Zachary arrived exactly on time Tuesday afternoon.
I'd spent the entire week trying to prepare. Practiced maintaining boundaries. Rehearsed professional responses. Told myself I wouldn't let him get under my skin this time.
But when he walked through the door wearing another perfect suit, that same controlled smile, all my preparation evaporated.
"Dr. Reeves." He sat without being invited, completely at ease. "You look tense."
"I'm fine." I opened my notepad, avoiding his eyes. "Let's talk about your progress this week."
"My progress?" He tilted his head. "I haven't made progress. I don't need to. But we can pretend that's why I'm here if it makes you more comfortable."
I looked up. "Then why are you here?"
"Because the court requires it. And because I find you interesting." He leaned back, studying me. "You got my text last Wednesday. You didn't report it."
"I'm addressing it now. Contacting me outside sessions is inappropriate."
"You're right." No defensiveness. Just agreement. "I won't do it again unless you want me to."
"I don't."
"Noted." He crossed his legs. "Though you did respond. Multiple times. You could have blocked the number immediately."
My face heated. "I was establishing boundaries."
"You were engaging with me." His eyes never left mine. "There's a difference."
I gripped my pen. "Let's focus on you. Have you had any violent impulses this week?"
"Constantly. I have violent impulses several times a day."
My stomach dropped. "Against who?"
"People who inconvenience me. The barista who made my coffee wrong. The driver who cut me off in traffic. My CFO who questioned my decision in a meeting." He said it so casually. "I imagine efficient ways to hurt them. Then I don't act on it because the consequences aren't worth it."
"That doesn't concern you?"
"Why would it? Everyone has intrusive thoughts. Mine are just more detailed." He paused. "And more appealing."
I wrote notes with shaking hands. This was what Sarah had warned me about. He wasn't getting better. He was just learning to hide it more effectively.
"We should discuss coping mechanisms for when you have these thoughts."
"I have excellent coping mechanisms. I calculate the risk-reward ratio of acting on violence. Risk always outweighs reward. Problem solved."
"That's not a healthy coping mechanism."
"It's perfectly functional." He leaned forward. "Nina, can I be honest?"
The use of my first name made my pulse jump. "It's Dr. Reeves."
"Dr. Reeves." He corrected himself smoothly. "Can I be honest?"
"Please."
"I don't think you actually want to treat me for antisocial personality disorder. I think you want to understand me. Study me. There's a difference between fixing someone and comprehending them."
My mouth went dry. "I'm here to help you."
"No, you're here because you need money." He said it without judgment. "Let's not pretend otherwise. You took my case because you're drowning in debt and I pay well. That's fine. I respect practical decisions."
"My financial situation doesn't affect my professional judgment."
"Doesn't it?" He pulled out his phone, scrolling briefly. "You have exactly one thousand forty-three dollars in your checking account as of this morning. Down from the four hundred fifty I paid you last week because you sent your mother three hundred for groceries and paid two hundred on your father's medical bills."
Ice flooded my veins. "How do you know that?"
"I looked." He set down his phone. "Your bank statements aren't difficult to access if you know how."
"That's illegal."
"Yes." No shame. "But accurate."
I stood up, my hands trembling. "This session is over."
"Sit down, Nina."
"It's Dr. Reeves, and I'm not sitting down." My voice shook with anger. "You invaded my privacy. You accessed my financial records illegally. This is exactly what Dr. Chen warned me about."
"Sarah Chen is correct about many things." He remained seated, perfectly calm. "I am manipulative. I do see people as game pieces. I am dangerous." He paused. "But she's wrong about one thing."
"What?"
"I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to help you understand what you're dealing with." He gestured to the chair. "Please sit. I'll explain."
I should have thrown him out. Called the police. Reported him to the court.
Instead, I sat.
"You have access to my psychological records," he said quietly. "You know my history, my diagnosis, my crimes. That's legal because the court provided it. I accessed your financial records. That's illegal. But the power imbalance is exactly the same."
"It's not the same."
"Isn't it?" He leaned forward. "You know my deepest vulnerabilities. I know yours. The difference is you're pretending the relationship is unequal. I'm acknowledging it's balanced."
My chest tightened. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to stop lying to yourself." His voice was gentle but firm. "You didn't become a therapist to help people. You became one to understand why they self-destruct."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"That's not true."
"Your graduate thesis was titled 'Addiction as Slow-Motion Suicide: Understanding Self-Destructive Behavior Patterns.' It wasn't sealed because of academic sensitivity. It was sealed because it was too personal." He tilted his head. "You wrote sixty pages analyzing your father's addiction like it was a case study. Dissecting every decision that destroyed your family."
Tears burned my eyes. "Stop."
"You watched him choose drugs over you. Over your mother. Over his own survival. You couldn't understand how someone could systematically destroy everything they loved. So you became a psychologist to find the answer."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I accessed your sealed grad school essays." He said it softly. "All of them. There's one you wrote sophomore year titled 'The Psychology of Paternal Abandonment.' You were nineteen. Your father was in rehab for the third time. You wrote: 'I don't want to forgive him. I want to understand him so I can prevent becoming him.'"
I pressed my hands to my face, tears spilling over.
He'd read everything. Every vulnerable moment I'd documented. Every private pain I'd analyzed academically because I couldn't process it emotionally.
"How did you get those?" My voice broke. "They're sealed by the university."
"I donated three million dollars to their psychology department. They were very accommodating." He pulled out a tissue box from nowhere, set it on the desk between us. "You didn't become a therapist to save people, Nina. You became one to save yourself."
"Get out."
"Not yet." He stayed seated. "Because now I'm going to tell you something true. Something I've never told anyone."
I looked up through tears.
"I read your work because I wanted to understand why you'd waste your intelligence on a failing practice treating people who can't even afford your services. I thought maybe you were stupid. Or naive. Or both." He paused. "But you're neither. You're terrified of becoming your father. So you sabotage yourself by staying poor. Because if you succeed, you might fail. And failure would mean you're just like him."
The room spun.
"That's not true."
"You're thirty-two years old with a PhD from Columbia and you work in a practice that barely covers rent. You take pro bono cases you can't afford. You give your mother money you don't have. You refuse to market yourself or raise your rates or do anything that might actually make you successful." He met my eyes. "You're self-destructing slowly. Differently than your father, but just as effectively."
I couldn't breathe.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're drowning, Dr. Reeves." He leaned back. "And I could help."
"Help how?"
"I need a strategic advisor. Someone who understands psychology, human behavior, motivation. Someone who can analyze people and predict their actions." He pulled out a document. "I'm offering you a consulting position. Twenty hours a month. Twenty thousand dollars."
I stared at the paper he'd placed on my desk.
Twenty thousand dollars. More than I made in three months.
"This would be a conflict of interest."
"Only if we maintain the therapeutic relationship." He met my eyes. "Terminate me as a client. I'll tell the court the therapy wasn't effective. They'll assign someone else. Then you work for me as a consultant. No conflict."
"You're my patient."
"I'm your income." He said it gently. "Let's not pretend otherwise. You need money to save your father, pay your loans, keep your apartment. I'm offering you a solution."
"Working for you."
"With me." He corrected. "I don't want an employee. I want a partner who challenges me. Someone who sees through my manipulation and calls me on it. Someone who makes me better at what I do."
My hands trembled. "What exactly do you do?"
"I invest in companies. I read people. I predict market behavior based on human psychology." He smiled slightly. "Nothing illegal. Just effective."
"I don't believe you."
"Smart." He stood. "Think about it. The offer stands as long as you need it to."
He walked to the door, then paused.
"Your father's surgery is in three weeks. The hospital requires fifty percent down. Six thousand dollars." He looked back. "You have one thousand forty-three dollars. Even if you work every day until then, you won't make it."
My throat closed.
"You're drowning, Dr. Reeves." He opened the door. "I could help."
Then he was gone.
---