"I nearly lost my license." She met my eyes. "He convinced me to falsify records to help him in a custody case. Made it seem reasonable, necessary, justified. By the time I realized what I'd done, I was already complicit."
I gripped my fork. "Zachary's not like that."
Sarah stared at me. "You've had one session."
"I know, but he's different. He's honest about what he is. He told me straight out that he could manipulate me. That's not typical manipulator behavior."
"That IS typical manipulator behavior." Sarah leaned forward. "He's being 'honest' to make you trust him. To make you think he's different. That's the game, Nina. The honesty is the manipulation."
Heat crept up my neck. "You're being condescending."
"I'm trying to save you." Her voice rose slightly. "Nina, listen to me. You're already defending him. After one session. You're already compromised."
"I'm not compromised."
"You just defended a man who beat someone nearly to death." Sarah's eyes were wide. "Do you hear yourself? A week ago, you would've been horrified. Now you're making excuses."
"I'm not making excuses. I'm being objective."
"You're being manipulated." She grabbed my hand across the table. "That's what they do. They find your weakness and they exploit it. Your weakness is poverty. He knows you're desperate. He's probably already planning how to use that."
I pulled my hand back. "You don't understand. His case is fascinating. His perspective on morality is actually quite sophisticated."
Sarah's face went pale. "Oh god. You're already in too deep."
"I'm being professional."
"Professional therapists don't call their psychopath clients' perspectives sophisticated." She stood abruptly. "I can't watch this happen."
"Sarah, sit down."
"No." She grabbed her purse. "I've seen this before. I tried to warn my colleague about her manipulative client. She didn't listen either. Know what happened? She ended up sleeping with him, losing her license, and nearly going to prison."
My face burned. "That's not going to happen."
"That's exactly what she said." Sarah pulled out cash for her meal. "When this goes sideways, and it will, promise you'll call me."
"It's not going sideways."
"Promise me anyway."
I looked up at her. My oldest friend. My voice of reason. The person who'd helped me through grad school and my father's worst periods.
"I promise."
She nodded, but her eyes were sad. "I hope I'm wrong about him. I really do."
She left.
I sat alone in the booth, staring at my untouched salad, her words echoing.
"You're already compromised. That's exactly what he wants."
Was I compromised? I'd defended him automatically. Called his perspective sophisticated. Got defensive when Sarah criticized him.
After one session.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was already in too deep and didn't even realize it.
My phone buzzed.
Text message. Unknown number.
I opened it, my heart pounding.
'I hope Dr. Chen didn't speak too badly of me during your lunch.'
Ice flooded my veins.
I looked around the diner. The windows. The parking lot. Was he watching me?
How did he know I was having lunch with Sarah?
My hands shook as I typed.
'How do you know where I am?'
Three dots appeared immediately. He was typing.
'I didn't until you just confirmed it. You mentioned having lunch plans today during our session. Dr. Sarah Chen is your only close friend from grad school. Basic deduction.'
I stared at the message. He'd tricked me into confirming his guess.
'This is inappropriate. Don't contact me outside sessions.'
The three dots appeared again.
'You're right. I apologize. But I am curious what she said about me. Former colleagues tend to have opinions about my character.'
I should stop responding. Block the number. Report this boundary violation.
Instead, I typed:
'She's concerned. That's all.'
'Concerned about me? Or about you?'
I hesitated.
'Both.'
'Smart woman. You should listen to her.'
My breath caught. What kind of response was that?
'Then why are you texting me?'
'Because I'm curious if you will. Listen to her, I mean. Most people ignore good advice when it conflicts with what they want.'
'And what do I want?'
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Finally, his response came through.
'To feel seen. Understood. Valued for your intelligence instead of tolerated for your credentials. Dr. Chen warned you I'm dangerous. But I'm also the first person in years who's actually read your work and recognized its worth. That's hard to walk away from, isn't it?'
I stared at my phone, my chest tight.
He was right.
That was the worst part. He was completely right.
I hadn't felt intellectually engaged in years. My clients needed basic coping strategies, not theoretical discussions about moral philosophy. My colleagues saw me as struggling, not brilliant.
But Zachary had read my dissertation three times. Found my obscure papers. Saw value where everyone else saw failure.
I was about to type a response when another message came through.
'I've upset you. I'm sorry. I'll see you Tuesday. Enjoy the rest of your lunch, Nina.'
The message felt like a door closing softly.
I set down my phone and looked at Sarah's empty seat.
She'd warned me. Told me this was exactly how it would start. Small boundary crossings. Intimate observations. Making me feel special.
And I was falling for it anyway.
The waitress came by. "Everything okay, honey? You look shaken."
"I'm fine," I lied.
But as I gathered my things to leave, I checked my phone one more time.
No new messages.
Just that last text sitting there.
'Enjoy the rest of your lunch, Nina.'
He knew my schedule. My friends. My weaknesses.
And somehow, impossibly, that made me want to see him again even more.
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